30. Micah
30
MICAH
I’m lying in bed, thinking about the play and how much joy I got out of it, how alive and accomplished it made me feel. Would I be able to do something like that long-term? Give up auditioning for acting roles and work in theater instead, in any capacity, from costume to production crew?
I sigh. It’s where I started eight years ago, with few opportunities around here, and it wasn’t enough. But maybe I’d have more prospects in LA and still be able to keep my job at the restaurant. At least with the money from the sale of the house and boat, I’ll have more wiggle room. I roll over and bury my head in my pillow as an icy, thorny feeling jabs at my chest. When all is said and done, I will have nothing left of my grandfather—or John—except my memories, and that will have to do.
The sharp trill of my cell phone startles me. It’s my agent.
My gut churns as I reach for it. Just because I thought the audition went well means nothing. I’ve been in this position dozens of times before. I brace myself for bad news. “Hey, Ken.”
“Are you sitting down?” he asks, then blurts, “You got it! You’ve officially been offered a limited role in Cold Blade .”
I practically spring out of bed as my heart pounds. “No fucking way!”
“The cast has a call time in a couple of weeks, so you need to get your ass home.”
It’s all familiar by now—meeting the other actors and crew, setting up the scene, and rehearsing the lines, no matter how few there are—but this time, it feels different. It weighs more because it’s a popular show and will look amazing on my résumé.
“Guess it’s a good thing this house is closing soon.”
“Congratulations. Looks like everything is finally lining up for you.”
I smile blandly because the well-wishes don’t quite land. “Thanks.”
I get dressed, then root around the pantry for food but come up short. So I head into town for breakfast. The weather is perfect, the sky a vivid blue, and I feel—dare I say it—proud of myself for killing it in my audition.
“Hey there, handsome,” June says as I find a stool at the counter. “I enjoyed the play the other day.”
“Thank you.” I smile, but my stomach quivers when I imagine John’s reaction to hearing the good news from LA.
June takes my order, then turns over a mug and fills it with steaming coffee. I doctor it with cream and sugar and enjoy my first few sips.
As I dig into my pancakes, I feel someone sit beside me.
“I’ll have the same,” Beth says to June. “But make them blueberry.”
“Good morning,” I say as she flips her cup and June pours the coffee. She sips while I check emails on my phone from the production company.
After several seconds of silence, Beth leans forward to catch my eye. “Seems you got lots on your mind.”
“I definitely do.” I almost tell her I got cast in a popular show, but John needs to hear it first. Instead, my voice wobbles as I throw out, “My grandfather’s house sold, so I’ll be hitting the road soon.”
She smiles. “Dina told me the news. Rocco is a good man, and I’m sure he’ll make good use of the property.”
It feels like a ball of jagged ice is trapped in my throat. I didn’t think I’d feel this way—so emotional, so forlorn about leaving a place I was never sure about to begin with.
We make small talk as we eat and sip from our second cups. June is too busy to say much else to either of us, but I can’t help wondering if it’s purposeful, a protective thing regarding her brother. But that’s ridiculous. We’ve always been friendly. I consider her family. Always will, even after the divorce.
As we pay our bills, Beth glances at me. “Suppose this is it, then.”
“Seems so,” I admit. Though I might see her again at the bar, I won’t have much reason to shop in town again. “Guess you were right about me and about…the sun and ocean.”
“I don’t enjoy being right, you know. Not when it involves something like this.” She smiles sadly. “Just remember that you’ll always belong. To us and to him.”
Fucking hell, Beth. Way to muddy my emotions further.
We say our goodbyes to June, and then I hold open the door for Beth. We head in opposite directions, me for groceries to tide me over for a few days and her to the shop.
It’s a quick trip, and with two bags in hand, I find a bench and inhale the salty sea air, attempting to reconcile my conflicting emotions.
I lift my phone and text John. I got the part.
Congratulations!
Thanks. I’m actually glad not to hear the stiffness in his voice, though I know he’s genuinely happy for me.
Good timing, too, since you sold the house. Suppose this means you’ll be heading out?
I swallow thickly. In a few days.
You’ll keep me updated about how it goes? And about the divorce too?
Yeah, sure.
What about the boat?
Good question. Next on my list. Gonna ask around.
Good luck.
I’m so lost in thought I barely register Mr. Goodson sitting down and playing his ukulele. I acknowledge him with a nod, then relax and listen for a while, thinking back to our conversation when I first arrived in town, the better part of two months ago.
“Being married that long means you’ve both evolved into many different versions of yourselves. You’ll grieve who they were a million times over, but the key is to embrace who they’ve become.”
John and I have undoubtedly evolved apart and, in a sense, even together.
When he finishes the final stanza, I stand.
“That was lovely. See you later, Mr. Goodson,” I say, though that’s unlikely.
“All is not lost, young man,” he declares with as much confidence as he did that day.
I stare at him. “What do you mean?”
“I can see the pain written all over your face.”
“I…well, no. I just have a lot going on right now.”
He scrutinizes me for a long moment, and I wonder why I can’t just tell him the truth.
“I assume you’re leaving, aren’t’cha?”
That’s when I realize he’s privy to town gossip as well, must be hearing all the goings-on right from this very bench.
“Yes, sir. I am. And though I’m happy about my future opportunities, I feel conflicted about them too.”
“Always remember your roots.” He winks. “Good luck to you, young man.”
“I, um…thanks.”
As I walk away, I suddenly remember the rest of our conversation that day.
“Real love is eternal. It keeps you rooted even when you’re split apart.”
I deposit my groceries in the pantry before heading back to my car. Once I park at the dock, I walk toward the warehouse.
The same man wearing the Sleepy Slip storage logo on his shirt approaches me. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you know anyone willing to take my grandfather’s boat off my hands.” I look away from his probing eyes. “I live in LA.”
He adjusts the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “I can ask around and keep an eye out. Plenty looking for boats around here. Not sure what you’ll get for her, though.”
“Yeah, I figured. But I did my best to clean her up and give her a good polish.”
He takes off his ball cap, scrubs his scalp, then flips it backward. “That’ll help.”
“Great. I’ll be leaving town in a few days and would like to rent storage for the boat again. Until she sells. So how about I give you my contact information?”
We trade information, and soon enough, I’m on my way back to my car. That’s when I see a familiar woman helping a man with a cane down the dock. When I realize who it is, I jog to catch up to them.
“Good to see you, Cap.”
He stiffens as he turns to look at me. He looks ill, and one side of his face is drooping from the effects of the stroke, which likely makes it hard to form words. “You…too…Micah.”
His daughter looks wary as she grips his arm. “He was determined to come here today.”
“Stubborn, huh?” I tease. “Can’t say I blame you.”
“Don’t want…to waste more time…staring at four walls…” He’s winded by the time he gets out the sentence, so I just smile and nod.
“Need any help?” I ask.
“All…good,” he says, and I know better than to try anyway. Instead, I speed ahead to hold the door open as she walks him to the bait shop and they step inside. Before the door shuts, I take stock of the supplies on the shelves, the bulletin board to share town news, and the peeling paint inside and out. As if I’m taking a snapshot of this moment, though I’ll undoubtedly be back again before I leave town.
I stand by my statement that some things are better left in their original condition. Because change is hard and nostalgia beckons the soul. Besides, there’s no telling what’ll happen in six months’ time for any of us.