Premiere: A Love Story (14 page)

“Please, do tell.”

“I think you came back to get your woman and now that you’re here you’re letting the past creep back in. You’re chickenshit.”

“Is that what you think? Well, thank you, Mr. Relationship Expert.”

“Yes, I do.”

Grady grinned while wiping his mouth and finishing his beer.

“I came back to put on this play and, yes, maybe I wanted to see her, be near her, but that past is still there. What happened is not going away, and I’m starting to think I should have stayed in New York. Maybe I’m hurting her more by being here. She seems like she moved on, she’s fine.”

“She’s made a life for herself, sort of like the life you’ve made for yourself in New York. You two are a fine pair, a shut-off, shut-down, going-through-the motions pair. But she doesn’t know why you ran. You left her hanging, and she doubted herself for a long time. That’s not right, man.”

“Christ, Grady, I know. Do you think I don’t know what I did to her? I couldn’t see any other way and it’s not like you were super helpful, so I’m not sure where all this advice is coming from now. I would never have been enough for her back then. It was a mistake to cross that line.”

“Then fix it. Talk to her, tell her what happened, tell her why you bolted. Get it out there.”

Peter took a deep breath and finished off his beer.

“I’ve tried, but the words sound stupid. ‘I left you because I couldn’t cope with my own shit. You were too much for me.’ Lame, it sounds absurd.”

“She won’t think so. She has nothing right now. For all she knows, she was a quick lay from the hometown girl before you ran off to your new and exciting life. You can’t leave her with that.”

“Shut the hell up. I never treated her that way.”

“Really? Because it didn’t seem like the two of you talked much at all after that night.”

“Christ, this is perfect, Grady. You were all for me leaving her alone that night, remember? She would never be happy in New York, right?”

“Don’t start, we’ve already been over this. I was an asshole. I didn’t want the party to end, still don’t, but it’s time to man up. You’re a different guy now, and you need to get it out, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Or I could work to get this play up and leave her alone. Why would anyone want to deal with all my crap anyway?”

“Beats me.”

Grady bumped him with his shoulder and they both laughed. Grady wasn’t going to push, but he loved them both, and this thing they were doing right now was going to hurt one, or more likely, both of them.

Chapter Fourteen

P
eter woke up in a bad mood. Sleeping in his old house and dealing with his mother was not helping. He needed to find some balance, put some things back into perspective. He spent breakfast talking on the phone with his agent. Alexis would be in Los Angeles for a conference that afternoon and said she would stop by the theater. Peter was feeling a bit more like himself, maybe even a little cocky: Alexis told him his first play had been nominated for a Drama Desk Award. Peter was feeling good. He needed to put this stifling town back where it belonged. He wasn’t that bumbling, lovesick, insecure guy anymore, he thought, as he entered rehearsal.

Twenty minutes later, Sam ran through the door late and exhausted. She hadn’t been sleeping well since Peter arrived back in town. Managing the summer programs along with
Looking In
became too much at times. Today seemed one of those times. Her eyes were itchy, and she had that sick, not enough sleep, feeling. Carmen asked for help with the props for the Christmas scene.
How could she say no to a pregnant woman?

Walking in through the lobby, Sam noticed Peter was two or three rows up from the stage talking to a woman with dark hair. He was smiling and kissed her on the cheek. She sat and crossed her very long legs. Even from a distance Sam could tell she was attractive, and the dress she wore was very urban-sophisticate, sexy.

“Peter, can we look at the scene from yesterday? I’d like you to talk us through your notes. I’m not quite understanding,” Spencer finished his coffee, crumpled the cup, and tossed it in the trash backstage.

Peter hopped up on the stage with teenage Phillip and Sally. Spencer was standing on the edge of the stage. Sam quietly walked toward them.

“Sure, okay, in this scene they don’t have . . . it’s not quite right yet,” Peter said.

“I hear you, but I’m not sure what you’re saying. What’s not right? They’re too . . . comfortable?”

“Yeah, the audience needs to see that she shines, she’s in her element, and Phillip is the background. He never has the space to grow with her there.”

