The Break(54)

Gabe turns to look at his beautiful wife. A shadow falls over his features for a nearly imperceptible second, and then he smiles at Rowan, aglow. At first I think I misjudged the shadow, but then Harrison whispers, “Just let the man have his night to himself,” and it confirms what I think I saw: jealousy between writers and lovers.



“Without further ado, let’s begin,” says Eleanor, who looks relieved to be done talking. She sits on the other side of Lanesha.

I expect the lights to dim but they don’t, and I feel a sliver of disappointment because I want so badly to hide in the dark. But instead there’s glaring fluorescence and no reprieve. Anyone who looks at my face can see how wretched I feel, and I try hard not to stare at Gabe. But the words are coming now from the actors, beautiful words, words Gabe wrote for them to shape their mouths around. The play is about a young woman who takes care of her brother ages ago during an unnamed war in a country that could be anywhere. It’s like Gabe chose purposely to leave everything nonspecific so that the audience could focus on the relationship between the siblings. The play praises familial love—the romantic interests are only sidebars, flitting in and out of the story—and it leaves me aching. And it also leaves me thinking maybe I want to get more involved in theater. As I listen to the storyline it strikes me that this narrative is perfect for the theater, but it would never be picked up as a big film. I know I’m still such a novice in this world—but already I understand this. Maybe I need to try to see more works by playwrights; maybe they’re telling really different stories.

During the play Gabe is very quiet. I expect him to jump in, maybe to correct how the actors said the lines he wrote, but instead all night he defers to Lanesha, allowing her to be the one to call for a pause when a scene is through so they can quickly discuss, and then they tuck their heads together and talk about things like adding another beat to a scene that fell short and felt incomplete. And during these quick dashes of collaboration, Lanesha types on a laptop as Gabe’s low voice rumbles. And then the scenes begin again, and everyone is silent and reverent.

Everyone is reverent except me. Life around me seems to slow down and stretch out as I slip inside the skin of someone I hate, someone I never thought I could be.



But I haven’t done anything, I try to console myself, and this will pass; it’s nothing, only infatuation and entirely meaningless, a thing without substance or anywhere to go.

Gabe turns around only once, about an hour in when the actors take a break to go to the restroom or smoke cigarettes, and he looks first to Harrison.

“It’s genius, man,” Harrison says, much more casually than I hear him speak at work. A moment of brotherly energy passes between them, but then Gabe turns to look at me.

“Do you like it so far?” he asks.

Rowan is still facing forward, looking down at her phone, like nothing else exists but that glowing screen.

But this exists—this energy between Gabe and me, and I want to slap her and say, Keep him away from me, whatever you do: keep us apart.

“I love it,” I say, my voice coming out easy and confident and separate from how my body feels.

A grin etches Gabe’s face, wide and sweetly natured. “You do?” he asks. I’m surprised at the excitement in his voice, that me liking his play could put that feeling there.

I laugh, wondering what else I could make him feel.

Harrison shifts his weight.

“I do,” I say. Our exchange doesn’t make Rowan turn her head. Wake up, I can’t help but think. Gabe’s holding my eyes and still grinning when I go on, “I wonder if you’re exploring familial love now that you’re expecting a baby.” His eyes widen a little. I ask, “Do you think that has something to do with your desire to write about something other than romantic love?”

“I’m sure it does,” Gabe says, and this finally makes Rowan turn. Her features are so beautiful, like an Icelandic princess with wide blue eyes and high cheekbones. There’s a smattering of freckles on her nose, but otherwise her skin is clear and milky white. She scrunches her freckled nose now, and says, “Neither Gabe nor I have siblings, isn’t that funny?” She turns and smiles at Gabe, then back at us. “So I wonder if he isn’t exaggerating the potential of a typical sister/brother bond, but I guess I’m not the one to answer that. Do you have a brother, June?”

“Um,” I say, even though it’s not the kind of question to which anyone should answer um. “I do,” I say quickly, trying to sound confident again.

“And would he stay at your bedside and nurse you back to health, forsaking all others including a once-in-a-lifetime romantic love?” Rowan asks.

I’m nervous right away. I wait a beat before I answer. Her eyes hold mine.

Then I say, “No way,” and everyone laughs, including Rowan.

“Have you ever seen a reading like this before?” she asks. “It’s so fun to see work in its early stages.”

Gabe flinches.

“Um,” I say again, stupidly nervous. Rowan’s eyes are still on me, and I wonder if she sees a silly, na?ve girl who could never hold Gabe’s attention like she does, who could never contribute anything meaningful to this conversation about table readings and early work. “I haven’t,” I say. “But I read a lot of scripts for work. And it doesn’t get much more early stages than that.”