The Break(53)

The detective nods. And then he smiles, and it’s unnerving the way his skin dimples, as though the smile is real, which of course it isn’t. “You see, that’s the thing,” he says, his words still so slow it makes me want to scream.



Just tell me how bad I’ve been.

He taps his pen against his notepad.

This is how I’d write you, I think: Slow, but ever so smart. And maybe crippled by your indecision and inability to trust your instincts. Because I have to give you a flaw, you see: that’s how writing characters goes.

He stares at me. No way he could guess what I’m thinking unless I’m wildly underestimating him. I don’t break his stare.

“Your neighbors were very clear about how frightened June seemed when she left your apartment,” he says, “so you can imagine our reason for concern.”

“Oh yes,” I say, nodding. “I’m sure June was very frightened. She’s such a sweet girl, and relatively new to the city, and I had a mental breakdown right in front of her. I screamed at her and accused her of hurting my baby. You’d be scared, too, yeah?” I ask. “I’m not hiding what I’ve done, Detective.”

The number of times I’ve had to say it out loud to people—to admit how far gone I was, what I did . . . “Is there really no mercy for mothers who’ve come undone?” I whisper, almost to myself.

Gabe freezes beside me. But then a beat later he jumps in, saying, “Like I said over the phone, for the reasons I detailed, my wife has had an extremely difficult postpartum period and we would appreciate some sensitivity.”

I stare at Gabe and realize we’ve both written this scene before: Suspicion. Guilt. Love. Hate. Throw in a missing person and a detective and you have the tools of our trade. How sick is it, this desire to solve the unthinkable? To make sense of all the bad in the world? To even think we could solve any of it seems the biggest crime of all: the sheer narcissism of it, controlling your characters’ every move and tweaking scenes to your liking, bending breathing, pulsing characters to your will. Because they aren’t fake to us: that’s the secret, really. Our characters are sometimes more real than the people we know in real life.



The detective scrawls more details into his notebook. Then, to the back of his hand, he casually says, “There’s less mercy for anyone, new mothers included, when a young woman is missing.”

Guilt spreads over me like a rash. “We have no idea where June is,” I say. “But have you questioned June’s boyfriend? Harrison Russell?” I turn to Gabe in time to catch the look on his face. How far does he think I’ll go to protect us? Do I need to protect us? Did we do something?

I think of all the times I’ve imagined June dead. My body gets hot just thinking of her, but no—no. I’m getting carried away again. I would never hurt June.





TWENTY-EIGHT


June. Three months ago. August 2nd.


Moments later everyone in the theater takes their seats. We’re all staring at the actors surrounding the long table, sipping their waters and clearing their throats, fluffing their hair and unwinding flimsy summer scarves worn only for the sake of drama.

Gabe’s play is about to begin.

Harrison and I are next to each other on folding chairs. My stomach is wound into coils. Breathe, I tell myself, avoiding Harrison’s glance. Gabe’s in the row in front of us, and I can still smell his woodsy smell. When he puts his arm around his wife, my toes curl inside my sandals and my stomach twists tighter.

I have to get out of here.

When I was twelve, there was a woman who kept coming into my dad’s shop. I understood exactly what she was doing: she was flirting with my dad, trying to get him to stray, or at least to want to stray, as if him wanting her would fill her up in some way. I never understood it then, but shouldn’t I have? All I ever wanted was my mother’s adoration, and is that really so much different? Love is love in all its deadly forms, and we all want it like something primal. The woman’s act went on for months, but it didn’t work. My dad was too desperately in love with my mom, or too mired in his own loyalty to even think about it.

I hated that woman.

“Thank you for coming,” says Eleanor, the earth-mother casting director. She’s standing to the side of the seated actors. “We are so thrilled to hold our first table reading of Gabe O’Sullivan’s new play, Stay, here at Playwrights, and simply ecstatic to work with such a talented writer. I think you’ll see tonight that the work is in good hands with these talented actors, and with our director, Lanesha Carlson.” Eleanor gestures to Lanesha, who sits on the other side of Gabe wearing an effervescent smile.

Rowan squirms in her seat, sending her white-blond ponytail swinging. Wisps of hair fall free over her delicate neck. Her slim shoulders lean toward Gabe, pressing into him.

“Welcome, Lanesha, to Playwrights Horizons,” Eleanor says. And then she turns to all of us and announces, “It will be our first time working with Gabe and Lanesha, and we are so very excited.”

I look down to see Harrison’s long fingers drumming softly against his leg. I look back up at Eleanor, whose eyes have fallen on Rowan. “And because this room holds more talent than any other room in New York tonight,” Eleanor says breathlessly, “I’d like to say hello to Rowan O’Sullivan. I just spoke with Rowan, so I know she’s in the middle of a manuscript that will likely be yet another New York Times bestseller.” Eleanor lets out an awkward laugh, like she didn’t really plan on saying any of this and is wondering how it’s going over.