Playing With Her Heart (10 page)

I nearly spit out my
beer. But then I realize I’m not the only one in the cast with, you
know, eyes. Nor am I the only one who is possessed with feminine
hormones.

“Ten million,” I
admit. “Is he coming tonight?”

“I heard he was on
his way. He’s carved by the Gods or something, don’t you think?”

“Yeah.”

“I worked with him in
South Pacific
two
years ago, and everyone was in love with him. You should have seen
our dressing room, and heard all the times we talked about how
beautiful he is. Pathetic. Like some sort of shrine made by lovesick
teenagers. That’s what he does to women. He was dating Christine in
Phantom
at the time, but we were still practically clinging to
him.”

“Is he still with
her?”

“Not that I know of.
But he’s a freak of nature. A dancing, singing, acting gorgeous
straight man who’s also the nicest guy around? He’ll be taken by
opening night if he’s not already dating a supermodel.”

“Yeah, he’s a rare
find, isn’t he?” I say coolly, but inside my nerves are
unraveling. I need to make a move as soon as he arrives tonight. Then
it hits me—what if Shelby has her sights set on him? I don’t want
to be the kind of woman who goes after a guy her friend is eyeing.
Even though I hardly know Shelby, I have a rule—once we sit down
for drinks we’re buds, and I don’t violate the girl code. I’m
practically crossing all my fingers and toes as I ask the next
question. “Are you going to pursue something with him?”

Shelby laughs, and
shakes her head. “No, but if you like him you should go for it. I
just like to window shop. I’m taken.” She waggles her hand,
showing me a gumball-sized sparkly rhinestone ring. “It’s not a
real diamond, obviously. More a promise of a ring to come. I’m
involved with someone. He’s an actor too.”

“Oh cool. What’s he
in?”

She sighs, and her
brown eyes look sad. “Nothing right now. He just moved to Los
Angeles since pilot season is starting. He’s hoping to land
something soon. He’s working as a personal trainer in between
auditions.”

“What about you. Are
you acting full-time?”

“I used to moonlight
as a hair stylist. I worked at one of the blowout salons for a while,
and did a ton of updos for weddings. I loved it. I’ve been doing hair
for fun my whole life. But now I mostly do voice-overs to support
myself and then this kind of gig, of course, when I land one.”

“That’s so cool
that you can do hair, though. I grew up with two brothers and my mom
worked all the time, so my French braids are pretty much the worst
ever. We’re talking lumpy, bumpy, and strands out of place
everywhere.”

“You’d look
gorgeous with a French braid, with that perfect long blond hair. I’m
going to do yours next time we’re bored at rehearsal because mine
are epic. I did hair for Maria when I was a nun in
The Sound of
Music
back in high school.”

“Nun and hair stylist
for the school production?”

“Yup. Isn’t that
crazy? But we were killing time while the Von Trapp kids were
rehearsing so I did Maria’s hair, and voila. As soon as the
director saw my handiwork he had me styling Maria’s hair every
night for the week-long production.”

“Maybe Davis will
enlist you then for your mad hair skills.”

She pulls back and
gives me a you-can’t-be-serious look, and for a moment I think I
must have offended her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you
would have to work double.”

“No. That’s not
it,” she says with a laugh. “Do you really call him Davis? No one
calls him Davis, except for Alexis. He’s Milo to everyone.”

Red starts to rush to
my cheeks. “I didn’t mean anything by that. I just…” But my
voice trails off because I don’t know what to say about why I call
him Davis. I call him that because he asked me to. Because that’s
who he is to me.

“I’d say to go for
it with him, because he’s got that whole tall, dark and broody
thing going on, but he doesn’t date actresses.”

My head swims from
hearing this the second time today. Is this some commonly known fact
about him? “Oh yeah?” I ask, trying to sound as disinterested as
I want to be.

“Yeah, ever since
Madeline Blaine—” then she cuts herself off. “Hey beautiful!”
She catches someone’s eye and waves. I follow her gaze, and my
heart leaps to my throat when I see him. Patrick walks over to us and
wraps Shelby in a big hug. When he lets go of her, it’s my turn to be the recipient of a Patrick hug. I wish I
could say it happens in slow motion, and he lingers on me, and that
it feels like coming home—this first real contact of ours. But all
I know is the embrace ends far too quickly.

