The Break(63)

“Gabe’s lying to me about something,” I say. “I know he would never hurt June, it’s not that, it’s just . . .”

Harrison’s eyes are the color of deep blue denim jeans. And they’re bloodshot. “Do you think Gabe and June were hooking up?” he asks me. I can see it in him—the fury. At least a part of him believes in the possibility of it. I can’t tell if that’s why he’s so agitated. I hope so, because if I didn’t know better, a part of me might think he was drinking again.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I need to know,” he says, and I can see the shake in his hands, the jealousy at the thought of it happening: his friend/client, his girlfriend. “I need to know if June was messing around on me—and on you—with Gabe. I need to know if Gabe would do something like that to me.”

“I don’t think so,” I say, because I really don’t, no matter how much a fool it might make me. “I counted on June and I trusted her with Lila. I know she’s young and I know people make mistakes, but I asked Gabe and he was furious at me for even thinking it.”

Harrison snorts. “Gabe. Of course—of course he’d be defensive about it, like it was never even possible.”

“I believe him,” I say.

“Good for you,” Harrison says with a laugh that comes out too crude. “It must be nice to be with someone you trust.”

I take a minute. And then I ask the thing I’m scared of. “Do you think it’s possible?”

He considers me. Says nothing.

“Do you think it’s possible that he would cheat on me?” I ask, my voice getting too high, too pathetic.

Harrison turns away and looks out a black-framed window. Then he swivels his head to face me dead-on. “I do,” he says, and my heart stills.

I swallow, trying to get myself back to okay. “Do you know something I don’t?”



“No,” he says with a sniff. “It’s just a hunch.”

A hunch. A pretty big thing to say about someone else’s marriage, but I asked for it. We’re quiet—it’s one of the only times I’ve ever heard Harrison betray Gabe, and by the time I recover, the moment has broken apart and thrown us into different corners.

Harrison looks around his immaculate apartment. “I should pick up before the cops come,” he says, his voice low. “I should be ready.” He reaches out a trembling hand to touch my face. I grab his fingers and give them a small squeeze. It’s always there, really. The alternate life—the split-second decision, the lingering question:

What would have been?

But it’s different now that Lila’s here. And that’s what I’m thinking as I gather my baby and make my way to my mother. Everything is as it’s meant to be. Isn’t it?





THIRTY-FOUR


June. Three months ago. August 3rd.


Forty minutes later, after an uneventful subway ride, I’m standing outside a squat cement building waiting to go in and audition. I don’t want to show up too early—I’m nervous enough without having to wait alongside other actresses. It’s only my fourth time in Brooklyn, and I absolutely love it. (I once told Sean that I’d like to live in a Brooklyn neighborhood called Williamsburg, and he acted like I’d punched him in the face. It’s becoming impossible to navigate a conversation with him; there are landmines everywhere.)

It’s hot out and sticky, too, and the sky is white-gray and kind of scary, like it’s holding on to trouble. I glance down at the paper I’ve printed, going over my audition lines silently in my head, my eyes closing as Brooklynites swirl around me.

CECILY

I think your frankness does you great credit, Ernest. If you will allow me, I will copy your remarks in my diary. Oh no. You see, it is simply a very young girl’s record of her own thoughts and impressions, and consequently meant for publication. When it appears in volume form I hope you will order a copy.

Dear God, let me perform this scene well. I’m just such a newbie, I’m not even sure whether I’m supposed to do an English accent, but when I googled it last night it seemed like I should, and I just pray my accent doesn’t suck too much.

A big, bulky door swings open. Out trots an elfin girl who doesn’t look at me as she brushes past. I should really go in, but a part of me wants so badly to bolt. I imagine just turning around and going back to Sean, but that almost sounds worse than botching this audition and making a massive fool of myself. I’ve barely done any classical theater like this; most of the stuff we did in college was contemporary.

Still. I used to get the leads . . .

Now another guy barges out the door. He’s carrying a headshot, which I don’t have—yet. I’ve got to get on that; it’s just so expensive. Like fifteen hundred for a good photographer.

I check my phone to see if there’s anything from work Louisa needs, but there’s nothing.

6:13.

I have to go inside. I make myself do it: I pull open the heavy door and go into a tiny lobby. Only one other actress is there, and she looks nothing like me, which is a relief. She’s a short brunette who doesn’t even look up as I enter, which is maybe for the best. She’s studying her lines. And she has a headshot, too.

I wait my turn.