The Break(46)
“So he’s got a new pilot that’s perfect for Hulu,” Harrison’s saying as we walk past a pharmacy. “And they’ve already bought one of his spec scripts before, so he’s on their radar.”
Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be one of WTA’s actresses. Is it possible, in any universe, that Harrison’s thought that, too? The problem is I have zero credits. So for someone like Harrison or Louisa to send me in for an audition, to risk their reputations in that way: I would have to be so singularly extraordinary, and I just don’t know if I am. I’m deeply scared I’m not, and that I’ll fall flat on my face in this city I love, and that I’ll never actually get a break and make it. And I worry one day I’ll be unhappy with my life and look back on all of this like a dream.
“That hot dog smell makes me want to barf,” I say as we near a deli with outdoor tables covered in plastic red-and-white checkerboard.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Harrison says, slowing down in front of the deli, the hot dog smell stronger than ever. “This is where I’m taking you for dinner.”
We laugh and keep walking.
On Sixth Avenue, Harrison gestures at a coffee shop called Frankie’s and says, “I was thinking we could hit this coffee shop. It has food, too, so we could grab a bite and still be on time for Gabe’s reading.” He checks his phone. “Well, we might have to hurry a little . . .”
“Sounds good,” I say, and we head toward it and duck inside, and then his hand is on the small of my back like this is what we always do, like we always touch each other.
I look up at him and catch his blue eyes, and that’s the moment I know for sure that he wants this to be romantic. And his eyes are questioning, like he wants me to let him know if I want the same thing. Do I want the same thing? It’s hard to disentangle what I want from what I really want. In some ways it feels like a letdown: if he wanted me to be one of WTA’s actresses, he wouldn’t be putting his hand on my back and looking at me like this, because he’s not like that. He’s never once dated one of the firm’s clients, and I know that because both Louisa and Kai told me. Kai didn’t phrase it quite as nicely as Louisa; Kai said Harrison’s pious and won’t date clients, but that assistants have been fair game, and that none of them work at WTA anymore, and that one of the women won’t return Kai’s texts, even though they used to be friends. Which makes me feel like a fool, but then I asked Louisa where most WTA assistants landed next, and she says they generally get better jobs at other agencies, and that turnover is high at the assistant level. Louisa didn’t realize why I was asking, so I didn’t push any further than that, but now I’m getting the sense that Kai’s been exaggerating for the sake of drama, which is annoying.
“You first,” Harrison says, guiding me past a crush of tables. It’s tiny in here. Intimate. More dinner than coffee, that’s for sure.
“Well, this is romantic,” I blurt, glancing around.
Harrison freezes. His mouth makes a grimace, like when you eat something too bitter. “I’m so sorry, June,” he says, and it comes out genuine, like he’s mortified. “We can go somewhere else.”
I smile at him—it feels so refreshing to see him like this, the professional confidence I see at WTA nearly disappeared. “No, it’s perfect,” I say, and then I take his hand. I know I’m setting something into motion and can’t possibly know the outcome, but I do it anyway, and everything between us shifts to something new. We hold on to each other’s hands, maneuvering through the tight spaces between diners, and then sitting at a table in the corner with a candle lit beside a vase of daisies. My mom always loved her daisies in August, and I think of her now and what she’d think about me going out with someone who I imagine is at least ten years older. I brush aside how blazing mad she’d be, and the way she’d stuff it down at first and act like she didn’t care, and then resign herself to the larger fact that I’m always disappointing.
Harrison and I stare at each other, and the rush of cold I feel when I think of my mother makes me want to take his hand again, so I do. “I’m not seeing anyone else,” he says, too quickly. “And I’ve been imagining asking you out to dinner since the first week I met you. And I’d like us to . . . well, to do more of this . . . if that’s what you wanted, too. And if it doesn’t work out, I would never let it get in the way of your work at WTA. I’m an adult and so are you.”
I take a breath. His eyes are on my face and I know I look beautiful, and I know that doesn’t sound quite right for me to say, but it’s the truth and it factors into me having the courage to utter the words I say next.
“Would you let it get in the way of me one day being a WTA actress?” I ask, giving his hands a gentle squeeze.
He pulls away.
The waitress sidles up to our table with a notepad. My heart pounds in my ears, dulling even the sound of the other diners chattering around us. There’s a cold, hard rock forming in my stomach.
I’ve said the wrong thing.
TWENTY-THREE
Rowan. Friday morning. November 11th.
I’m staring at my mom as I nurse Lila, unsure of where to start, stalling like I usually do whenever we talk around the edges of this big hulking darkness that befell us so many years ago. My mom fiddles with her pearly pink rosary beads, her lips shaping silent prayers while she avoids my glance. While I was growing up, she always had rosaries stashed in different places: in between the pages of books, in the top drawer of her bedside table, and at least two tucked beneath her pillow. She ran her fingers over those beads every night as we fell asleep together. One of her doctors told me that she’s likely to go back to the habit with increasing frequency as her mind fails, almost like a touchstone—something so ingrained it’s harder to lose. The same doctor told me that one of the hallmarks of her condition is the desire to sink back into the past, which is maybe why she’s so willing to talk about my dad now; but I’d bet it’s more likely she’s willing to revisit something painful to help me, because isn’t that part of being a mother? I would do it for Lila.