CHAPTER ONE #2
He spotted her car and came bounding toward it, his yellow camp shirt wrinkled and flecked with what looked suspiciously like glitter and dirt.
His blond hair stuck up in all directions, and a strip of blue painter’s tape clung to his elbow like a badge of honor.
He swung open the back door and flopped into the seat, his backpack thudding to the floor.
“Hi, Mom. How’d your audition go today?” he asked, breathless, cheeks flushed from a day in the sun. Ashley reached into her oversized handbag and passed a juice box and a bag of pretzels to him.
“Ah, this one wasn’t for me,” Ashley responded. “But I did get an interesting call from your Aunt Dani.” She told him about Dani’s offer, emphasizing all the fun he could have on Jonathon Island. “What do you think?”
“Sounds better than robot camp!” That was the latest weeklong activity Ashley had lined up to occupy Benny. She had charged the tuition to her Visa card. Or was it her Discover? She couldn’t keep them straight anymore.
“Then I’ll call your Aunt Dani tomorrow. I’ll list our house on Airbnb tonight, and we’ll start packing!” Ashley couldn’t believe the excitement she heard in her own voice. Maybe this was the fresh start they both needed.
“Um, Mom. Are we…poor now?”
Ashley looked up, startled. “What? No. Of course not. Why would you even think that?”
He shrugged, chewing the inside of his cheek. “We haven’t done pizza Fridays in ages. And we haven’t gotten groceries from Whole Foods in forever. And you told me not to grow out of my sneakers, because we can’t ‘afford replacements every other week like we’re made of money.’”
She forced a laugh, light and airy, like this was all part of some elaborate game. “Benny, poor people don’t have oat milk and PlayStation subscriptions. We’re fine.”
But he didn’t look convinced. He sat quietly the rest of the ride home, watching the city blur past his window, and didn’t say a word as they turned onto their street—a cozy one, lined with weathered sidewalks and chain-link fences.
Their house sat near the end of the block, a small two-bedroom with peeling shutters and a porch swing that creaked when the wind blew.
Inside, it was tastefully decorated, if modest. Books were stacked in tidy towers, and cheerful throw pillows filled their well-loved sofa.
Photos of Benny from birth until now covered the walls.
It wasn’t in the most upscale part of town, but it was safe, familiar.
It was theirs. Well, theirs and the bank’s.
Benny slipped off his sneakers in the entryway and headed straight to his room without a word.
She watched him go, her heart catching. A few minutes later, she heard drawers opening and closing and the soft thump of his suitcase hitting the bed.
She hadn’t been sure how he would feel about Dani’s proposal, but he seemed to be completely sold.
Later that night, after he’d gone to bed, she stayed up staring at her bank statement, trying to remember when their lives had started shrinking.
Fewer takeout nights. Canceled streaming services.
A “temporary pause” on club soccer. She’d even resorted to googling “easy ways to make extra money online” as she began to consider all the things Benny would need to start the new school year. And still she was coming up short.
She hated that he’d noticed. Hated more that she couldn’t completely lie. Maybe they weren’t poor, but they weren’t secure either. Not even close. And she’d spent her whole adult life crafting the illusion that she was exactly that—put together, in control, thriving.
There was nothing neat or glamorous about desperation.
Nathan Carter sat in the leather chair across from Miranda Silver’s sleek glass desk, the Manhattan skyline spread out behind her like a silent jury.
“You’re just not relevant anymore, Nathan.”
Miranda, his agent of the past eleven years, didn’t flinch when she said it. She leaned back, temple resting against her manicured fingers, her tone cool but not cruel. “Theaters want names that trend. Producers want shows that sell. You’ve got talent, but that isn’t the currency it used to be.”
He tried to laugh, but it snagged in his throat. “I’ve won Tony awards for acting and writing. So what exactly is the currency now?”
“TikTok views. Branding tie-ins. American attention spans have shrunk, and you’ve got to do something flashy to draw them in. You’ve got to pivot.”
“Pivot to what? A jukebox musical about boy bands? A stage adaptation of some video game? That isn’t theater. Not the kind that matters. I want to make something honest. Something that tells the truth.” His voice had sharpened, filling the glass-and-steel office with too much rawness.
