Chapter 33
Chapter
The last time I landed at JFK, my heart was racing. I was scared for what was to come. This time, my heart is still racing, but I’m now exhilarated. This is a new chapter of my life and one where I don’t know the ending.
With my three pieces of luggage at my side, I hail a cab, and the driver helps me put my things in the trunk.
“Okay, ma’am, where to?” he says in a thick Bronx accent.
“74 Perry Street, please,” I say. “In the West Village.”
“You got it.” He plugs the address into his phone and starts driving. “So, are you visiting or are you home?”
Past the windshield ahead is a painting of the skyline, the sunset kissing the tops of skyscrapers and billboards.
It’s a stark difference from the hills and palm trees back in Los Angeles.
The move is bittersweet. I owe a lot to LA and the person I’ve become in my time there.
Maybe one day I’ll be back but right now, I don’t miss the city I spent the past five yearsin.
“I’m home,” I say.
The brownstone looks exactly as it did when I left, except the two pumpkins set out front are the only ones left on Perry.
I pick them up and toss them into the trash bin on the street and open the door.
There’s a comforting feeling when I enter the home, knowing that in fact it is home.
My home. And I have no intention of selling it anymore.
Both times I left this house I had no plans of coming back, and now it’ll be waiting for me at the end of every day. It’s a new beginning.
The sky is now dark, with fluffy clouds drifting past the window. While I’m grateful that a place so special to me is now mine, I’m overwhelmed by a pang of loss. Like something is missing. Someone is missing.
Mara let me know that all furniture is included except for a few art pieces that were on the wall that are now gone.
Aside from that, everything looks the same as I left it.
I take a quick glance at the kitchen, and the hairs on my arms stand when I clock the pasta maker sitting in the middle of the island, untouched.
I place it deep in the cabinet below and start bringing my luggage up to my room.
The door to Adam’s room is halfway open, and a teeny tiny part of my brain pictures the impossible.
For a moment I hesitate, but then cautiously reach for the doorknob.
Slowly, I open the door, hoping to see something I know isn’t on the other side.
The room feels cold, colder than the rest of the house.
There’s no trace of the person who used to call this room his.
I close the door behind me with no intention of stepping back in there for a while.
The press for Les Misérables has been unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
This much marketing for a Broadway show comes once in a blue moon.
The billboards around the city are no joke, and our first month is sold out before we’ve even started rehearsals.
It’s mostly because of Philip Summers coming back to Broadway, but this is the first time Les Mis has been in New York in over a decade.
Four weeks before opening night, the cast and chorus come together for a table read. Since the show is a singing-only musical, it’s expected that we all know our parts, and the table read is really us singing through the entire show.
It’s nice seeing a familiar face in Dan as our director, and the principal cast is absolutely incredible.
Philip Summers is just as kind as he is talented, and Anthony Batiste, who just came off The King and I, is playing opposite me as Marius.
Tony Award winner Samantha Gates is Cosette, and Jon Dhingra is our Javert, whose voice is as powerful as ever.
After our run-through, Dan asks the chorus and principal cast to stay a few extra minutes. We sit in the empty rehearsal space, the very room I auditioned in. The bleak white walls and floors surround us, and Dan turns his chair around, hanging his arms over the back to faceus.
“Everyone sounded incredible. I hope you all felt the energy today, because I know I did,” he says, and the rest of us nod and agree.
“I don’t think I told any of you this, but Les Misérables is not only one of the most acclaimed musicals in history, but it’s important to me for personal reasons.
After coming out, things weren’t easy. My family wasn’t supportive, and it left me in a really, really dark place.
I discovered Les Mis around this time and thought how the hell can there be a musical where every single character is going through trauma? It’s heartbreaking, but it’s beautiful.
“The music, this story, and the characters are more to me than just notes on a page. They’re real, and it saved me. I want to do my very best to bring this musical back to life. Each person coming into that theater every night, I want to save them too.”
Within moments, Philip starts clapping, and then Samantha, and then the rest of us join. Hearing the sounds of whistles and encouraging words, I feel like I’m finally where I need tobe.
For the rest of the day, Dan’s speech plays on repeat in my mind, leaving me to reflect on my career journey and how I’ve come full circle. Once I get home, I pull out my phone and scroll through my list of contacts.
