But I let go of that now. Because I am no longer Jill, aspiring New York actress auditioning for her first Broadway role, and he is not Patrick, the man who exudes talent and charisma every second he’s on stage.
He’s Paolo, a mercurial and captivating artist, and my teacher. And right now I am Ava, a twenty-two-year-old painter without a family. I face the audience—nearly 1,600 empty seats and only a few occupied ones, the spotlights from above beaming brightly, the antique gold auditorium with high-flying balconies surrounding us.
He steps behind me. He says not a word. Instead, he breathes out, “hmmm,” as he places his hands on my arms, as if he’s considering Ava, then runs his palms sensuously from my wrists to my shoulders.
“You must let go, Ava. You try too hard to make your paintings perfect. You need to make them you.”
I nod, breathless, speechless, because this man Ava has admired, looked up to, is touching her. He brushes my hair away from my neck, and I lean my head to the side, letting him trace the vein in my neck with his finger. Then, as if I’ve just remembered that I’m a good girl, that I don’t do this, I jerk away.
Because I am, shockingly—me—a good girl.
“I am only here to learn.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “I am teaching you.”
Ava wants to correct him, to tell him he’s not, that he’s crossing lines, even though the crossing of them feels good to this young woman who’s felt far too much of the not-good in life for far too long. Ava’s not ready for this yet. She wheels on him, fire in her eyes, lashing out with the first sung lines in a heated duet.
“You don’t have permission to lay your hands on me.”
He plays the gentleman, giving a gesture of surrender. “Forgive me. I only touch you as your teacher,” he sings softly, but powerfully in that tenor that could melt igloos.
“That’s not teaching.”
“Then find your own way to paint.”
He starts to walk off.
Ava huffs, crosses her arms, looks away, and sings roughly of all the ways this man makes her crazy. He tells her how her brushstrokes are too controlled, her head is too much in the way, she needs to throw her body into the act of painting. And I hate it, and him, because he feels like the one thing that stands between true creativity and me.
I sing an angry lament, a furious plea to the universe to send me elsewhere. But yet, there is no place else for me, nowhere to go. I’ve been left all alone, and all I have is my art, and he’s the only one who can make it better.
Make me better.
I chase him before he leaves the empty classroom. Ava detests aloneness, even though it’s the thing she knows best. He’s nearly off-stage, and I grab his shirt, and he gives me this look—satisfaction and curiosity.
“I see you’ve changed your mind…”
My shoulders fall in resignation of Ava’s reality. I will only succeed with him. “I need you, Professor Paolo.”
“Don’t call me professor.”
“What should I call you?”
“Don’t call me. Kiss me.”
And then he casually runs a strand of my hair in his fingers and lets it fall. I grab him, bestowing a hard, wet kiss on his lips.
Patrick’s lips. Paolo’s lips.
Oh God. He tastes divine. Paolo. Patrick. My teacher. The actor I idolize. They all collide at once—reality, make believe, years of crushing, a moment of pretending. I don’t know if the way I feel right now comes from me or from Ava, but all I know is—without even opening my eyes, without even hearing ‘end scene’—we have a crazy kind of chemistry that can’t be faked.
Then I break the kiss and run offstage where I slam into Alexis Carbone, all bleached blond, bosomy, and pipes like nobody’s business.
I don’t stand a chance.
* * *
“Watch where you’re going next time,” Alexis says in a perfectly sweet soprano, a voice so pure and lovely that it nearly masks what’s underneath. Because—call me crazy—but I’m pretty sure when you say ‘Watch where you’re going’ that you’re not actually looking out for the other person. But I’m still flustered from the kiss to end all kisses so I mutter a quick “sorry” as I try to move past her in the wings.
“Of course you’re sorry. I’m here,” she says with a plastered-on smile, and a haughty tilt of the head.
Her words burn, but while I’m not a doormat, I won’t take her bait. I’ll do what I do well. Pretend. “Why, I have no idea what you could possibly mean. It’s delightful to see you, Alexis,” I say like a Southern belle, then turn quickly for backstage.
I leave because if I stay within her vicinity she might completely ruin my Patrick Carlson buzz, and I need a few moments to relive what just happened on stage, especially since I’m going to replay it tonight when I’m alone in my darkened bedroom and imagining Patrick is with me, as I do nearly every night. Patrick has done so many things to me already, has said all the words I want to hear, has kissed me in all the ways I want to be kissed. He has touched me under the covers in my imaginary life. Now I’ve had a sampling of the real thing, and I can’t bear to let it slip from my fingers so quickly. I press past the dressing rooms, saying a quick goodbye to a stagehand wheeling a dolly in a cramped hallway, then make my way to the stage door, pushing it open into the alleyway that runs along the back of the theater.
Greeted by a snap of cold air, I lean against the brick wall, drop my bag, and run a finger across my lips as if I can reactivate that kiss, recall it back into existence like it’s a hologram. I close my eyes and replay. Patrick’s breath, so soft. The slightest bit of stubble on his jawline. The way he tasted faintly of cinnamon.