Miranda’s expression softened, but only a little. “Nathan, I know your heart. I do. But that’s exactly what producers mean when they call you difficult. You dig in. You make them nervous. You forget that art also has to sell tickets.”
He pushed back in the chair, the leather squeaking. Difficult. The word clung to him like a bad review. He’d always believed uncompromising meant principled. To hear that turned against him now felt like a verdict.
He swallowed hard, stood, and forced a tight smile. “Thanks for your time.”
Miranda sighed as he left, already reaching for the next folder.
Nathan exited her office, right near the corner of Broadway and Eighth Avenue.
The flashing marquees blinked up and down the block, flanked by playbill-wielding tourists.
He pushed north and west, away from the crush of Broadway, letting the city surge and fade around him.
Twenty blocks later, Chelsea opened up to him with its tree-lined side streets and its glass towers glistening in the afternoon sun.
By the time he reached his building, the chaos had thinned to dog walkers tugging labradoodles and couples carrying brown paper bags of groceries.
The doorman tipped his cap as he held the door for Nathan, and the marble lobby shrouded him in silence.
An elevator whisked him upward, depositing him in a hushed hallway that smelled faintly of polish and money.
Inside, his apartment gleamed—clean, curated, impersonal.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a million-dollar view of the Manhattan skyline.
Tall buildings glowed. Once, that view had thrilled him.
Today, it looked cold and distant, like a stage set he wasn’t invited to anymore.
He wandered into the kitchen and popped a pod into his fancy coffee maker.
The smell of the grounds had once meant creative fuel.
Now it reminded him of exhaustion. He checked the calendar on his phone: empty.
Then his eyes drifted to his text messages. One stood out. He had opened it nearly a month ago, dismissed it without responding, but for some reason, he hadn’t deleted it.
Greg Whitmore.
He’d met Greg as an undergrad at Michigan, and the two had stayed loosely connected through workshops and mutual projects over the years.
Greg had always gravitated toward meaningful, grassroots work, while Nathan had gone after prestige—until the prestige had stopped meaning something.
Greg had reached out nearly a month ago, inviting Nathan to serve as artist-in-residence for a small summer theater program in northern Michigan. Jonathon Island.
Nathan had heard of it, of course—how could he not have?
That was where Ashley Sullivan was from.
She used to talk about the island constantly when they dated in college, painting it in watercolor memories: hydrangeas in the summer, fudge on every corner, bicycles instead of cars, porches that creaked in rhythm with the lake breeze.
It sounded idyllic, but also unreal—like a living postcard.
That familiarity was part of why Nathan hadn’t responded. The idea felt too small. Too removed from the world he lived in now. Too connected to a chapter of his life he wasn’t sure he wanted to reopen.
Now, in the stillness of his apartment, Nathan opened the message.
It’s not Broadway, but it’s honest. A chance to work with locals, mentor young people, and make something beautiful without the pressure to go viral. I thought of you because I know you care about truth in storytelling. If you’re burned out—and I suspect you might be—this could be a reset.
Nathan stared at the screen. A reset sounded pretty good. Then he clicked on Greg’s contact and hit Call.
Greg picked up on the second ring. “Nathan, my man! Long time no talk. How’s it going?”
“Not great,” Nathan admitted. “Is that artist-in-residence thing on Jonathon Island still open?”
A pause. Then Greg exhaled. “I’m not sure. I had to step away. Got offered a summer teaching gig back at U of M. Couldn’t turn it down. Timing was awful though. But as far as I know, the festival is still on. You should reach out to Dani Sullivan Stone. She’s running point now.”
The name gave Nathan pause. “Sullivan? As in…Ashley Sullivan?”
“Her younger sister, I think,” Greg confirmed.
“I forgot that you two dated back in school. I think Ashley sticks to television work these days. Probably pays better than the stuff I’m working on.
But this festival? It’s the kind of thing we used to dream about.
No producers breathing down your neck. Just stories.
Community. Real stakes for real people. I think it might be exactly what you need. ”
Nathan could barely form the words to respond. “Yeah,” he managed.
“Well, Dani’s your new contact. She basically runs things over there.
The town’s tiny, but the festival means a lot to them.
It’s got heart, Nathan. Bikes instead of taxis.
Porches with rocking chairs, and plenty of time to sit in them.
Ice cream, lake views, kids in costumes…
Honestly, it’s a perfect place to reflect and reset. ”