Chapter 26 Aria
ARIA
When I park my car in Miles’ garage, I find a missed call and a series of texts from him.
MILES: Just tried calling. Cell phone reception in the Palisades sucks. Did you leave already?
MILES: Your car is gone. You’re gone. I’m really sorry I didn’t get to talk to you before you left. Macy found out about the deal. Our deal. How she got the part. I was focused on that.
MILES: She’s fine now. Let me know when you’re home.
MILES: I’d come home too, but I can’t leave Macy here. She wants to stay now, and I have to drop her off at her mom’s later.
MILES: Are you home yet?
ME: Just got home. Glad she’s fine now.
I go to my bedroom and collapse onto the bed.
It’s not quite ten o’clock, but I’m fried.
When you’re performing live, there’s an adrenaline rush after most shows, especially opening night.
As a director, that’s when the dust settles and exhaustion finally kicks in.
For me, anyway. A little postpartum depression kicks in too.
My musical baby belongs to the world now, and it’s the cast and crew who are presenting it.
Now I have to move on and find a new project to love.
Maybe that’s why I’m so melancholy all of a sudden tonight.
Maybe that’s what this sense of impending loss is about—letting go of the reins for this production.
Or maybe I feel totally neglected and unnecessary because Miles Brodie is a moody, clueless poopiehead who will never stop spoiling his daughter or concealing his affection for me.
But it’s just one night. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting to happen, but it certainly wasn’t this.
Why should I be welcomed into the loving, handsome arms of the Brodie family?
Why should I be celebrated for making Macy’s dream come true, no matter how I came to decide to cast her?
Why should I be thanked for finally teaching that girl how to sing and helping her to find her optimum pitch?
Well, now I’m just mad.
I need to get over it. It’s blown. It’s not like me to be so attached to this kind of feeling.
It’s not like me to fall in love with an entertainment lawyer either.
Now I’m back to wondering if this is just a showmance after all.
Now I’m back to wondering if it’s so much more than a showmance and I’m in over my head.
Now I’m remembering why I’ve always loved surfing.
There’s no room for worrying. It’s just me and the waves and the control I have over my board.
I know what I’m capable of and I know my limits and I’m responsible for every decision I make out there.
There’s the anticipation of finding the perfect wave, and when it comes, you ride it.
It’s euphoria. And when it’s over, you don’t have to wonder if it’s going to go back to being a moody, grumpy asshat who’s really good at being a single dad who gives you orgasms when his kid isn’t around but not so great at being a good dad who has a girlfriend at the same time.
After about an hour of napping, I wake up to a text.
MILES: Hi. Just dropped Macy off at her mom’s. Can I come over?
ARIA: Yeah, for a little bit.
I hold off on typing out the words We should talk, because nobody likes to get that message.
Twenty minutes later, he knocks on my front door, very quietly, and sends a text to let me know it’s him. Judging by his posture and expression when I come to the door, he may have inferred the we should talk from my response anyway. He’s so cautious. “Hi.”
“Hey. Come on in.” I lead him to the living room.
He looks disappointed but not surprised. “My family loved meeting you. They might never forgive me for making you leave early.”
“You didn’t make me leave.” I sit on the arm of a chair and watch as Miles decides whether he should sit down or not.
He stands a few feet away from me, hands in his pockets.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to loop you in on the conversation about Macy,” he says, as if it was an email chain.
He starts listing all the things they talked about in the car on the way to Shane Miller’s house and what happened at the party.
Like he’s catching me up on the points of a deal memo.
“She’s just worried people will think I bribed you to get the part.
Well, she doesn’t know the word ‘bribe,’ but that’s what she was worried about. ”
“Okay. Well, hopefully people won’t think that” is all I can say in response because there’s literally nothing we can do about it, now that it’s out there.
“Right. Exactly. Anyway, that’s what everyone told her. The ones who had heard about it. That she’s talented and she deserves the part now anyway.”
“Good. I’m glad they said that. She does. I’m really proud of her.” My voice trembles and catches in my throat, and the tip of my nose gets tingly again. The pride I feel for Macy suddenly doesn’t seem appropriate anymore. Like she isn’t mine to be proud of.
