Jill
As I head for the subway, I check my phone out of habit, an instinct that won’t die, a hope for good news. But there are no missed calls from my agent, so I try to review my to-do list along the way, ticking off the emails I need to send to the ladies in my running group, as well as the new training exercises I’ll put together for them as they prep for an upcoming breast cancer awareness 10K. Now that Crash the Moon is, sadly, in my rearview mirror, I suppose I’ll devote more time to coaching runners, maybe find some gals to help train for marathons and other races.
Besides, there will be other auditions, other shows…right?
I glance at the screen one more time as I head down the stairs into the busy Forty-Second Street station, pushing past hordes of rush hour New Yorkers. I reach the turnstile and am about to swipe my Metro Card through when I stop. There’s a poster advertising The King and I on the dirty, sooty wall on the other side. That’s the show playing in a limited run right now at the St. James, and I can’t help but feel a pang of longing. This is the exit I wish I were making every night at six-thirty. The one that would take me to that theater, where I’d be lucky enough to enter through the stage door, then drop my purse on the floor of a dressing room, and do my makeup in front of a mirror adorned with na**d lightbulbs.
I’m not ready to wedge myself onto a crowded train, wrap my arm around a pole and head home. Tomorrow, I’ll be fine. Tomorrow, I’ll focus on what’s next. But right now, I want to walk past the theater one more time, to say goodbye to it, then move on to the next possibility.
“C’mon, we’re trying to get through,” someone mutters from behind me, and that’s my cue.
I walk away from the turnstiles and head above ground, joining the sea of people pouring out into the theater district.
It is dark now. Evening has fallen, and the lights on the St. James are lit up, a beacon that draws in young and old, tourists and residents who want to suspend disbelief for a show. I gaze at the marquee, bright as the sun against the night sky, and it’s such a perfect sight that it stills my heart every time. I have loved the theater fiercely and deeply for my entire life, both as a spectator and as an actress.
“Someday,” I whisper.
I turn to leave and I notice a man walking toward me, dressed in jeans, a button-down shirt that fits him well, neat and tailored and tucked in, hiding what I suspect is a perfectly flat set of abs. I consider myself something of an expert on abs, though that may simply be due to the screen saver on my laptop. My friend Ellie set it up for me. She made a collage from her Pinterest collection of beautiful carved men.
As for this guy, I can’t see his abs, obviously, since he’s wearing a shirt. But he looks familiar, and as I try to put the pieces together—the trim clothes, the strong jawline, the thick brown hair, and blue eyes so dark they’re nearly the color of midnight—I realize, he’s the director.
Davis Milo.
Fuck. I can’t think about his abs. I can’t appraise his body. I can’t look at him the same way I look at the men on my laptop. I must delete all tawdry thoughts from my brain.
Besides, I could barely see him in the seats with the stage lights blaring, but I can see him now, and he has the most intense look on his face as he practically pounds out a number on his cell phone. I watch him walking toward me, his head down, bent over his phone, and wonder if I should say hi, if he’d remember me from the audition. I didn’t interact with him much, but he’s legend, and he has the Midas Touch and he’s barely thirty years old. With a litany of hit shows on his resume, he’s known for impeccable taste and for the best eye in New York City. He’s discovered so many stars, but he rarely takes credit publicly. His acceptance speeches are gracious and generous, with credit always given to others. To top it off, he’s heart-stoppingly handsome and he has this brooding sense about him whenever I see his pictures. As if he rarely cracks a smile, so when he does you know it must be special.
A strange sort of awkwardness sweeps over me. I don’t know what to do or say in front of this man—if I should act friendly, or pretend I don’t see him. He’s the director—he might as well be called the Decider. My hands feel cold and clammy.
“I’m looking for M. J. Kim,” I hear him say, and I stop in my tracks. That’s my agent’s name.
I say something. I’m not sure if it’s a word or a squeak or a bark that comes out of my mouth. Davis looks up and, as if it’s occurring in slow motion, a grin forms on his lips. They’re nice lips. Soft and full, and utterly kissable.
From an empirical point of view, of course.
“Hi,” he says, and I think it’s both to me and to my agent on the phone. I smile. Dumbly. Should I keep moving? Walk around him? But my damn boots are glued to the ground because every muscle in my body is in a state of coiled tension. Is he calling my agent at six in the evening with good news or bad news?
“Kim, it’s Milo,” he says in a commanding voice, a deep, rich voice, and I wonder if he’s ever performed or sung. “I’m standing on Forty-Fourth street where I just bumped into the actress I want to cast in the chorus, but more importantly, as the understudy for my lead.”
Jet fuel ignites in me, and I take off for the moon.
I clasp a hand over my mouth, my eyes widen and then I am grabbing Davis Milo and hugging him hard. I pull him against me, and his phone clatters to the ground, and I hear my agent say ‘Hello, hello, hello,’ but I don’t care, because Davis Milo has given me my biggest f**king dream ever—and it’s a double whammy of amazingness. Not only have I booked my first Broadway show, I’ll have the chance to act with the man I’ve been in love with since the summer I turned seventeen—the worst year of my life that ended in the best way—when I saw Patrick Carlson on stage, and fell into a pure love, a perfect love, the way love should be.