Mom.
My thumb trembles, hovering over the call button, but I press it and hold my breath as I wait.
“Hello?” I hear my mom’s voice on the other end, and it makes me instantly tear up. I don’t remember the last time I spoke to her; it must have been years ago.
“Hey,” I say, unable to actually call her Mom. “It’s June.”
“I saw,” she says, not sounding particularly fazed that we’re having a conversation. I can hear shuffling and cupboards opening and closing. I assume she’s making dinner.
“Um, how are you?” I ask.
“Just home from work. A little tired,” she says, the sound of the television now in the background.
“Are you still at the same place?” I ask, wondering if she’s still working at the call center.
“Yeah,” she says.
“Well, that’s good,” I say. “How’s Ted?”
“Who?” she asks.
“Your boyfriend?” I say, praying that was his name.
“Oh…uh, who knows. I’m with John,” she says. “We met in Vegas—good guy. He owns his own business.”
“Oh,” I say, not sure if she’s wanting a congratulations.
“He’s taking me to Mexico next month,” she adds.
“Nice,” I say, not knowing how to react to that. “I, uh, wanted to let you know I’m going to be in the Les Misérables revival. It opens a week before Christmas…” I wait for her to react, but I hear only more background noise from the TV. “I was wondering if you’d want to come?”
“Isn’t that what you used to listen to all the time?”
“Yeah.” I smile, surprised that she still remembers. “That’s the one.”
“Well, how about that? One of those chorus roles?” she asks.
My nostrils flare. “No, it’s one of the leads. éponine.”
“Wow, well, congratulations.” She sounds genuinely surprised, and the fact that she is only bothers me. “That must pay a lot.”
I ignore her remark. “Do you want me to reserve you a ticket? You can stay at my place…I have a house now,” I add, hoping maybe that will impress her.
“That’s okay. I wouldn’t be able to get time off work.”
I crack the tops of my knuckles. “The show will be running for a while, you don’t have to come now. It can be in a few months.”
“June,” she says, exasperated. “You’re a grown woman now. You don’t need your mom at your plays, do you?”
If ever my mom was going to give me words of encouragement, this was the opportunity.
“No, I guess not,” I say. This is the part where I hang up, where I get mad at myself for calling her. But instead, I smile. I smile because I know that I’ve gotten everything I can from this woman, and that’s okay. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Good luck to you, June,” she says.
“You too.”
One of the things I love about New York is how easy it is to find Chinese takeout. Back in LA, unless you’re actually in Chinatown or ready to pay top dollar for Din Tai Fung, it’s quite a challenge to order intoxicatingly delicious dan dan noodles and pork soup dumplings the minute you want them.
My favorite spot from when I used to live here is only a few blocks away from Perry and it’s, thankfully, still open. After ordering, I take a seat off to the side at one of the empty tables by the door when I hear my name.
“June?”
A woman with blond hair under a bright red beanie, jeans, and a long navy wool coat is standing a few feet away from me.
She’s effortlessly New York stylish and striking with not an ounce of makeup, only the autumn night chill giving a slight pink glow to her cheeks.
It takes me a moment longer than it should to realize who’s in front ofme.
Oh shit.
“Riley?”
“Oh my God! What are the chances?!” She opens her arms to me, and I stand up to give her a hug. “How are you?!”
“I’m good, I’m good.” My voice comes out louder and higher than I’ve ever heard it. “How are you ?”
“Oh, you know, same old.” She waves a hand, her free-spirit energy still intact after all these years.
“Are you still painting?”
“Not exactly,” she says, and tilts her head. “I opened up an art gallery with a friend of mine. I guess I put that business degree to use,” she adds, laughing.
“Wow, that’s amazing. Congratulations, Riley.”
“How’s LA? Are you still there?”
I shake my head. “No, actually I just moved back here a few weeks ago.”
“No way! God, it’s been so long. Well, New York is happy to have you back.” She adjusts her tote bag. “I’m sure you’ve missed the two-dollar pork buns.” She nods to the wall of mismatched photos of food and prices written in pink and blue highlighter.
“Oh, they’re literally the only thing I’ve been eating this week.”
