Although she certainly doesn’t know everything about me, it still feels strange to not be able to share today’s experience with her.
A guy approaches and stands next to me, looking down at the song titles.
Lizzie’s song begins to play.
“Stones fan, huh?”
I turn to look at him. He’s a B-school grad for sure, I think. I see his type every day on the subway. He’s got the Wall Street vibe, with his crewneck sweater and jeans that are a bit too crisp. His dark hair is short, and his stubble looks more like genuine five o’clock shadow than some sort of facial hair artistic expression. His watch is a giveaway, too. It’s a Rolex, but not an antique that would signal old family money. It’s a newer model that he probably bought himself, maybe with his first end-of-year bonus.
Too preppy for me.
“They’re my boyfriend’s favorite,” I say.
“Lucky guy.”
I smile at him to soften my rejection. “Thanks.” I select “Purple Rain,” then walk back to my stool.
“You have Flopsy in your bathroom?” Sanjay is asking.
“I put down newspapers,” Lizzie explains. “My roommate’s not that happy about it, though.”
Sanjay winks at me. “Another round?”
Lizzie pulls out her phone and holds it up to show me and Sanjay. “You guys want to see a picture of him?”
“Adorable,” I say.
“Ooh, I just got a text,” Lizzie says, staring down at her phone. “Remember Katrina? She’s having people over for drinks. Wanna go?”
Katrina is an actress who is working with Lizzie on the new production. I haven’t seen Katrina in a while, since she and I worked on a play together just before I left theater. She reached out to me over the summer, saying she wanted to get together and talk. But I never responded.
“Tonight?” I ask, stalling.
“Yeah,” Lizzie says. “I think Annabelle’s going, and maybe Cathleen.”
I like Annabelle and Cathleen. But other theater people will probably be invited. And there’s one I’d prefer not to see ever again.
“Gene won’t be there, don’t worry,” Lizzie says, like she can read my mind.
I can tell Lizzie wants to join them. These are still her friends. Plus, she’s building her résumé. New York theater is a tight-knit community, and the best way to get hired is to network. She’ll feel badly about going without me, though.
It’s like I can hear Dr. Shields’s deep, soothing voice in my head again: Could you tell a lie without feeling guilt?
Yes, I answer him.
I say to Lizzie: “Oh, it’s not that, I’m just really tired. And I have to get up early tomorrow.”
Then I signal to Sanjay. “Let’s have one more quick drink and then I need to get to bed. But you should go, Lizzie.”
Twenty minutes later, Lizzie and I walk out the door. We’re heading in opposite directions, so we hug good-bye on the sidewalk. She smells like orange blossoms; I remember helping her pick out the scent.
I watch as she turns the corner, heading toward the party.
Lizzie had said Gene French wouldn’t be there, but it’s not just him I’m avoiding. I’m not eager to reconnect with anyone from that phase of my life, even though it consumed me for the first seven years after I moved to New York.
Theater was what drew me to this city. My dream caught hold early, when I was a young girl and my mother took me to see a local production of The Wizard of Oz. Afterward, the actors came to the lobby and I realized that all of them—Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion, the Wicked Witch—were just ordinary people. They’d been transformed by chalky face powder and freckles drawn on with an eyebrow pencil and green-tinted foundation.
After I left college and moved to New York, I started at the Bobbi Brown counter at Bloomingdale’s while I auditioned as a makeup artist for every play I could find on Backstage.com. That’s when I learned the pros carry their contour wheels, foundations, and false eyelashes in black accordian-style cases instead of duffel bags. At first I worked sporadically on small shows, where I was sometimes paid in comp tickets, but after a couple of years, the jobs came easier and the audiences got bigger and I was able to quit the department store. I began to get referrals, and I even signed with an agent, albeit one who also represented a magician who performed at trade shows.
That period of my life was pure exhilaration—the intense camaraderie with actors and other crew members, the triumph when the audience rose to their feet and applauded our creation—but I earn a lot more now doing freelance makeup. And I realized long ago that not everyone’s dreams are meant to come true.
Still, I can’t help thinking back to that time and wondering if Gene is the same.
When we were introduced, he took my hand in his. His voice was deep and robust, as befitting someone who worked in the theater. He was already on his way to making it big, even though he was only in his late thirties. He got there even faster than I anticipated.
The first thing he ever said to me, as I tried to keep from blushing: You’ve got a great smile.
The memories always come back in this order: Me bringing him a cup of coffee and nudging him awake from his catnap in a seat in the darkened auditorium. Him showing me a Playbill, fresh from the printer, and pointing out my name in the credits. The two of us alone in his office, him holding my gaze as he slowly unzipped his pants.
And the last thing he ever said to me, as I tried to hold back tears: Get home safe, okay? Then he hailed a cab and gave the driver a twenty.
Does he ever think of me? I wonder.
Enough, I tell myself. I need to move on.
But if I go home, I know I won’t be able to sleep. I’ll be replaying scenes from our final night together and what I could have done differently again, or thinking about Dr. Shields’s study.
I look back at the bar. Then I pull open the door and stride in. I see the dark-haired banker playing darts with his friends.
I walk directly up to him. He’s only an inch or two taller than I am in my low boots. “Hi again,” I say.
“Hi.” He draws out the word, turning it into a question.
“I don’t really have a boyfriend. Can I buy you a beer?”
“That was a quick relationship,” he says, and I laugh.
“Let me get the first round,” he says. He hands his darts to one of his friends.
“How about a Fireball shot?” I suggest.
As he approaches the bar, I see Sanjay look over at me and I avert my gaze. I hope he didn’t hear me when I told Lizzie I was going home.
When the banker comes back with our shots, he clinks his glass to mine. “I’m Noah.”
I take a sip, feeling cinnamon burn my lips. I know I’ll have no interest in seeing Noah again after tonight. So I say the first name that pops into my head: “I’m Taylor.”
I lift up the blanket and slowly ease out from under it, looking around. It takes me a second to remember I’m on the couch in Noah’s apartment. We ended up here after a few more shots at another bar. When we realized we’d both skipped dinner and were starving, Noah ran out to the deli at the corner.
“Don’t move,” he’d ordered, pouring me a glass of wine. “I’ll be back in two minutes. I need eggs to make French toast.”