The Break(51)

She screams louder and I sob. What is wrong with me? I should have let Gabe’s mom come, but selfishly I wanted the moment to be just my own mother and me, without Elena lurking in the background. Gabe had a meeting at WTA, and he’ll be furious when he realizes I canceled Elena and drove Lila myself, which just makes me feel even angrier. Why couldn’t he have rescheduled his meeting and come with me to see my mom? If he were here, at least I could have climbed into the back seat and comforted Lila. How much I hate him in this moment burns through my veins like hot liquid—it makes my tears come harder. I’m clenching the wheel and then I say it, too, just like my mother did: “Gray.”

My heart skips a beat.

What if I’m slowly losing my mind just like she did?

“I mean, Lila,” I correct myself. Wipers slash through my vision, chop chop chop. “Lila Gray O’Sullivan, I love you so much,” I say, tears hot on my skin as she screams. “It’s okay,” I say, and then I say it again, over and over, until I know she’s not the only one I’m reassuring: I’m saying those words to Lila, of course, but also to myself, and maybe even to my mother.

I grip the wheel tighter. Cars inch forward and I follow them through the pelting gray rain. I turn on the radio to see if the music will help calm Lila, but it doesn’t.

She only cries harder.





TWENTY-SIX


June. Three months ago. August 2nd.


Moments later Harrison and I walk into the rehearsal room at Playwrights Horizons holding hands, which feels right. We’re on the precipice of something, so why not let everyone know it? And I feel so much more powerful to be here as more than just an assistant at WTA: to be here as someone Harrison just took out to dinner. I could be anything: an actress, a love interest. My chin is up a notch, and not even the humidity can get in the way of my hair, which rolls easily over my shoulders in blond waves. Thank God I’m not wearing something stupid.

The room we walk into is cavernous but simple: light oak flooring, a long table set up with folding chairs and Poland Spring water bottles at each station. There’s a stage several yards behind the table, but I get the feeling the actors won’t be using that tonight. Only two actors sit in the chairs at the table so far—a beautiful forty-something woman and a bald man, both of whom look vaguely familiar but not enough that I know their names. There are some big-name actors at WTA, but there are these kinds of players, too: the kind of working actors who earn a consistent living but slip under the radar. They play guest stars on your favorite TV shows and they work on Broadway; they sell yogurt on commercials, and they have contract roles on soap operas. I’m just surprised there aren’t more of them scattered around the table. It’s almost eight.

“Harrison,” says a petite blond making her way toward us. She’s got an earthy look to her, all silver rings and turquoise.

Harrison smiles at the sight of her, and says, “Eleanor, meet June.” He turns to me. “Eleanor is the casting director for Gabe’s play.” He doesn’t tell Eleanor who I am, and maybe that’s because neither of us are very sure—his friend, a WTA assistant, his date? I smile at Eleanor and shake her hand. “It’s so nice to meet you,” I say. And then I thank her for having me, which seems to endear me to her, because she asks, “What can I get you, June? Water? Coffee?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” I assure her. She tells us to enjoy the reading, and then she races off toward the bald actor, who’s asking for the Wi-Fi code. “Should we sit?” Harrison asks, gesturing to the dozen or so seats that form a small audience section and face the table.

I nod yes, but just then a tall dark-haired man moves into the doorway and my heart goes very still.

“Who’s that?” I ask before I realize the words are leaving my mouth. My voice is a whisper, but Harrison must have heard me, because he says:

“That’s Gabe.” And he says it with a little laugh, like I’ve asked something silly.

I clear my throat, but I can’t say anything. I need a minute; I need Gabe O’Sullivan not to come over here. I don’t even fully understand the feeling inside me, only that this man is big and hulking and dark-haired and perfect, and that if I can’t stop myself, then the strange feeling inside me will be my undoing. I know all of this lightning-quick, like a taste of sugar, a bird shot out of the sky. And a part of me accepts it, like when you stare down a massive wave and tuck under to the peaceful part of it, knowing you’ll see the sunshine again once it passes if only you can time it right. But I can’t time this right. I don’t even know what it is.



Gabe’s shoulders take up nearly the entire doorway as he scans the room. He sees Harrison, and then me, and his dark eyes hold mine until something slick curves inside my stomach, an unraveling. It’s not like I’ve never had that happen before when I’ve seen a guy in college or passed someone in New York City in a café or on the sidewalk, but this time the current is too strong and too dangerous. I can feel his mouth on me like it’s already happened: on my jaw, my neck, and my mouth. I can practically taste it.

I nearly lose my footing.

I break Gabe’s stare. I look down at my feet. The pale wood floor is still there, holding me up.

“Gabe,” says Harrison, who doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss. Or if he does, he’s a very good actor, because his hand is suddenly on my back, steering me toward Gabe. Don’t do this to me, I try to telegraph to Harrison, but of course that doesn’t work. So I say to myself, Turn back, June. But my body isn’t listening. And it’s not like I can stop walking midstream anyway, because how awkward would that be?