“Two, please.”
Female eyes followed as Isaac went to the little station of creamers and stir sticks, and a small smile spread over my lips. Date or non-date, it didn’t suck to have a hot guy sitting across from me.
Not a date, I thought. We’re just sitting.
“Something funny?” Isaac asked, sliding into his sea
t.
“Nothing,” I said, taking the sugar. “Thank you.”
He sipped his coffee and the silence stretched until it itched.
“You take your coffee black?” I asked, a painful crank of the engine to get this conversation going. “I could never. Too strong for me.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure this is exactly what Mr. Ford had in mind when he sent us out here. ‘Hamlet, go find out how Ophelia likes her coffee.’”
Isaac’s lips twitched, then finally smiled and the tight tension between us cracked a little. “Call him Martin or Marty,” he said. “He won’t answer to Mr. Ford.”
“Good to know,” I said. “You’ve worked with him for a lot of shows, right?”
“Five years now.”
“You have a favorite?”
His eyes on me were steady and unblinking. “Oedipus. So far.”
“That’s funny. That’s the only one I’ve seen.” I cleared my throat and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “So, will you really be off-book in three weeks? You carry half the play.”
“It’s a lot,” he said. “I have help though.”
“Yeah?” It was the first time he’d offered something of himself.
“Yeah. Kid who lives next door to me helps me run lines.”
“Lucky you.”
“Yeah,” Isaac said. “I’m really lucky.” He put a subtle filter over the last word, tingeing it with bitterness but not enough to invite questions.
The conversation sputtered out again. After a few excruciating moments, I reached for my bag. “I brought my script. Not sure what Mr. Ford… I mean, Martin, had in mind, but we can run lines now if you want. I don’t want you to lose the day.”
Isaac crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Why do you keep apologizing?”
I bristled. “I’m not apologizing.”
“You are.”
“Well, it’s not like you’re super thrilled to be here so—”
“I am,” he said. “I mean, I’m here. Now we can run lines or whatever you want to do. But stop worrying if this is a waste of my time. It’s not.”
I folded my arms and leaned over the table at him. “You know, it would be a helluva lot easier to not feel like you’re here against your will if you didn’t act like you’re here against your will.”
He pursed his lips. “I don’t make a lot of conversation.”
“I can see that,” I said. “But I need this assignment, or whatever you call it, to work. You have this whole acting thing down, but I’m scared shitless. I need all the help I can get.”
The front legs of his chair came down. “You don’t.”
I blinked. “Sorry?”