The Break(49)

“You sound like you’re accusing me of harming June,” I say, feeling my mother’s eyes all over me.

“I’m not, Rowan,” Gabe says. “Of course I’m not. Just, please, come home.”





TWENTY-FOUR


June. Three months ago. August 2nd.


We recover.

I don’t know how it happens, but we do.

Harrison looks at the menu and orders quiche, and politely tells the waitress we’re in a bit of a rush. I get a salad. We both get decaf lattes. The waitress scrams, and Harrison says, “June, I’m sorry. It just took me by surprise. I didn’t know you wanted to be represented by us.”

“Really?” I ask, and he immediately looks embarrassed. A part of me feels bad for him, but the other part of me thinks, How thickheaded do you have to be to think I don’t want to be represented by an agent at WTA?

Is he playing me? He knows I want to be an actress; I told him that weeks ago at work. So how could he not think I’d want this? I stare at him, waiting for him to say something, to answer me.

“A lot of people who work for WTA have creative aspirations on the side,” Harrison says, “but it doesn’t mean they’re actively searching for representation by WTA.”

“You sure about that?” I ask, as respectfully as I can.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and this time he actually looks chastened.



“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” I say, “but from my perspective, there are so many power players at the top in charge of who gets what. And then there are people like me, lowly creatives who aren’t superstars yet and have zero power. So I guess, well, at least don’t insult us all by pretending you think we don’t want it more than anything. Who in her right mind wouldn’t want to be represented by WTA?”

He says nothing—not even another apology—but he’s listening.

“I have an audition tomorrow,” I say, diving in deeper, sinking my claws into the pulsing truth of what my heart really desires. “It’s for a black box theater in Brooklyn. I’m auditioning for Cecily in The Importance of Being Earnest.”

“Oh,” he says, and he almost looks annoyed, like I’m derailing where he wanted this night to go. But then a tentative smile returns to his face. “I didn’t realize you had traditional theater training,” he says.

“I do,” I say, which is only partly a lie. Starting next week I take an acting course at HB Studio, which is one of the oldest and most respected acting studios in the city. And this past weekend I read Uta Hagen’s Respect for Acting, and I am starting to feel more like an actress, even if I’ve only done plays in college. Also, last week I met with a modeling agency that Louisa is concerned is a scam but that I think may be legit. The problem is they’re asking for thirteen-hundred dollars to pay for my headshots (which I do need), but Louisa says that if they’re a legitimate agency then they should encourage me to find my own photographer outside their company, one with whom they’re not affiliated. And then she gave me a lecture about kickback schemes, which was a massive buzzkill.

“I’ll come see you if you get the part,” Harrison says.

“I’d like that,” I say.

“Are you doing a lot of auditioning?” Harrison asks, toying with his napkin.

“I am,” I say. “I’m waiting to hear about a part in an indie film.”



I smile and sip my water. Oh, how I love that word: indie. June Waters: indie actress. Could anything be more wonderful?

“It’s a crazy business,” Harrison says. “But it’s kind of perfect. Addictive, in a way.”

I shrug. “And there’s nothing else I want to do,” I say. “I don’t have a plan B.”

“Maybe there won’t be a need for one,” Harrison says. The twinkle in his blue eyes has returned, and it’s lighting me up. He’s got a little boy quality to him, like he’s always right there on the edge of something. Trouble, maybe.

“Maybe not,” I say, exhilarated.

The café stirs around us. Diners come and go; waiters clear plates; a jazzy Nina Simone song plays. I feel full of possibility as we sit there quietly. There’s something about being with Harrison, same as when we’re in the office together: he’s got a good vibe, he’s pleasant and easy to be with. It’s comforting without being boring. We’re companionable together, even when we’re not talking, and I’m surprised I’m not more nervous. The waitress brings our food over, and we’re pretty quiet as we start eating.

“What are your parents like?” Harrison asks me halfway through his quiche.

“Oh well,” I say, wiping my mouth with a starchy gray napkin. “My dad’s a mechanic. He’s easy, sort of simple in a really good way. I get him, what makes him tick. He pretty much just wants to make sure my brother and me are fine and that his shop is doing well. He used to be a race car driver and now he loves horse racing. He used to gamble but doesn’t now, he just goes to Saratoga in the early morning to watch the horses run the track before going to his shop. He loves those horses—have you ever been to the racetrack?”

Harrison shakes his head, takes a sip of water.