Proposing to Preston (The Winslow Brothers, #2)(4)
Great, she thought. I’ll be unemployed by May.
Well, unemployed in the theater, she corrected herself. Her job at Virile Vic’s BBQ wasn’t going anywhere.
Literally.
“Yeah,” said Paige, giggling. “Well, it sure was exciting! We’re on the stage in New York City, Elise! That’s what I tell myself every morning. I made it! See you tomorrow!”
Paige burst through the door to the sidewalk, waving goodbye as it slammed shut. Elise stopped short at the green-painted metal door, sighing heavily and leaning her shoulder against the cement wall to her right.
Outside the stage doors of most Broadway shows, hordes of fans stood impatiently, waiting for the stars of the show to exit, and begging for the actors to sign their programs or take selfies. Although Elise, as a rule, hadn’t pursued acting for fame or recognition, she still dreamed of a day when audiences would turn out in throngs to see her because she was good, and because she loved the craft of acting more than anything else in the world.
I made it!
What a joke.
Pushing open the heavy door, she was greeted with the cool, smelly air of 12th Street Manhattan, a wet sidewalk, a slight drizzle, the never-quite-dark skies of New York overhead and…nothing else. Two men holding hands bustled by her, chatting animatedly, and a woman walked slowly toward her, talking on her cellphone, explaining why she couldn’t make it out to Connecticut this weekend.
There were no fans. No well-wishers. No one.
Hiking her backpack higher, Elise turned right and started walking at a brisk pace, refusing to feel sorry for herself.
She’d been in New York for seven years, the last three of which she’d been auditioning, doing the occasional off-off Broadway show and wondering if she was throwing her life away. She had no important reviews of her work, her updated headshots this year had decimated her bank account, and when she called home, she knew full and well that none of her family members respected or supported her life choice, disappointment heavy in her mother’s voice, especially. Friends were a luxury that rehearsals, performances, auditions and waitressing didn’t readily afford, and apart from some girls she occasionally hung out with from Vic’s, she was mostly a loner. Which was fine with Elise because although she came alive on stage, most people would accurately describe her as fiercely driven, but a natural introvert, she preferred to study the world in the shadows, taking silent notes to be used when she finally got the chance to channel a character.
But being an introvert didn’t translate to embracing loneliness. She was lonely. In fact, she was terribly lonely for love. Although she’d never had a serious relationship, and didn’t necessarily have the time, energy or courage to pursue one now, she yearned for someone to love and love her back, with a constant, aching longing that was surpassed only by her single-minded determination to succeed on Broadway.
Her favorite plays—and the ones for which she was highly praised at Tisch—were all romances: traditional, heartbreaking romances like most of Shakespeare’s oeuvre, of course, but also The Importance of Being Earnest, Cyrano de Bergerac, Blithe Spirit, and Prelude to a Kiss. Elise loved the language used to express love in these plays, almost as much as she loved—and feared—the idea of true love, itself.
Loved it because when it was true it sounded so perfect, so romantic. Feared it because from everything she’d ever read or watched, someone always ended up getting hurt. She yearned for the very thing that scared her, and it made no sense, but maybe that’s just because her experience was so limited.
My opinions of love are all based on fiction, she thought, huffing softly as she stood at a crosswalk, a cold avenue-breeze cutting through her T-shirt and making her shiver. She was hoping to make it through Spring without needing another raincoat. Hers had been stolen from Vic’s one night, and she simply didn’t have the means to purchase another. She rubbed her arms, reminding herself that April had just as many warm days as chilly, and hoping tomorrow would be one of the former.
But wouldn’t it be heaven, mused her romantic side, as she started walking briskly again, to have her hand clasped in someone else’s, someone’s warm and strong fingers laced through hers as he walked her home? Wouldn’t it be lovely for him to fall into bed beside her and hold her until morning when she’d have to get up for the brunch shift at Vic’s? Wouldn’t it be bliss to know that he was in the audience every night, even if the play was a stinkbomb from hell? Wouldn’t it be thrilling to know that when she opened the stage door, he’d be standing there with roses, and tease her by asking for yet another autograph?
She bit her lip, forcing such silly and useless romantic fantasies to the side. Even if she somehow managed to find someone who saw beyond her shyness and religious background, there was no room in her life for love, and that was the truth. Love was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Heck, she couldn’t even afford a spring jacket. And she probably wouldn’t have a part in two weeks because she couldn’t imagine such a bad play would demand additional performances.
Wincing at the state of her life, she quickened her pace, straightened her spine and reminded herself as she always did of how much she’d give up for her dreams: her home and family, friends and boyfriends…she’d dedicated her whole life to the stage and she was too invested to turn back now. Nobody “made it” right away. If you wanted something badly enough, you worked for it. You left your parents and sisters and home and church and took a bus to New York City without looking back. You paid off your loans as best you could and you went without jackets and bus rides to save money. You acted in stinkbombs because it was still a chance to act and if you didn’t take the part, there were one hundred other girls lined up who would. You worked long hours at Vic’s only to show up for rehearsal on fumes. You accepted it when your director said there would be no curtain call because he wanted his farcical play to end on a “low” note, and you certainly didn’t feel sorry for yourself when thousands of other hopeful thespians were leading the exact same life.