Chapter 22 #2
“I’d kill to have you read mine,” the man continues.
“Thanks, Dave. But I’m just a stage actor.”
“My last voice actor’s rate was four hundred dollars an hour, and he wasn’t half as good as you.”
A woman next to me whispers conspiratorially, “I like how I can hear him without turning up my hearing aid.”
I smile, thinking of Mike reciting lines on a construction site in Texas. His diction is incredibly crisp. “I like how he didn’t fake a British accent,” I say.
Dave isn’t done. “You should start narrating audiobooks,” he urges. “Because good narrators are in high demand. Do you have a card?”
Mike smiles. “Nah.”
“A website?”
“Just a lonely Instagram account.” I hand Mike his phone.
The author looks aghast. “Not even TikTok?”
“I know, right?” I turn to Mike. “Why aren’t you on TikTok, Mike?”
The author pulls a card from his wallet. “Me. My agent. Call. Let’s talk.”
Mike takes the card, smiling, and when the gentleman isn’t looking, he drops the card on the table.
I pick it up. “You told Monique you’re doing audiobooks.”
“An audiobook. It was an experiment, and I didn’t like it.”
“Mike. This is a big deal.”
“No, it’s a distraction.”
“But this could be your big break. You could be one phone call away from something huge. First audiobooks. Then TV. Movies. I’m serious.”
“I don’t want huge.” Mike steps out of Warwick’s onto the warm pavement.
“What?” I stumble outside after him. Espadrilles may be okay for an occasional walk, but they’re not appropriate footwear for chasing after Shakespearean actor types.
But the sun is shining, and my skin is glowing.
I’ll have to rub more sunscreen on my shoulders before I head to Princess Kitty’s, but that hardly matters now that Mike is looking at me like I am a summer’s day.
“I like the stage.”
So his dreamy expression wasn’t inspired by me, but by his affection for the theater? My shoulders sag like the ears of Kenny, the Basset Hound I’ll be walking later this afternoon. “Why?”
“The parts are better. The audience is an active participant. Cameras aren’t a very good audience. Definitely not as much fun.”
“Money?” We head down the street toward the florist.
“Ah, money. You sound like my old man.”
“It does make the world go around.”
“You’re such a cynic. Would you believe I have a hustle worked out?”
“You sell ice cream on the beach? A lemonade stand on the Fourth of July?”
Mike holds the door open for me, and I flounce back into Adelaide’s.
“That’s cute coming from a shark who fleeces sad married couples out of their insurance money when the utility company burns their house down.”
“Former shark. And I never practiced family law because sad married couples are the worst.”
The florist brings out my succulent crown, and I gasp. All the soft greens and sagy pinks are breathtaking.
“Allow me,” Mike says, placing the crown on my head.
“Some pins for the lady,” the florist says.
Mike nods his thanks as he slides a few bobby pins in place, securing my crown. He brushes my hair back, and for a moment, I swear his hand lingers on my shoulder.
“How do I look?” I tap my phone to the florist’s card reader and thank him.
“Like a Del Mar princess,” Mike says, holding open the door.
“Tell me about your hustle. Did you buy a kayak? Are you going to paddle couples from Kansas into La Jolla’s famous sea caves?”
“Why do you think I’m fixing up Grandma’s beach house? Vacation rentals with an epic view of the ocean. If I can rent it out twelve days out of thirty, I’ll be just fine.”
“But where will you live?”
“On the road. There are Shakespeare festivals across the country and plenty of friends with couches.”
“You can’t be serious. Living out of a suitcase?” I hate the idea. Even more, I hate the idea of not having access to that view, Mike’s library, or the man himself. “What about a—”
I stop myself before saying wife and kids, but Mike’s looking at me expectantly, seriously. “What about this?” I ask, recovering. “Won’t you miss this? La Jolla is your home. You have roots. Red licorice at your grandma’s beach house. You can’t just leave it!”
“Why not? You left lawyering.”
“That’s different!” I snap.
“Sure.” Mike folds his arms and leans against the passenger door of his truck, all smug and smirking. “After I graduate, I’m taking a year off to travel the world. Learn some foreign languages.”
“But the memories.”
“Don’t worry. You can’t sell those.” He cocks his head. “You’re going all sentimental on me. Careful now. You’ll give away that there may actually be a beating heart in there.”
My heart is beating out of my chest, but Mike can’t know that.
“You want a ride to your next client?”
“Take me home,” I demand.
We drive back to Neptune, and there is a part of me—a big part of me—that wants to pretend that this is my new forever.
That I’ve found happily ever after right now.
But that’s ridiculous, because I don’t have anything, let alone forever, with Mike, and I can’t have a forever at Neptune if he plans on renting it out as an Airbnb.
So why do I want to pretend?