9
The Time I Swallowed A Frog
TJ
We stop in a grocery store on the way home, going separate ways, a reminder that we’re not a couple shopping together.
Which is fine. Totally fine.
I wanted to meet a guy . . . to date.
I didn’t come to London to meet a guy I’d want to shop for food with. I’ve got no interest in shopping for food with anyone. I didn’t share anything but beer with my buddies back in New York. It was every man and woman for themselves.
And that’s how it’ll have to be with Jude.
When Jude and I are done, each man buying his own basket’s worth of basics, we stop for sandwiches at a grubby corner shop, paying separately.
The opposite of where we’d have gone on a date.
The opposite of how we behaved last night when he paid for me.
Everything is the opposite. Especially this—when we’re back at the flat, he hangs the bright yellow shower curtain, and I fix the sink.
We are just roomies doing chores.
Once we’ve put away the food and the towels, he emails me the pages, and we sit on opposite ends of the couch. “All right. Let’s do this, Mister Rising Star,” I say.
That earns me another smile. “From your mouth to God’s ears,” he says, then he clicks on his tablet.
His mouth tightens at the corners, his eyes turn down, dark, almost like he’s possessed. He transforms into someone else. It’s breathtaking to watch.
“But you’re not real. None of this is even real,” he says, utterly desperate.
“It’s not?” I say as the robot woman, reading the lines to him. I am not an actor, so I don’t try to play the part.
Jude, the scientist, sighs heavily. “Can’t be. It just can’t be.”
“But how do you know what’s real?” I ask.
“How do I know? Because real is this,” he says, clutching his chest, as the stage directions call. “Real is what’s happening here.”
We continue through the scene until . . . oh, shit.
I swallow roughly, sounding like a real robot as I give him the last line of my dialogue. “Tell me if you think this is real,” I say awkwardly, then I wait for him to speak.
Even though the robot is supposed to sashay over to her creator right fucking now. The script calls for a kiss.
Are we doing all the stage directions? A wild hope moves through me—the wish for a stage kiss. Just to help him stay in character. So he can properly prep for his audition.
Want thrums through me, hot and greedy, but terrifying too. If I look up from my phone and see the same desire whipping through him, I’ll lunge, kiss Jude recklessly.
I’d break after only one night in a long year ahead.
I have to stay strong. I will stay strong.
But when I raise my face, he’s not looking at me. He’s lost in thought. “Hmm. It’s not clear if they want me to do the kiss,” he says, studying the pages intently.
“It’s not?” I sound like I swallowed a frog.
“Well, see, I don’t know if they’ve cast the actress. Or if I’ll just be reading lines with the casting director.”
“Do you usually kiss in an audition?” A current of jealousy rips through me.
Which is dumb. Who cares?
“No. So it’s odd they’d leave it in the sides,” he says, and his methodical approach should be a relief. He wasn’t even thinking about kissing me. He was simply analyzing the words.
“Maybe they just want you to know what comes next? They want you to have the feel of the end of the scene. So you know what you’re building toward. Maybe that’s why they left it in—so you can play the scene as you move toward that.”
“Oh!” Jude’s face lights up. “Yes. Duh. That’s so obvious now that you say it, but yes, of course. You’re quite astute.”
“It’s written in the script.” I’m not taking the credit here.
“It is written. But you looked beyond the scene. You interpreted the intentions of the casting director, and you don’t even know them.” He leans forward, his eyes dancing. “That’s the writer in you.”
“Maybe,” I say, trying to make light of it. I don’t know how to take his remark.
“It’s a compliment, TJ,” he adds for clarity. “Truly.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I don’t want to talk more about this. He doesn’t know if I’m a good writer. Besides my work articles, I’ve only written in that travel journal, and he can never see that.
Ever.
Not even when I’m six feet underground.
Jude takes a deep breath. “So, how did I do?”
I’m not a casting director. I don’t know that I can give him the answer he’s seeking. All I can do is speak from the heart. “I believed you.”
“Really?” It sounds like nothing could make him happier than those three words.
“I really did.”
“That’s all I can ask for.” His eyes—it’s like they’re flickering just for me. It’s heady the way he looks at me, but it’s also tempting.
I’ve got to get out of his spotlight. It’s too much. This moment is too close to what I want—art and creativity—hitting my heart in a way that makes me feel . . . seen.
I’m not sure I want him to see me. It’s a relief to turn the light on him instead. “Tell me more about the show,” I say.
As Jude shares the details, I listen intently—because I’m interested and because I’m a little bit selfish.
This could be useful. Maybe someday I’ll write about an actor.
Yes, that’s the trick!