We were smack dab in the middle of previews with opening night rapidly approaching. Performances had been solid, and while they weren’t selling out, the rumblings were that we were getting good word of mouth. All of which would be fairly meaningless if the actual reviews were garbage.
I didn’t want to think about it. I couldn’t think about it. All I could do was work my ass off during each show and then take my frustration and excess energy out on Cal afterward. So far, there had been no complaints from either of us.
Today was different though. Today was our day off—a glorious show-free Monday—and Cal wanted to spend actual daylight in public with me. My conversation with Harriet had made me skittish—or rather, more skittish than usual—and I’d compromised by going to one of the places all New Yorkers claimed to want to visit, but never did.
“I can’t believe you’ve lived here all these years and haven’t been to the Cloisters,” Cal said.
“That just makes me a true New Yorker,” I said.
He put his arm around me and planted a kiss on my temple. No one was around, but still, I tensed. Cal released me almost immediately.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just—”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know. It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t. I could tell that Cal understood—on a rational level—that it was best to keep this arrangement to ourselves. It was the smart thing for both of us to do. Yet, I knew he was frustrated.
“They really liked unicorns, didn’t they?” I asked as we looked at the famous tapestry.
“They’re just narwhals of the land,” Cal said.
I laughed. “Narwhals of the land?” I repeated. “I don’t think anyone calls them that.”
“Well, yeah,” he said, tapping me on the nose with his program. “Because they don’t really exist.”
“Ha,” I said.
“Learn something new every day,” he said. “You’re welcome.”
“What would I do without you?” I asked.
He smiled and took my hand in his, lacing our fingers together. It was a test. We both knew this, and I was pretty sure I passed because I didn’t flinch or pull away. I let my hand be held and then as soon as it seemed appropriate, I pretended to need that hand and pointed at one of the exhibits in the case.
From the expression I caught in the reflection of the glass, I hadn’t really fooled him. I just got a raised eyebrow as he put his hands in his pockets.
It was a nice day. A perfect day.
We had lunch. We walked around. We talked.
We were a normal, average pair of people spending their day at a museum together.
A part of me didn’t want to go back to Brooklyn, or back to the theatre, or back to the real world. I wanted to stay in this bubble of happiness with Cal, where our relationship was just between us. Where it wasn’t hurting anyone. Where it wasn’t a thing.
“They’re just not interested,” I told him.
“In what? Theatre? Music? Art?”
We were talking about my family.
“Entertainment, I guess,” I said. “I mean, they’re kind of Luddites. Or Luddite-aspirational. Always the last to get whatever new technological advance is improving lives. My dad got an iPhone last year.”
Cal let out a whistle. “And they’re not coming to opening night?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t ask, actually,” I said. “But I did offer them tickets for the show in general and they said what they always said when I was touring as Katee—thanks, but no thanks.”
Cal shook his head. “That sucks.”
“It is what it is,” I said. “At least, that’s what my therapist and I agreed on when I accepted that I could love my family and not like them very much.”
“That seems very freeing,” he said.
“Sure,” I said. “Still sucks occasionally, but that’s life.”
“Life sucks?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “Don’t you agree?”
Cal looked at me. “Not lately,” he said.
I blushed. “Stop,” I said.
He grinned. All the dimples.
“You’re very bad at accepting compliments,” he said.
“Oh, and you’re so good at it?” I asked.
“Touché,” he said.
“It’s weird,” I said. “Compliments. I both crave them and distrust them at the same time.”
Cal nodded. “I know what that’s like.”
“Because you’re supposed to be proud of your work,” I said. “But also, modest about your talents.”
“Life of an artist,” Cal said. “You need a thick enough skin to withstand the criticism, but also be vulnerable enough to do your job right.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Curtain Call definitely helped with the thick-skinned part.”
Cal grimaced. “Abuse is not the best way to build calluses.”
“I’m sure Ms. Spiegel would disagree,” I said.
The eye roll could have been seen from space.
“Are you saying you didn’t get anything from that summer?” I asked. “Or any of the other summers you were there?”
Cal thought about it for a moment.
“Well,” he said, “there was this one night on the roof of my bunk.”
It shouldn’t have made me blush, but it did.
“That can’t be the highlight,” I said.
“Oh, but it is,” he said.
I gave him a shove. “Please,” I said. “It wasn’t even that big of a deal.”
Except it had been. And Cal’s raised eyebrow indicated that he knew exactly why.
“Are you saying you don’t remember?” he asked.
“Of course I remember,” I said. “You don’t forget your first—”
“Duet partner?” Cal finished dryly.
“Exactly,” I said.
The air smelled incredible, like the most perfect bubble bath, fragrant and warm.
“I knew it was your first time,” Cal said.
“You did not,” I said.
He laughed.
“How?” I asked. “It was good.”