CHAPTER 17
There was only one place in New York that was perfect for celebrating a successful workshop showing. A tiny downstairs bar, with a low wooden ceiling, decorated with fairy lights, and a piano against one wall.
“How does it feel?” I asked Harriet, handing her a vodka cranberry with a straw.
She was looking around Marie’s Crisis.
“Feels like coming home,” she said.
“All hail the conquering hero,” I said.
We tapped our plastic cups together.
Before I was truly famous, in between seasons of Show N Tell, Harriet and I would bring our fake IDs to the piano bar, our Friday nights spent singing show tunes along with the other patrons. During and after college, Harriet sat behind the ivories for the late-night shifts, taking requests and honing her playing skills.
“You should go back there,” I said. “For old times’ sake.”
Harriet shook her head. “I’m celebrating tonight,” she said. “Not working.”
I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something had been off between the two of us. On the surface we seemed fine, our usual best-friend-ness firmly in place. But at moments like this, just the two of us together, I could feel that we were out of sync.
It was subtle, but still disorienting.
We’d both been so busy over the past few weeks, and it seemed like the only thing we had to talk about was the show.
“You guys were great,” Harriet said. “Everyone was talking about that number at the end of the first act.”
The one with the retooled choreography.
“I’m just glad we got through it without any mistakes,” I said.
Harriet nodded.
My stomach got this weird little cramp at her reaction. It was fine—nothing wrong at first glance—but we had been friends for over two decades. We’d just finished the first workshop of her first musical. We were going to leave for out-of-town tryouts in a week. It seemed very possible that our lives were going to change.
And Harriet could barely look me in the eye.
“It’s going to be weird,” I said. “Not going to the rehearsal studio anymore.”
She wasn’t paying attention, instead she was waving at Cal, who had just arrived.
“Congrats,” he said. “Great showing.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I wanted to savor the praise, but I was distracted by Harriet’s coldness. It also didn’t help that everything had been extremely awkward and uncomfortable between me and Cal since the kiss.
A kiss I certainly wasn’t constantly replaying over and over in my head.
The three of us just stood there. It was even more uncomfortable than the first lunch, where I’d alternated between wanting to cry and wanting to throw my drink in Cal’s face.
“How does the money feel?” I asked.
Cal tilted his head.
“The producers,” I clarified.
“Ah,” he said. “They’re pleased. Very pleased.”
“With everything?” I asked.
Cal gave me a look. “With everything,” he said.
“They didn’t ask for changes?” I asked.
Harriet was now paying attention.
“Changes?” she asked.
Cal shook his head. “No changes,” he said. “I am still the director.”
“What are you talking about?” Harriet asked. “Did I miss something?”
“No,” Cal and I said at the same time.
It was clear that Harriet didn’t believe us. I took a sip of my vodka cranberry.
“I’m going to get a drink,” Harriet said.
She still had the one I’d given her, but I didn’t stop her as she walked away.
“What are you doing?” Cal asked.
“Me?”
He sighed. “Harriet’s already stressed about the show,” he said. “And now you’ve just gone and made it seem like we’ve been having secret conversations about it behind her back.”
“She’s stressed about the show?”
That was news to me. And my surprise was clearly unexpected to Cal as well.
“I thought you guys were thick as thieves,” he said.
“We are,” I said.
“Well, don’t stress her out, okay?” Cal said.
I bristled. It was my job to make sure that Harriet was all right, not Cal’s.
It also cemented my fears that something was going on with Harriet that she wasn’t telling me about. As far as I’d known, she was extremely pleased with the progress of the show. What was worrying her?
The piano player started up a round of “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly?,” and soon the entire bar was singing along. It was hard to hear anything, or be heard, so I had to lean closer to Cal.
“What about me?” I asked.
Mmm. His cologne.
“What about you?”
“Aren’t you worried about stressing me out?”
Cal lifted his eyebrows. “Not especially,” he said.
We were standing very close. My chin was practically on his shoulder, my mouth inches from his ear.
Cal turned toward me, and I had to step back.
“You come alive onstage,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
My heart was pounding, and I was certain I could hear it over the music.
“This show is going to make you a star,” he said. “If you let it.”
I couldn’t remember the last time someone had had such confidence in me.
“But the choreography…”
I couldn’t help myself. What was the point of being an artist if you weren’t your worst critic as well?
“It doesn’t matter,” Cal said. “It’s one song. One or two steps. The show is great. You’re great. No one is going to care if you do three turns or two. They are going to come to see you, and you’re going to blow them away.”
My throat felt dry.
“Well,” I said. “Thank you.”
He gave me a look.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I just can’t remember the last time you accepted a compliment from me.”