Playing With Her Heart (5 page)

He flashed me a smile,
the warmest, kindest smile I’d ever seen. “Hi. I wanted to say
you were amazing. I’m so impressed with how you pulled off this
performance in two days. You were simply breathtaking.”

“That’s very kind
of you to say.”

His hair was slightly
damp, and his cheeks were red, and there was this glow about him. I
knew that glow. I’d felt that glow. It was the mark of a job well
done.

I held out a hand to
shake. “I’m Jill. I’m an actress, too.” Then I waved a hand
as if to dismiss the comparison. He was a Broadway star; I was merely
a theater student with only a few high school productions to my name.

He shook my hand,
clasping it in his. I wanted to carve that moment into relief, to
hold onto the perfection forever. My hand in his. Him touching me.
“Jill, I think that’s fantastic. How is it going? Tell me about
some of the roles you’ve played.”

My eyes lit up. My
insides fluttered as he leaned against the stage door of the Gershwin
Theater, looking so relaxed in his jeans and a gray V-neck t-shirt.

“As a matter of fact,
I played Sarah in
Guys and Dolls
last year in school.”

He smiled so brightly,
then launched into the opening notes of “I’ve Never Been in Love
Before,” inviting me with his warm brown eyes to join in. There we
were, outside the theater, singing together. I’m not exaggerating
when I say it was the best night of my life.

Soon, he said he needed
to get some rest since he had a matinee and an evening show the next
day, but he walked me to the subway stop and I thanked him profusely,
and he said he’d had a grand time.

Grand
. Yes,
grand.

I sent him flowers to
the stage door a day later. I ordered them online, using money from
my job at a bookstore, taking a particular delight in addressing them
simply to “Patrick Carlson/Stage Door/Gershwin Theater.”

Then I wrote a note.
“Hi. It was so fun meeting you. Would you like to get coffee
sometime?”

Nerves aflutter, I hit
send on the online order.

And I never heard back.

Maybe he thought I was
a stalker. Maybe I was.

I suppose in some
world, I wanted to believe the flowers had never arrived.

That’s what I tell
myself. Because Patrick—my Patrick—would never have ignored me
like that. He loved me like I loved him, right? He just didn’t know
me yet, but when he got to he’d have to realize we were meant to be
together, just as I knew he was the answer to all my problems. That
when my world went to hell, he’d step in. The possibility of
Patrick got me through so many nights and days when I was wrecked.

“What if he does
remember?” Kat asks, bringing me back to the present.

I shrug. “I’ll
improvise. I am a Broadway actress, after all.” Then I wink at her,
hoping I’m doing a great job of acting confident.

But acting is really
all I’ve ever done. Acting like I’m fine. Acting like what
happened back then with Aaron wasn’t all my fault. I suppose now,
six years later, I’m mostly okay. People who know me say I’m
carefree, laidback, happy-go-lucky. Sometimes I truly am. Other
times, I’ve become so damn good at the appearance of moving on that
even I believe the illusion. Fake it ‘til you make it, right?

* * *

When I wake up before
the sun has risen the next morning, and pull on a fleece jacket and
yank my hair into a ponytail and head for the West Side bike path, I
do what I have always done. I run off my regret. I picture it
unspooling behind me, like a snake shedding, leaving the old behind.
All the layers of remorse that I peel away. Someday, maybe even soon,
I’ll have let go of them all.

I meet up with Reeve
after a few miles.

“Try to keep up,” I
shout at him, as he joins me mid-stride.

He rolls his eyes at me
and keeps a perfect pace. I like running with Reeve because he is the
only one who runs like I do. Full tilt. Nothing held back.

“Can I say I told you
so?” he says after the first half mile.

“About not being able
to keep up?”

“No, idiot. About the
show.”

“By all means. Say it
all day long.”

“Get me good seats
for opening night.”

“I’ll do my best,”
I say, and I smile. I am happy to see my friend. Happy because I am
out of my own head for a while. I can escape from my thoughts.

I am happy, I am happy,
I am happy. The more I say it the more I believe it. Rinse, lather,
repeat.