“Hey Jill! How are
you?”

“Great!”

The bartender scurries
over, and I can only surmise that he recognizes Patrick. “What can
I get for you, sir?”

“I’ll have what
they’re having,” he says, placing one hand on my shoulder and one
on Shelby’s, as if the three of us are long-time friends now.
Shelby was right—he is the nicest guy.

As he waits for his
beer, the three of us chat about today’s rehearsal, then Shelby
excuses herself for the restroom, leaning in to whisper to me, “Go
for it.”

It’s now or never, I
reason, and it’s just Patrick and me at the wooden bar. One
Republic’s “Feel Again” plays on the bar’s stereo system, and
I will forever remember this as the soundtrack to the moment I’ve
waited for, for so long.

“I love this song,”
I say, as I begin. “We should add it to our demo.”

He snaps his fingers in
approval, then launches into the song, singing to me. His voice is
the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard, like a dream, and it
gives me chills. He drowns out One Republic in seconds and Patrick is
all I hear, every note, every word, making my heart beat wildly.

The lyrics feel so
true, and he’s not dismissing a song I love. Instead, he’s
inviting me into it, gesturing for me to join him. I layer on the
next words and here we are again, meant to be. Clearly, we are meant
to sing together, and perhaps, to be together. Our voices mesh, even
in the bar with the sounds of glasses being washed and beer being
poured and orders being taken.

Then, meeting my eyes,
we sing the chorus together.

“With you I feel
again…”

When we stop, he smiles
at me. It’s such a magnetic smile, sweet and beguiling at the same
time. Six years from afar have led me to now. I take a deep breath
and go for it. “The flowers I sent you after
Guys and Dolls
?
I hope you’re not seeing anyone, because if you’re not, I’m
seizing the moment and thinking maybe six years later, I could try
again and ask you to have coffee with me.”

“A date?” He asks
cautiously, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes, as if he likes the
idea. It’s enough for me to keep going.

“Yes.”

He steps closer, takes
my hands as if he’s some sort of old-fashioned gentleman come to
court me. Oh, how I love that idea. Court me, take me, romance me. He
looks at me softly, and I’m halfway to heaven as he gives the only
answer I’ve ever wanted. “I would love to go on a date with you,
Jill.”

Then there’s a pause,
and I wait nervously for him to fill it.

“
But
…”

That word punches me in
the chest with its three awful letters, and I wait for the rest of
rejection.

“I have a rule about
dating co-workers during the delicate stage of a show’s rehearsal,
because we all want to make sure the show is the best it can be.
Let’s use this time to get to know each other as friends. Learn if
we can hang out together as well as we sing together.”

“Yes,” I say and
we’re still holding hands, so I squeeze back, and it feels good.
Warm and friendly.

“Why don’t we have
coffee this weekend? Maybe even Sunday afternoon?”

Honestly, he doesn’t
even have to finish the sentence. He could be taking me to see a
revival of
Cats
at three in the morning. I can’t stand that
show, but I’d say yes.

“Yes.”

“So it’s
not-a-date, then,” he says in a playful voice as Shelby returns.

“How are you two
doing?”

“Fantastic,”
Patrick says then winks at me, and like that, my day has moved from
utterly confusing to thoroughly wonderful.

Then, my skirt is
soaked. “What the…?”

I turn around to see
Alexis has crashed into me, and the beer she was holding is now
spreading in a puddle across my clothes.

“Oh dear, I’m so
sorry,” she starts, feigning contrition. Then her tone turns
dismissive. “Whatever your name is.”

“It’s Jill, and you
just spilled your beer all over me,” I say, annoyed.

She narrows her eyes
and looks down her nose at me. “I said I was sorry. You don’t
have to be snotty.”

I hold up my hands. “I
wasn’t snotty. I’m just covered in hops now.”

Patrick hands me a
napkin, ever the knight in shining armor. I try to blot up the mess,
but it’s all over me.

“Excuse me,” I say,
and head for the bathroom because I’d rather not paw at my skirt in
front of everyone. I rub the cloth napkin against my clothes, but I’m
fighting a losing battle. Even my tights are wet. “This sucks,” I
mutter.

