The last time I tried to take a life-changing role, I put my entire life in disarray. Sure, it ended well. But my life needed changing.
Right now, everything is perfect. I can't mess it up.
Luke pulls away, his big, brown eyes still on mine. He smiles, his whole face lighting up. "I got you something," he says. He goes into the bedroom and returns with an oversized hot pink gift bag.
He moves closer to me again, until his body is flat against mine. God, he feels so good, so hard and safe. I wrap my arms around him again, savoring the feel of him again. He smells good, not like my honey shampoo but like Luke.
"Go on," he says, handing me the hot pink bag.
I tear out the purple paper decorating the bag and reach inside. I feel something slick and thin. It's a poster. One of those matte posters pasted on cardboard.
What the hell?
I pull it out of the bag and my jaw drops. It's a mock-up. The poster for the original Broadway run of A Streetcar Named Desire--a silhouette of a debutante against a gorgeous red background--with my name replacing the original Blanche.
My heart pounds in my chest. My mouth goes dry. Even my lungs feel empty. It's a mock-up of the poster with my name. This could be real. I could be on Broadway. In a fucking classic. I could be the star.
Luke looks at me, his eyes wide with delight. "You like it?"
I nod stupidly. He really wants me to do it. Maybe I should be annoyed--he's trying to convince me despite his earlier promise--but I'm not. I love it.
He wants me to do this. He's willing to do the work.
Maybe... if we're both willing to work at it. Maybe we can get through six months.
"Ally, if you don't say anything I'm going to think you hate it."
"I love it," I say.
"Really?" His eyes light up again. He's so excited for me. "So will you take the part?"
"It's such a long time," I say.
"We can do it."
"I'm not even sure I can survive six months in New York alone. I'm not that far along in recovery."
"You've been doing amazing with your recovery stuff."
I shake my head. New York City is the land of temptation. There's a trigger food on every fucking block. I've been in recovery for my bulimia for almost two years now, but I've had help. "I don't know if I can do it without you."
He slides his hand along my cheek. "It's going to be difficult, but we'll get through it."
"But what if we can't? I'm not willing to risk this relationship. Not even for Broadway."
"Trust me," he says. "I'd die before I let something happen to this relationship. You're everything to me. Everything that matters." He brushes my hair behind my ears. "You look so excited. You want to take the part, don't you?"
"Yeah."
"So do it. I want you to do whatever will make you happy."
I nod, filling with excitement. My head is bursting with visions of this--my name on the marquee, standing on stage to a standing ovation, Luke visiting me in my tiny little New York apartment.
But I can't shake some other images--lonely nights, missed calls, ignored texts, the two of us growing apart.
"Okay," I say. "I'll do it. I'll take it."
But I still feel like it's an enormous risk, like this might be the very thing that takes our nearly perfect relationship and burns it to the ground.