“Oh, and Clara wanted me to tell you how much she loved the show. When I dropped Macy off. She had to leave right after the curtain call to go to a party with her husband.”
“Great. Thanks.”
He takes a step toward me, reaching out for me and then shoving his hand back in his pocket. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head. “I’m sad.”
He sighs. “Why? What can I do?”
“This isn’t a negotiation, Miles.”
“I’m not trying to make a deal with you. Just tell me how I can make you happy again and I’ll do it.” I watch as he struggles to leave it at that. He knows he should leave it at that. He doesn’t leave it at that. “But I’m not going to apologize for being so protective of my daughter.”
“No one’s asking you to.”
“I mean, I’ve been leaving work early three days a week for you. I’ve never done that for anyone before. I’m doing three shows every weekend, singing in a purple suit.”
“You do all that for Macy.”
“Do I? Did I give away an important client for Macy?”
“I never asked you to do that. Do you regret doing that?”
Oh God, this is how it happens. One thing feels off, that thing gets said out loud, and then it suddenly becomes about everything.
“No. Of course not. Do you?”
“Of course not.”
“So what’s the problem? Tell me so I can fix it.”
“Do you just want me to be the happy surfer girl with the problems you can fix?”
He doesn’t hesitate to say, “No. Of course not.” But then he pauses to consider this.
And I just know what he’s thinking. Is that what I want?
A smile here, a flash of nipple there, maybe even a nice moment where I’m dancing with her and my daughter when I should be at the office—fuck yeah, I want that.
But do I want her to be a person with feelings that I cannot comprehend and therefore can’t fix?
Instead of changing his answer to my question, he says, “If this is going to be a thing, we need to give Macy a chance to get used to the idea. Okay?”
I sigh and shake my head. “I think you and I are the ones who need to get used to the idea of us being a thing. Not Macy. Kids are resilient. I know I was.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I think we need to figure out what we want and need and whether or not we’re capable of having it with each other.”
“Oh…Okay…” I watch as he crosses his arms in front of his chest and slowly shuts down. “Well, I’ve heard that one before.”
“I’m not saying—”
“I know what you’re saying. You want a break. You need space. To figure things out. You secretly want me to fight for you, but you certainly don’t expect me to do that because that would mean I’m not built to disappoint women. And we all know I am.”
“Hey.” I get up and hold his stupid, grumpy face in my hands. “I don’t know what you went through with your ex-wife, but that’s not what this is.”
He nods, but I can tell that he is in no way reassured.
“Are you okay?” I ask as I let go of his stubborn, stupid, grumpy, unbearably sad, handsome face.
“Sure. Yeah. We’ll be fine.”
I don’t know which “we” he’s referring to, and I guess that’s part of the problem.
He turns and strolls over to the front door, easy as Sunday morning. “So, I’ll see you at the theatre tomorrow, right? How are we going to—”
I cut him off. “I’m not going to the rest of the shows until closing night.”
He seems very surprised and disappointed by that. “Oh. Right. Your job is done.”
“For the most part.” It feels so wrong, not kissing him goodnight as we stand in the doorway. So I bump my fist against his bicep, super casual, like a bro. “So, I got some residual payments recently, and I got that check from the producers.”
He stares down at his bicep, where I touched him. You’d think I’d bruised him. “Which producers?”
“Of the film I invested in. I’ll be depositing it on Monday so I can pay you back for the rent for this place.”
He winces. “I don’t want you to pay me back. Ever. For anything. Whatever it is I’ve given you, it obviously wasn’t enough.”
And with that, he disappears into the night.
The next morning, I carry my board to the garage. Miles’ car is still parked here, but I find a note on my windshield. Part of me is hoping it’s going to tell me to meet him at the VW van out front. Part of me knows that would only be a temporary fix.
Here’s what the note says:
In case I forgot to say “I’m sorry…”
I’m sorry.
If that’s not enough…
I’m really sorry.
-- Miles
There was a time in my life when “I’m sorry” was enough.
But I drove all the way across the country in this car to get to a place where I know that I’m enough.
It’s not Miles’ fault that he’s too much of a blockhead to know what it is he’s apologizing for.
And maybe it’s my fault that I don’t know how to articulate exactly what it is that I need from him yet.
But I won’t apologize for needing time to figure it out.