Peter wasn’t sure what he was saying. Sometimes it felt like he was working out his actual life experiences through this damn play. He needed to focus on getting the story right.

“It’s written in the dialogue, but I’m not feeling it in the scene. They’re great friends, but there’s tension. She’s the Queen of Pasadena, and he sometimes feels like her sidekick. Get it?”

Sam stopped before anyone saw her.
She . . . Sally was what? Did he really say the Queen?

“Peter, I’m sorry I’m not following.”

“Okay, in this scene Phillip’s teaching Sally. Well, he’s not teaching her, but they’re practicing the waltz. She has a big dance coming up, and Phillip’s helping her. She, she’s always so damn concerned with being correct, accepted, and well, he is helping her feel the music and be herself.”

The corners of his mouth pulled up.

“Sally has an image in her mind and she’s not always authentic. When she’s with Phillip, she can be . . . real.”

Peter was lost in his words, and everyone was silent. He found himself remembering her laugh that day and the touch of her body as they fumbled through the dance. What he wouldn’t tell his actors was that she eclipsed him. Her energy and her warmth made him forget everything, even himself.

“But,” he continued, pulling back to the present, “she’s still Sally, popular and a little superficial. She’s at home with all of this society business, and it’s exactly what I said, she’s the Queen of Pasadena. Everyone loves her, and she’ll grow up to live this life, she’ll grow into it. We need to see that. She belongs here, and Phillip, he, he knows she outshines him, and he knows he will need to make a life for himself someday. Phillip keeps everything at arm’s length. Sally, Sally needs all of this.”

He opened his arms to encompass the whole scene. The cast looked completely confused because they weren’t sure how they were supposed to project all of that business into a dance scene. Peter stopped when he saw Sam standing a few rows from the stage.

“So the dance should show Sally as the dominant force and Phillip . . . knowing he’ll need to make his own life?”

Spencer tried to make sense of it all, but Peter was clearly distracted.

“We need to show up their differences more?” Spencer asked as Peter broke away from looking at Sam.

“Exactly! They will never work. He wants the real world and can’t wait to get out. She, yeah, she’ll never leave, and she belongs right where she is.”

Peter looked right at Sam and tried once again in vain to sort out why he left.

You bastard!
She seethed.
You
’
re going to take your shit out on poor Sally?

“Excuse me, Peter.”

Sam raised her hand, walking a little closer to the stage.

Spencer, and pretty much everyone else, turned to look at her.

“Isn’t that a really generic take on Sally? I mean, with all due respect, she feels a little more complex than the . . . how did you put it? The Queen of Pasadena.”

Sam was angry and Peter knew it.

“Don’t you think people will see through that type of treatment for what it is: a way to make Phillip look worldly and interesting while Sally will always be remembered as a somewhat pathetic character in a sheltered little world?”

Spencer’s mouth was now open and he looked back up at Peter. Peter didn’t miss a beat and seemed just as pissed.

“Sam, thank you for that commentary, but I wrote Sally, the whole play for that matter, and believe me, my characterization of her is right on. Phillip and Sally are very different and at this point in the play, at this point in her life, she’s in her element. Peter . . . excuse me Phillip,” Peter was struggling to keep his explanation within the confines of the play, “Phillip is anything but worldly. He’s eclipsed by his feelings. She’s not pathetic or a victim. She is where she belongs. In Phillip’s eyes, she is the Queen of . . .”

Sam cut him off and she snapped.

“That’s a whole lot of bullshit. I’m about done, and I’m sure the audience will be too. What, you’ve been back a few weeks and every other scene seems to have a pathetic little Sam . . . Sally prancing around in a fairytale. Like the debutante luncheon scene. You didn’t include the part where I threw up in the bathroom and my mother had to take me home because I was so nervous and insecure. Why wasn’t that in there? I called you as soon as I got home and told you I was never doing that again. This wasn’t a fairy tale for any of us, was it Peter? But I supposed it’s easier to justify Phillip as a self-centered mess if you make Sally a caricature, a queen. Seriously, are you finished? Or are you looking to draw blood?”

“Come on, it’s a play. You’re assuming that Sally is . . .”