* * *

After we finish the
run, I head back to my apartment. As I walk up the steps to the
second floor, my phone rings. I dig around in the side pocket of my
fleece jacket and pull it out. My agent’s name is flashing across
the screen, and my heart gallops with a fleeting fear that I’m
about to lose the job. That it was all an error.

“Don’t tell me
Davis Milo changed his mind,” I say, stopping on the stairwell.

She laughs. “No,
darling. Don’t ever worry about that. The producers sent me the
contract already and I’m working on it.”

I breathe again and
walk up the rest of the steps.

“But that’s not why
I’m calling,” M.J. continues. “I just got off the phone with
Milo. He wants to meet with you before rehearsals start.”

“Oh. Why?”

“He likes to meet
with understudies to set their expectations. So you and I will go
together to his office on Friday at ten in the morning. Does that
work?”

“Yeah, I’ll see if
my schedule is clear, M.J.”

Another laugh. “I’ll
email you the address.”

After we hang up I
unlock the door to my apartment, pour a glass of water, and sink down
onto my couch with my laptop and everyone’s best friend in the
world—Google.

I quickly cycle through
his resume, though I know it by heart. The
South Pacific
revival he won his first Tony for, then an original production called
Anything for You
, followed by the play
The Saying Goes
.
He’s worked on the West Coast too, and directed a production in San
Diego at the La Jolla Playhouse three years ago that earned all sorts
of accolades. Called
World Enough and Time
, the play was
inspired by a line from an Andrew Marvelle poem, and there have long
been rumors that it would one day become a movie. I find a photo of
him with Madeline Blaine, the young actress who played the lead and
then rocketed to show biz success, landing a starring role in a
romantic comedy movie that made millions at the box office. She’s
been on Maxim’s Hot List and now commands top dollar for her roles.
Once I go down that photographic rabbit hole, I can’t resist
looking up more pictures of him.

Because it’s hard to
look away. It’s hard not to stare at his face with those eyes that
seem to know you, and that hair that seems to beg for hands to be run
through it. I click on a picture of him at last year’s Tony Awards
with his arm draped around a stunning redhead. I zero in on the
caption.
Award-winning director Davis Milo and publicist Amber
Surratt
. Then, one from the year before, where his hand is
clasped protectively around the waist of a black-haired beauty in a
slinky gold dress. She’s a talent agent and she represents many of
Broadway’s top stars. At a Broadway Cares event last year he’s
seen with a well-known choreographer, who’s no doubt as flexible as
she is gorgeous. His hand looks to be on her back. I touch my lower
back briefly, as if I can recall the sensations I’d felt when he
laid his hand there as he caught up with me in Sardi’s.

I lean into my couch
pillow and arrive at two conclusions: one, besides the lone photo of
him and Madeline Blaine, he seems to prefer the company of the women
who work behind the scenes in the business. And two, he’s
tailor-made for tuxes. The man just looks at home in a suit. He’s
effortless, every bit of him completely effortless in black and
white, with an easy and understated elegance. He wears the tux,
rather than the tux wearing him. I run my index finger across a photo
of him, tracing his outline absently, arriving at a third conclusion:
I bet he looks best in a tux if you’re the one next to him when
he’s wearing it.

I close my laptop and
head to my bedroom, opening my tiny closet. I pick out something
classy for my meeting, a pencil skirt and my favorite emerald green
sweater.

Then I knock on Kat’s
door.

“Come in,” she
says, sleepily.

“Rise and shine.”

“Some of us don’t
wake up at the crack of dawn, you know,” she says, and rolls onto
her side, bringing her purple comforter snug around her neck.

“Hate to break it to
you, but it’s almost ten. Well past the crack of dawn. Anyway, can
I borrow your black pumps for a meeting later this week?”

“You know I have huge
feet.”

I laugh. “You’re an
eight. I’m a seven and a half. I’d hardly call that huge.”

“Bottom shelf in my
shoe rack. But be careful. They’re true to size and I don’t want
you to stumble.”

“Ha. I’m like a
cat. I always land on my feet.”

“Then my Louboutins
are your Louboutins.”

