In Harmony(42)

Willow made being myself bearable.

I hunched deeper in my jacket and glanced down at her, no longer seeing the Manhattan rich girl living a perfect, pampered life. She closed her eyes, turned her face to the sun and inhaled a deep, cleansing breath.

She needed Harmony in her veins. She left something behind in New York. Something that was destroyed or taken away from her. It wasn’t her idea to come to this town, but once here, she found her escape. Her chance to hide. Or maybe rebuild?

She wouldn’t tell me but she didn’t have to. She’d given me so much already.

“Where are we headed?” she asked.

“Just up here,” I said.

We turned a corner and I led us north, out of downtown. The shops and buildings lining the street were replaced by tall trees—maple, oak and dogwood—just starting to turn green again.

We passed through a small neighborhood, row after row of one-story houses, each no more than eight or nine hundred square feet. Kitchen gardens and low fences separated the lots. Children’s toys lay scattered on the grass, spilling onto the sidewalks, as if they belonged to everyone. Wind chimes played a hollow tune.

“These houses are so cute,” Willow said, her eyes lit up. “What is this neighborhood?”

“It’s called The Cottages. Artsy-type folk live here.”

“Is this what you wanted to show me?”

“No.” I glanced down at her. “You like it?”

“I love it,” she said. “So quiet. And peaceful.”

We passed a house with a pottery wheel in the front yard. Another with small wrought iron sculptures of Kokopelli with his flute, sunbursts and small horses.

“Can’t you picture it?” Willow said. “Having a little house like this? You come out in the morning with a script, drink your coffee and watch the sun come up?”

I nearly stopped walking as her words punched me in the chest. I passed by The Cottages hundreds of times—thousands of times. All the years I lived here, I never thought anything except how lonely it would be to live in this corner of the world.

As we passed the last row of little houses, I saw them through Willow’s eyes. The curtains of my imagination opened on a scene: sitting on a front porch with a cup of black coffee, a script in my lap. Watching the sun rise over the green of the trees and spill between the leaves. Soft arms went around my neck, a lock of long blonde hair fell over my arm and soft lips brushed my jaw, whispering, “Good morning…”

I shook myself out of the reverie.

Nice fantasy, dumbass.

Another curtain rose: me spending another twenty years living in Harmony with my shitty home life dogging me. Half the town afraid of me, the other half judging and whispering. My father’s drunken rampages more famous than my acting. The Pearce name associated with a rotting junkyard sign, not lit up on a marquee.

Fuck this place.

Willow didn’t miss the dark expression on my face this time.

“Not a fan?”

“No,” I said. “I want out.”

“Which do you think?” she asked. “Hollywood or Broadway?”

“Whichever will take me.”

She frowned. “You don’t care? Wouldn’t it be really different to act on film as opposed to being on stage? Wouldn’t you miss the energy of a live audience?”

“Yeah, I guess I would,” I said. “But I’ve never really thought about acting beyond as a means to an end. Using it to get out.”

“Really?” Her face scrunched up as if she had just smelled something rotten. She fell silent, but with more questions behind her eyes.

“Go ahead,” I said. “You can say it. I’m egotistical. Or ungrateful for what I have.”

She shot me a look. “Now that you mention it…”

A small laugh ground out of me like a rusty gear. Instead of feeling insulted, I loved that I didn’t intimidate her.

“I get it,” I said. “But I don’t think of what I can do as talent or a gift. It’s an escape.”

“But can’t you feel what it does to the people who watch you act? It’s like a gift of transportation. An escape for us too.”

I stopped walking and looked down at her. “I’m glad it can be that for you. For anyone watching. But for me…” I shrugged. “It’s all I have.”

“I feel the same,” she said. “Like I was a little bit lost and then Hamlet fell into my lap. To help me find my way again.” Her laugh was nervous. “That sounds all kinds of dramatic. And probably silly.”

“It’s not silly,” I said. “Things happen for a reason, I guess.”

“You think?” Her voice suddenly went sharp. She stopped, her expression twisting in confusion and disbelief. “Everything happens for a reason?”

I blinked at her sudden fury. “I don’t know. Martin’s always telling me—”

“Your perfectly healthy mom having a stroke and dying happened for a reason? You said yourself, it was meaningless.”

My jaw clenched, my own blood rising. I jabbed a finger at my chest. “I get to say what that meant to me. Not you. Not anyone.”

“Exactly,” she fired back. “It’s your story. I hate ‘everything happens for a reason.’ Like someone’s pain doesn’t mean anything yet, but someday it will and then everything will be all right again. It’s bullshit.” She looked up at me, and her expression changed again, tear-filled eyes almost begging me. “What do we do in the meantime?”