Riley was always someone I never felt like I could be friends with. Our interactions could be only surface level, because it was, frankly, too painful for me. Now, as I strip away whatever insecurities got the best of me, she’s someone whose energy is quite contagious.
“I heard you’re in a new show too. Congrats!” She beams. “It’s on my list but it’s been so hard for me to watch any TV—you know how it is.”
“Oh please, don’t watch on my behalf.” I shake my head. “Besides, it got canceled.”
“Oh no—”
“It’s fine, really,” I say. “I’m coming back to Broadway actually, so it all worked out!”
“Oh, get out! What show? I’ll have to make sure to get tickets,” she says like she will genuinely be purchasing tickets.
“Les Misérables.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, why?”
She shakes her head like she shouldn’t have said anything. “No, it’s just, that was Adam’s favorite.” She lets out a tired laugh.
For a brief moment, I’d allowed myself to separate her from him, so much so that hearing his name now feels like the wind being knocked out ofme.
“Riley, I’m…I’m sorry about what happened,” I tell her, because it feels like the right thing to say. If this were a friend, maybe I would ask why she ended things with Adam, but it actually doesn’t matter anymore.
“Oh.” She looks down and I know I hit a nerve. There’s a manufactured smile plastered on her face when she finally looks up. “Yeah…well…”
“Are you okay?” I ask, hoping it comes out as genuinely as I meanit.
“Sorry.” She shakes her head. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just, um, seeing you again, talking about Adam…it’s kind of all coming back. I know that sounds silly—”
“No,” I say, realizing the irony. “I actually know exactly what you mean.” The two of us stand in an awkward silence, and I know we’re both thinking of the same person.
“I just wanted us both to be happy,” she says sincerely. “And it turns out we couldn’t be with each other.”
Standing here with her, it’s become apparent that I’ve been looking at Riley as a woman who took something away from me, as someone who has something I never will.
But the two of us are more similar than I thought.
She’s the same as me, as Chloe, as Lucia, as my mom…
as Adam. We’re all just people looking for love and doing the best we can.
That woman who was staring back at me in the photo, beaming in front of the Eiffel Tower, who thought her whole life would take a different trajectory, is now in the same Chinese restaurant as I am. After almost six years of harboring resentment toward a woman I barely know, I’m finally pastit.
“I should’ve known after LA,” she continues, and then quickly grabs my hand. “But, June, I hope you know I don’t have any hard feelings.”
I squint, trying to understand. “I’m sorry, LA?”
“When Adam went to LA,” she clarifies, but I’m still confused.
“When did he go to LA?” I ask.
Riley frowns. “Did he not tell you?”
I look at her intently. “Tell me what?”
Her mouth opens and then closes; she looks just as disoriented as I feel.
“It was like, I don’t know, three years ago?
” She sits down at an empty table and I slowly follow.
“We were in the thick of wedding planning and he said he needed to see you.” Her eyes lock on mine, and I feel like the room is spinning.
That would have been two years after I left.
Two years since we last spoke. Years after I blocked his number, he still wanted to talk?
She waits for me to say something, but I don’t have anything in me.
“He was never really the same after you left, so obviously, I told him of course. I thought he wanted to invite you in person or something…I didn’t ask.
He was gone for a couple of days and never told me how it went. ”
I interrupt her. “I never saw him, Riley.”
She frowns, like this information is a missing piece in the story that either completes it or throws a wrench init.
“He was distant when he came back. More than usual,” she adds. “I mean, it’s not like he did in the first place, but he really stopped caring about wedding details after that trip. Then six months before the wedding, I confronted him. All the signs pointed to him cheating on me or something.”
“Was he?” I ask, afraid to find out the answer.
“I mean, not physically…” she says, her gaze fixed on me. She leans back in her chair and takes a deep breath. “Lesson learned. Never accept a proposal from a man when you know he’s in love with someone else.”
“He was…” I try to continue, but it feels like I have a golf ball in my throat, like my insides have been tied and I’m gasping for breath. “In love with someone else?” I ask, and she just nods. “Who?”
“Order for June!” one of the waiters calls out.
“Who do you think?” she says, but there’s not an ounce of resentment.
I wave to the cashier. He brings me a white plastic bag filled with two Styrofoam takeout boxes.
“Riley, do you want this?” I inch the boxes closer to her. “There’s something I have to do.”