In Harmony(39)

Daisy’s was a cute little place with warm wood flooring and tables that were half-filled with patrons. They chatted over steaming cups, typed on laptops or read books. Nina Simone crooned over the sound system.

“What do you want?” Isaac asked.

“I can get my own,” I said, reaching for my purse. Isaac gave me a stormy glare and I met it with my own pointed look. “Listen, it’s obvious you don’t want to be here. No sense making you pay for it, too.”

He opened his mouth and then snapped it shut. He turned away, looking around the café. When he spoke, his voice was softer.

“There’s a table over there,” he said, indicating a two-seater tucked in the corner near a small shelf marked Free Books. “Tell me what you want to drink and then grab it.”

“Medium latte,” I said. “Please.”

He nodded and I went to the table. He came back a few minutes later with a latte for me and what looked like black coffee for him, both in mugs instead of to-go cups.

He started to sit, then stopped. “You need sugar?”

“Two, please.”

Female eyes followed as Isaac went to the little station of creamers and stir sticks, and a small smile spread over my lips. Date or non-date, it didn’t suck to have a hot guy sitting across from me.

Not a date, I thought. We’re just sitting.

“Something funny?” Isaac asked, sliding into his seat.

“Nothing,” I said, taking the sugar. “Thank you.”

He sipped his coffee and the silence stretched until it itched.

“You take your coffee black?” I asked, a painful crank of the engine to get this conversation going. “I could never. Too strong for me.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure this is exactly what Mr. Ford had in mind when he sent us out here. ‘Hamlet, go find out how Ophelia likes her coffee.’”

Isaac’s lips twitched, then finally smiled and the tight tension between us cracked a little. “Call him Martin or Marty,” he said. “He won’t answer to Mr. Ford.”

“Good to know,” I said. “You’ve worked with him for a lot of shows, right?”

“Five years now.”

“You have a favorite?”

His eyes on me were steady and unblinking. “Oedipus. So far.”

“That’s funny. That’s the only one I’ve seen.” I cleared my throat and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “So, will you really be off-book in three weeks? You carry half the play.”

“It’s a lot,” he said. “I have help though.”

“Yeah?” It was the first time he’d offered something of himself.

“Yeah. Kid who lives next door to me helps me run lines.”

“Lucky you.”

“Yeah,” Isaac said. “I’m really lucky.” He put a subtle filter over the last word, tingeing it with bitterness but not enough to invite questions.

The conversation sputtered out again. After a few excruciating moments, I reached for my bag. “I brought my script. Not sure what Mr. Ford… I mean, Martin, had in mind, but we can run lines now if you want. I don’t want you to lose the day.”

Isaac crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Why do you keep apologizing?”

I bristled. “I’m not apologizing.”

“You are.”

“Well, it’s not like you’re super thrilled to be here so—”

“I am,” he said. “I mean, I’m here. Now we can run lines or whatever you want to do. But stop worrying if this is a waste of my time. It’s not.”

I folded my arms and leaned over the table at him. “You know, it would be a helluva lot easier to not feel like you’re here against your will if you didn’t act like you’re here against your will.”

He pursed his lips. “I don’t make a lot of conversation.”

“I can see that,” I said. “But I need this assignment, or whatever you call it, to work. You have this whole acting thing down, but I’m scared shitless. I need all the help I can get.”

The front legs of his chair came down. “You don’t.”

I blinked. “Sorry?”

“You don’t need that much help. I saw your audition. And being scared is a good thing.”

“How do you figure?”

“It’s how you know you care.”

I turned my coffee mug around. “Being scared doesn’t feel like care. It feels like danger.”

“It is,” Isaac said. “It’s dangerous to put yourself out there. To rip your heart out and throw it to the audience. What if they hate what you’re trying to say? What if they don’t understand it? Or worse, what if they don’t care? The validation of your entire life is tied up in your art. So yeah, that’s pretty fucking dangerous. And scary.”

I glanced up at him over my cup as I soaked up his little kernels of knowledge I desperately needed. “You don’t seem scared. You seem cool as shit, all the time.”

He smiled faintly. “It’s all an act.”

“You said that before. At my audition.”

“I remember,” he said, only this time his short answer wasn’t a wall to the conversation but an opening.