“I changed my mind,” I said, thrusting my own chin out. “I’m allowed.”
He sniffed a short, hard laugh. “Yeah, you are.”
He started to hand me the stack of papers, then froze, his brow furrowed over the crawl of little black X’s in the margins, like an infestation of insects.
“Are rehearsals that boring?”
“They’re not. It’s just doodling.”
“You said you doodle when you’re bor—”
“Give me those, please.”
The hard angles and lines of his expression softened as he handed over the pages. Almost reluctantly. As if he didn’t want to give all those black X’s back to me.
“Night, Willow,” he said softly, and rose to his feet.
“Good night, Isaac,” I said, but he’d already walked away.
Isaac
“What the fuck was that, Marty?” I asked, when the last cast member left for the night. “Smitten? I looked fucking smitten?”
Martin just regarded me placidly. “I’m not going to change how I direct my show,”
he said. “I call it as I see it. But I was hoping…”
“Cut it out with the hoping. Direct the show however you want, but keep your matchmaking bullshit out of it.”
His eyes hardened and he crossed his arms over his chest. “I call it like I see it,” he said again. “If you give it to me, I’m going to incorporate it into the scene.” He took a step toward me. “Nothing you can do about that, but there’s something you can do about her.”
“It’s too late, Marty,” I said, the anger draining out of me. “I’m moving out of Harmony. Whether your talent scouts take me or not.”
“I hope you find whatever you’re looking for when you do. But I also hope you don’t miss what’s right in front of you.” He clapped my shoulder. “It’s never too late. Those two words are the greatest, most powerful killer of hope mankind has ever invented for itself.”
I opened the door to my trailer and found Pops passed out on the couch, a lit cigarette still smoldering in the ashtray on the coffee table. A pile of unpaid bills served as a coaster, stained by beer and whiskey and the remnants of his fast food dinner. If hopelessness had a smell, it was stale beer, grease and an overflowing ashtray.
“It’s not too late to get the fuck out of here,” I muttered.
But instead of packing my shit and heading over to Marty’s place, I stubbed out the lit cigarette and turned out the lights.
The following morning, I poured milk into a bowl of cereal and ate it standing at the kitchen counter. Pops eventually snorted awake and sat up, blinking at me with bleary eyes and scratching the stubble on his chin. “You going to work?”
“I have the day off.”
He sat back on the couch. “You’re taking a day off?”
My body tensed, every muscle and sinew going on high alert. He was in a fighting mood and hadn’t even gotten off the couch yet.
“I’m not taking the day off, Pops,” I said evenly. “I don’t work Tuesdays.”
The body shop I worked at in Braxton wanted to give me full-time, but I alternated working there and helping Marty in the theater. No way in hell Pops needed to know that.
I ate my cereal faster.
“What are you going to do all day? Rehearse that stupid play? Prance around in tights and breeches while spouting off a bunch of bullshit no one understands.”
“Yeah, Pops, that’s exactly what I’m going to do,” I said.