Someone opens the door.
I look up to see Alexis stumble into the bathroom, her crystal blue
eyes steely and cold. “You.” She points a finger at me, and I
want to smack her, and I want to smack Davis too for telling her she
was the only one. “Whatever your name is. This isn’t going to be
some
All About Eve
situation here.” I can smell the beer on
her breath.

“I never implied it
would be.”

She snorts. “Oh
right. Oh sure. I know your type. You want my part. I’ll be
watching you, and I won’t be the only one. If I even think for one
second that you’re trying to pull something on me, your career will
be over like that.”

She snaps a finger. The
gesture is so over-the-top. Oh, that’s it. That does it. The gloves
are off. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Alexis. I’m not sure if
you got the memo, but take a look around. There aren’t any hidden
cameras and we’re not actually on a reality show where you need to
say and do annoying things like that.” I lean in a bit closer so
she knows I’m serious. “So why don’t you stop focusing on me,
and focus on the job you were hired to do instead?”

I give her a wink, turn
on my heel and leave her standing there with her mouth open while I
enjoy a small victory from getting the last word in. A victory that
feels entirely Pyrrhic when I have to say goodbye to Patrick and
Shelby since my clothes are wet.

Davis

My sister takes a sip
of the white wine she’s ordered. She nods approvingly at the waiter
holding the bottle. He pours more into her glass and then tips the
bottle towards me. I decline with a curt wave. I’m not in the mood
tonight.

He bows and walks off.

Michele stares hard
then imitates me, adopting a frown and then a standoffish little
shrug that mirrors mine.

“Are we going there
again?”

“Well, you’ve
barely said a word.”

“We just got here
five minutes ago.”

“Well, that’s five
minutes of talking we could have done.”

“You talk all day
long for your job. Don’t you ever want to
not
talk?”

“Surprisingly, I
actually like talking. And I thought you talked too? Oh wait, you
tell people what to do,” she says, then flashes me the biggest
just
kidding
smile in the world, that makes it nearly impossible for
me to stay annoyed with her. Because, honestly, how can I stay
annoyed with my little sister?

“But isn’t that
what you do, too, with all the little pills you prescribe?” I joke,
giving it right back to her since this is what Michele and I do. We
needle each other, poke, prod and get under the other’s skin.

“Touché.”

I take a drink of my
water as Michele savors another swallow of her wine. She rolls her
eyes in that appreciative way TV chefs have when they taste something
delicious. “This is divine,” she says as she holds up the glass.
“So what’s with the whole enigmatic, broody thing you have going
on today? Crap day at rehearsal?”

I shrug, but I don’t
want to get into the details of what happened in the stairwell this
morning. Details I can’t get out of my mind. “It was fine.”

We’re at a
too-cool-for-words restaurant on Canal Street, not far from my loft.
This place is called The Cutlery Drawer and there’s not a matching
utensil in the place. The tables are all black lacquer, the floor is
charcoal gray tile and the utensils are a strange mixed-up mess. My
sister picked it. I think it’s more fitting for a nightclub, but
this is her hobby. She spends her days prescribing pharmaceuticals
for all sorts of mental health issues and her nights researching the
newest eateries in Manhattan for us to check out.

She narrows her dark
brown eyes and leans across the table. “I don’t believe you,
Davis.”

“You don’t believe
that I had a fine day at rehearsal?”

“I know you. When you
say
fine
it means shitty. Something’s bothering you.”

“I swear, some days I
wish you weren’t a genius shrink at such a young age.”

She raises an eyebrow.
“I was right then.”

I say nothing.

She softens her tone.
“C’mon, Davis. What is it? I hate to see you all wound up.”

“It’s nothing,” I
huff out, but we’re past the point of her believing me. “I don’t
want to talk about me. Is Robert still giving you trouble?”

She waves a hand in the
air dismissively at the mention of the jerk she went out with last
year that cheated on her and then tried to grovel his way back into
her heart. He kept showing up on the stoop of her building night
after night, bearing gifts of apology: boxes of chocolate and red
roses that all lined the trash can the next day. When she finally
told me what he’d been doing, I was there the next night on the
stoop to greet him, and make it clear he was never to come around
again. “It’s over. It’s totally over. I told you. I haven’t
even heard from him in ages.”