Julie peeked out from backstage, and the rest of the cast and crew perked up. Spencer was starting to look nervous.

“Oh, Christ! Who else would she be, Peter? Give us all a little credit here. Instead of dealing with me, you created her so you could act out your issues. Queen of Pasadena, hometown girl . . . that’s easier, right? Phillip really loved Sally, but she was a little too shallow, too attached to her town, and he needed to spread his wings? Really? If the goal was to make yourself feel better through your play, make me, oh, I’m sorry Sally, feel like a superficial airhead. Justify your exit, done. We’re there!”

“Sam, I . . .”

“You know what? Forget it, and leave me the hell alone. Pretend. Write it how you want, but don’t try to convince those of us who were there that this is genuine. Phillip lives in the real world, give me a break. Phillip was a dreamer, and he, I thought he was so much more of a person, of a man, than what I see standing on that stage right now.”

Sam’s voice cracked, and she turned to leave right as tears welled in her eyes.

She would be damned if he was going to see her cry again. This was not professional at all, but she was tired, and she’d had enough. If Peter thought she was a shallow, small-town girl, if that’s why he left, there was nothing she could do about that. She only wanted him to stop, but Sam’s scene in front of his crew had embarrassed him. She could see it, and he hit back.

“Well, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Peter said with a clear edge to his voice.

Sam recognized that tone. She’d seen Peter pissed before. Spencer, who at this point looked like he was watching a juicy soap opera, tried to smile. Sam turned halfway up the house seats and entered complete meltdown.

“I did leave. You . . . egotistical ass!” Sam raged at the top of her voice.

She was always good at projecting her voice, and, boy, this was an exceptional performance.

Peter’s brow knit in confusion.

“Sam, What are you getting so upset about?”

“Pasadena, Pasadena, I did leave. Remember? The Queen set out to Hollywood. She was going to become an actress, and she fell flat on her face. Is that going to be in the play Peter? Does that make me, does that make Sally too . . . real, too human? Is it better to make her some idolized shell of a person? I mean you’re the big playwright, you tell me. You’re such a cliché. Poor brooding Phillip, he was the only one that had issues? Oh, let’s all feel sorry for Phillip because then we will understand why he ran. No one will believe it.”

By this time pretty much every actor and designer was peeking out from the wings as Sam made a complete lunatic out of herself, but she didn’t care. She was fuming. Just who the hell did Peter think he was? She wasn’t a child. She knew damn well what he was doing. He was rewriting history to make his point, to give his story meaning. Explain away why he ran and closed himself off from every feeling he’d ever had. Blame her, this town, put a stereotypical stamp on all of them,
his characters
.

“Sam.”

Peter tried to bring things down a notch before she blew up right in front of his eyes. Part of him was glad she was at least talking, at least mad at him, but she was dissing his play and that wasn’t fair.

“The play is not filled with caricatures. It’s seen through the eyes of one character, Phillip, it’s not necessarily an accurate depiction of what was, it’s how he saw it. I’m sorry if that’s painful.”

“Oh please. Thank you, doctor, I’m clearly losing my mind here because it’s too ‘painful’ for me? Anyone else you want to invite to the party, Peter? Now that your little,” Sam gestured to the woman she had seen him with when she came in, “your little friend’s here, who else? I mean before you show this crap to everyone who knew us growing up.”

Sam walked up toward the gorgeous woman and noticed she was even more stunning up close. She certainly looked like she, unlike Sam, had time to shave her legs this morning.

“Sam,” Peter called.

In retrospect she would recall that she should have simply left, but it was not to be. She swung around for her final act.

“Why did you do this? Why are you here? It wasn’t enough the first time? Why did you prance back in here with your east coast entourage and . . . sorry, Julie.”

“No problem. I’m okay with the entourage reference, Sam. You go right ahead and get it out,” she said, peeking out onstage.

“Who the hell do you think you are? What did I ever do to you, but be your, your friend. I don’t deserve this, hell none of us do, Peter. Grady wasn’t some lothario with a carefree life. What about when Kara was in the hospital and Grady sat by her bedside for a month? If you’re going to put us in your play, why not show the audience our color, the shades of our lives too?”