“One of the many
reasons why I love you so much.”

I find the black
beauties and return to my room, placing them next to the skirt and
sweater. There. It’s the perfect ensemble.

Then I find myself
wishing it were Friday.

Which makes no sense to
me whatsoever. Except on a professional level. Because I want to
impress him as an actress. That’s all.

Jill

The office building is
red brick with a gleaming glass door and huge potted plants inside
the lobby, an eclectic mix of materials in the middle of the Tribeca
neighborhood that’s teeming with industrial buildings, lofts and
famous faces.

Surprising, because I
somehow pictured Davis in a sleek, black office building in the
middle of Times Square. But then, Tribeca is the epicenter of New
York cool and claims Beyonce, Justin Timberlake and Leonardo DiCaprio
among its star-studded residents, so I suppose it’s fitting that
Davis keeps an office among the glitterati.

I adjust my purse
strap, walk a few feet away from the building in case anyone’s
looking in the lobby, and check my makeup in the side mirror of a car
parked outside. Good. I still look freshly made-up, and there are no
lipstick marks on my teeth. I press a hand against my belly because
anxiety is flooding my veins. I don’t know what to expect from my
first official meeting with a Broadway director. What sort of
expectations does he want to set with me? The initial excitement is
behind me, so I’m glad my agent will be here. I scan the block for
her, hoping to catch a sight of her marching purposefully towards me,
looking all tough and agent-y with her shoulder length brown bob and
kickass attitude.

I check the time on my
phone, when I see a text message from her marked as urgent. I click
it open.
Jill darling!! I’m so sorry. I’m stuck on the Metro
North, and my train is delayed a whole frigging hour. But you’ll be
fine!! You’re there, right?

I write back with a
Yes, don’t worry about me,
then I turn the phone off and
head inside, talking myself down from these nerves. There’s no
reason for me to be nervous. I’ve been cast, and I’ve already had
a drink with him, and we chatted and got along swimmingly. Everything
will be fine, and these are first job jitters that I’m going to
ignore.

There. Done. Ignored.

I am confident. I am
bold.

I push open the glass
door, and enter the lobby, which has a warehouse-y, unfinished feel
to it with exposed pipes and concrete walls painted a bright white.

I stride purposefully
to the security guard behind a counter, and inform him where I’m
going.
Davis Milo. Second
Floor.
He tells me I’m on the list so I sign in, and
take the stairs up one flight.

I find his office at
the end of a long, quiet hallway. The door is slightly ajar, so I
knock.

“Come in.”

His voice is strong and
deep, and something about it calms my nerves. This is the man I
teased about casting me as Tevye. I’ll be fine.

I open the door and
he’s seated behind a large oak desk that’s spilling over with
scripts and sheet music. I would have pegged him as a neat freak, but
his desk has a slightly unkempt look to it, which is all the more
surprising given how impeccably he’s dressed. He’s wearing a navy
blue shirt that looks crisp and freshly laundered, and pressed
charcoal slacks. His dark brown hair is slightly mussed up, as if he
were running a hand through it right before I walked in. What’s
most out of tune with my expectations, though, is the music playing
from his computer. It’s not Rodgers and Hammerstein, nor is it
Sondheim. He’s listening to Muse, and I almost want to hum along to
the lyrics I know so well from “Madness.”

He looks up from his
screen, meets my eyes, and almost seems like he’s about to smile.
Then he makes his face impassive, and simply nods in greeting.

Neither one of us says
anything for a beat, and the only sound is the music.

“I love this song,”
I say to break the silence between us.

He starts to speak, but
instead he leans over, hits a button on his keyboard and turns the
music down.

My nerves return.
Did
I do something wrong?

Then he rises and walks
over to me, offering a hand.

I shake his hand, and
it’s awkward. I mean, I’ve already pretty much tackle hugged the
man back on the street outside Sardi’s when he gave me the news.
Now we’re back to some sort of uber professional dynamic.

“Good to see you
again, Ms. McCormick.”

Ms. McCormick?

Oh. I get it. We’ve
done the celebratory drinks, and now we’re all business. “And you
as well, Mr. Milo.”