Chapter 9 Miles #2
“I thought you’d be happy if I cast your daughter as Alice.”
“I am.”
“Then grin at me.”
I do. I grin at her. I give her the Hi-I’m-here-to-pick-you-up-for-our-first-date mouthwash commercial grin. “How’s this?” I say through gritted teeth.
“More,” she says. “Bigger.”
I grin more, bigger. It’s a fucking nightmare.
“That’s better. I mean, it’s a start. Thank you. You may go back to your natural frowning state now.”
“That is not my natural state.”
“Right. Just when I’m around. So, you don’t sing, except when you’re drunk. Have you ever done any stage acting?”
“The usual, required stuff when I was a kid. I’ve acted in commercials.”
“Uh-huh. So, no vocal training?”
“None whatsoever.”
“You seem a little tense, Miles.”
“I’m not.”
“Uncross your arms and take a deep breath for me, please?” She circles around me slowly. Not in a predatory way. Like a drill sergeant examining a soldier.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans and inhale.
Deeply. In the most masculine way possible.
Ignoring the jasmine-vanilla-sea salt-musk-scented air molecules and visualizing the World’s Greatest Dad parade that my daughter will one day arrange for me.
The gratitude she’ll have when she understands how much I’ve endured. For her.
“Hold your breath at the top of the inhale, please,” she says. Like she’s a doctor. A sexy one. With the gentle touch of a healing water nymph, she places one hand on my chest and one on my upper back. “Exhale.”
I exhale. Deeply. In the slowest, most masculine, and relaxed way possible.
“Yeah, you’re really tense.”
“No. I’m not.”
“Do you know where your diaphragm is?”
“Of course I do.”
“Show me. Put your hand flat on your diaphragm.”
“You know, I haven’t seen a script for this yet. Your musical.”
“I’m doing a quick polish. Chloe will get it to you in a few days. Before the first rehearsal.” She puts her hand flat over mine and slides mine over a bit, closer to my heart. Dangerously close to my heart. “Put your other hand flat over your abs.”
I do. She stands directly in front of me, each of her hands over each of mine, studying my torso. “These are the muscles of inspiration—the drawing of air into the lungs. When you breathe in, you should feel the contraction of your diaphragm…”
All I feel is her hands on my hands.
That is all.
It’s a fucking nightmare.
She presses into the hand that rests over my diaphragm.
“Feel the contraction of the external intercostals…” She uses the tip of her index finger to trace between my ribs.
It’s not meant to be erotic. But like almost everything else this woman does, it absolutely is.
“To expand the ribs up and out.” Then she drags her fingers down to my abs.
One hand flat over them, one hand still over mine.
I wonder if she felt how fast my heart’s beating, and I hope she knows it’s out of annoyance.
I wonder if she’s marveling at how tight my abs are.
I wonder if she can tell how hard it is for me to keep my hands off of her.
I am definitely inspired right now, but not to do breathing exercises.
She is the worst voice coach ever. Or, possibly the best. I can’t tell.
I’m in hell.
“And the contraction of the abdominal muscles,” she continues. “It should feel like your abdomen is expanding.”
And guess what else is starting to expand…
“Inhale again.”
I do. She stares at my chest and my abdomen, and I stare at her face. There’s no lust in her expression. She’s just concentrating. It’s…agonizing.
“Hold your breath at the top.”
I do.
“Good. Now, when you exhale, you should feel the contraction of the internal intercostals, the abdominals, and the obliques.” She slides both of her hands across my waist, to my obliques. “These are the muscles of expiration. Exhale for me.”
I exhale.
For her.
“Gooooood. Did you feel the difference?”
“Yes.”
I felt your hands on my body.
It felt better than not having your hands on my body.
That’s what I felt.
“It’s so interesting,” she says, removing her hands from my body. “Breath is involuntary but also under our control. Like feelings.”
I take in a sharp breath and hold it.
I hold everything in.
I can hold everything in forever.
Fuck feelings.
This isn’t about feelings.
She goes over to grab a bottle of water from her bag, takes a sip from it, and hands the bottle to me. “You’ll need to rehydrate.”
I gulp down some water and give the bottle back to her. She places it on the floor next to her bag and then starts pacing around. Almost like she’s nervous. I stay right where I am because I am as cool as the other side of the pillow.
“There’s a singing exercise I’d like you to do at home. It involves lighting a candle. I’ll email you the instructions.”
“I don’t have time for homework.”
“You’ll have to make time for it. That’s part of the deal.
I’ll need everyone to attend the first rehearsal on Saturday.
Including you. James, my composer and musical director, will be there.
And Chloe, my stage manager, of course. Normally, James would be the one who works with the entire cast on vocal performances, but I’ve let him know that I will personally be working with you and Macy. ”
“Okay. James, huh?” I’m picturing a wry, sixty-year-old balding gay guy who wears a baseball cap and high-tops. “Well, I can’t promise I’ll make it to every rehearsal, but I’ll try to come once a week. How’s that?”
“Depends on your progress. Spoiler alert: you’ll be reciting the Jabberwocky poem.”
“Christ.”
“You don’t have to be completely off-book for a couple of weeks, but it’s quite the tongue twister.”
“I’m aware it’s a tongue twister. What does off-book mean in this context?”
“To have the script memorized.”
“Right.”
“There are warm-up exercises I can share with you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“For instance—repeat after me. Lips teeth tip of the tongue.” She nods at me to repeat that.
“Lips. Teeth. Tip of the tongue.”
“Faster. Lips teeth tip of the tongue. Three times.”
“Lips teeth tip of the tongue. Three times.”
She rolls her eyes. “Red letter yellow leather.”
“Red letter yellow leather.”
“I don’t think you’ll have a problem with projecting your voice, but you’ll have to articulate your vowels and consonants.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But since we’re here, in this room with excellent acoustics… I know you say you can’t sing, but—"
“I didn’t say I can’t sing. I said I don’t sing.”
“Well, I need to hear you sing. Anything. It can be anything. Just give me an idea of what you’re capable of so I know what I’m working with. Just a few bars. I’ll sit over here so you don’t feel self-conscious.” She backs up against the wall behind me and slides down to the floor.
“This is bullshit,” I say under my breath.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
I will never be ready for this. But I know how stubborn this woman is, so I will get this over with. I clear my throat, lick my lips, and sing the first song that pops into my head.
It just happens to be the one I sang to my ex-wife at our wedding—the one I sang to declare to the woman I was marrying that my heart belonged to her and only to her—and I’m not going to read into that.
I just want to shut Aria up so I can get out of here.
Here goes nothing.
“I'll be loving you always,
with a love that's true always.
When the things you've planned need a helping hand,
I will understand always.
Always.
Days may not be fair always,
that's when I'll be there always.
Not for just an hour,
not for just a day,
not for just a year,
but always.”
That should give her a pretty good idea of what I’m capable of.
Of what she’s working with.
“Shit,” she whispers on an exhale.
I turn to find her there on the floor, hugging her legs to her chest, eyes wide and shining, lips parted.
She holds my gaze as she stands.
She doesn’t look happy or repulsed or annoyed.
She’s just looking at me, like she’s seeing me with new eyes.
We’re just standing, staring at each other from three feet away.
Like performers on a stage. It doesn’t feel real.
But it does feel good. It’s nothing at all like my fantasies, but it’s an electric moment.
I feel more alive and awake and seen than I have in years, and right now, all I want to do is kiss her.
So, I do.
I take three steps toward her, cup her face in my hands.
She tilts her chin up, stands on her tiptoes, and I press my lips to hers.
Soft and slow like the hero of a musical that’s fun for the whole family.
And then hard and deep like the stars of the kind of movie I never want my daughter to see.
Aria Cross tastes like peaches and cream, and she sounds like she’s savoring a dessert that she’s been craving for ages.
My hands are up in her hair and hers are fisting my tank top, and this went from tentative to frantic to it’s on in no time at all.
Or maybe it took three years to get to this.
This can’t happen, but it’s happening.
This is the best and the worst thing that’s happened to me since the first time I saw her.
I guess I made it happen.
And I have to make it stop.
I have to take control of these involuntary feelings.
I unthread my fingers from her hair.
I kiss her sweet lips one last time before pulling away.
After one incredible, honest minute with the most incredible woman I’ve met in a long, long time, I return to an eternity of days that aren’t fair. Always. So unfair.
Aria takes a step back, steadying herself like she’s waking up from a trance.
I will now do the thing that everyone in my personal life except Macy has come to expect me to do—I ruin the moment by being a cocky asshole. “So, like I said—I can sing. I just don’t. Because this is what happens.”
She smacks her lips together, just like she did after she applied that peaches and cream–flavored Chapstick. “Yeah. Fortunately, I’m no Irving Berlin. So we won’t have to worry about women rushing the stage trying to kiss you.”