Chapter 26
I don’t watch the time because I don’t want to know how long Mike takes to shower.
I don’t want to become familiar with those details.
I turn on my favorite season of Starship Cruiser and read my Anne Perry novel, even though my eyes merely float across the words as I tell myself I’m fine.
I am. I’m being neighborly. Mike’s a friend.
Or a frenemy. Or a man who has populated every single one of my fantasies since I met him.
I’m fine. I’m on the couch. Enjoying the AC that isn’t stopping.
Not imagining how the weather is a metaphor for anything I think or feel for Mike.
Eventually, he’s sinking onto the sofa next to me. “I feel like a new man.”
“You certainly smell like a new man.” If I’m being honest, he looks like one too. He’s always been gorgeous in a wow-look-at-those-cheekbones-and-arresting-honey-eyes way, but now, with his damp, tousled dark hair, he is overtly handsome.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy to be indoors in September,” he says.
“Starship Cruiser will do that.”
He laughs.
“So,” I say, “why is it the ‘biggest role’ of your life?”
He runs a hand through his damp hair. “It’s the most romantic role I’ve ever played. That’s kind of a big deal. I’ve gotten lucky playing villains, jokers, memorable supporting roles. But this romantic-leading-man-stuff is new. Scary. What I look like onstage matters now.”
“It always mattered.”
“True, but perhaps not in the same way.”
My eyes dart to the top drawer of my nightstand. “What’s romantic?”
He looks puzzled.
“I mean, what translates to romance onstage?”
He looks thoughtful. It’s kind of startling. He’s usually so quick to toss out answers.
I turn the volume down on Starship Cruiser.
“Words,” he finally says. “Words are a foundation. I can’t save a bad script.”
“Please. I was at Warwick’s with you. You can read an HVAC manual and make a woman swoon.”
“Because that’s the purpose of an HVAC manual. Heaven forbid you want to use it for something practical like troubleshooting a system.”
I playfully throw a pillow at him. “You know what I mean.”
“Manuals are actually a pretty decent script…”
I eye-roll.
“I’m serious, Bea. They’re honest, not overly cluttered with sentiment or burdened with affectation. A good actor can bring some of themselves to it. At the very least, he can make some choices about it.”
I must look skeptical, because he goes on, “Shakespeare might have me saying, ‘I swear I love no one in the world so much as you. Is not that strange?’ While your space operas could have me spouting convoluted, melodramatic declarations that probably include descriptions of alien hearts and other organs. A good script, like Shakespeare’s, gives me space to act the emotion and make choices about what my character feels and thinks.
Am I bewildered by love? Blindsided by it?
Is it funny? Is it bittersweet? Will trusted me enough to give me a choice.
A bad script forces emotion onto me, chains me to words that often have nothing to do with character and everything to do with plot.
There’s no stopping to explore any nuance.
I’m force-fed every feeling and have to regurgitate it for the audience. ”
“Space to act is better?”
“So much,” he says softly.
“Did you just compare the Bard to an HVAC manual?”
Now it’s Mike who is throwing pillows my way.
“It’s the Battlestar Cruiser franchise you have to watch out for. Starship Cruiser is okay. Most of the captains on the show were Shakespearean actors.” I get up and head to my kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?”
“What are you having?”
“Iced peppermint tea.”
“I’d kill for one. Thank you.”
I fill my electric kettle and turn it on. “So words are a foundation. But obviously not the end of the story. You do more than just talk onstage.”
“I’m glad you noticed.” Mike considers. “The physicality is different for everyone.”
“But for you? Playing a romantic leading man for the first time in your career?” I grab one of my favorite teapots. It’s a thrifted find covered in painted pink roses and gold flourishes. I toss a couple of tea bags into it.
“Imbalance—evidence of it is what I believe most audiences respond well to. What is romance if not the idea that another can bewitch us? Command us? Addle our minds with want?”
The kettle kicks off, and I pour the steaming water into my teapot. “Imbalance…”
“Too much of their mind, their body, their hopes and dreams are tilted toward this person. There is imbalance. How it is conveyed depends on the genre and, of course, the direction.” He rises.
“Is the imbalance sweet and charming? Wistful and comical?” He joins me at the kitchen counter.
“Or is the imbalance all-consuming, passionate, and dangerous?”
“Dangerous?”
“Abrupt. Uncontrolled. Determined. Rash.”
“Is it ever both?”
Mike sighs. “That’s when it gets fun. ‘Yes, and…’ is the first rule of improv. It’s every actor’s favorite phrase. Because human experience isn’t ever distilled down to one emotion.”
“So…what would romance look like if a character was both sweet and passionate? Flames and sugar?”
“I’d have to show the conflict. The struggle is real and all that.”
“How?”
“Depends. Am I onstage solo? Am I monologuing? Is the object of my desire close? What act am I in?”
“Second act. Monologue.”
“Deep enough into the story to know what I want but light-years away from achieving it.” Mike drums his fingers on the counter. “Frustration. And motivation. And longing. And just the tiniest”—he nudges the teapot—“glimmer of hope.
“I’d make sure to frequently bend my head, round my shoulders to convey the weight of my unrequited love. My body would fold and look too heavy to stand to convey the uncertainty I felt. And then, should my love interest enter the stage, those lines would change dynamically.”
I fill two glasses to the brim with ice. “Explain.”
“I’d go a bit manic. Uneven cadence in my speech and pacing. I’d echo any posture my heart’s desire had done earlier. Any interaction she had with props—I’d find a reason to touch them too. If I found something of hers, I’d keep it. Put it on my body, close to my heart.”
“Show me?”
Mike inhales slowly. His eyes scan me, lingering a bit too long. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to act with you, Bea.” He runs a hand through his hair again. “I don’t want to confuse you.”
I pour the steaming tea into the glasses, making the ice crack and hiss. “I’m a pretty smart cookie.” I hand him one of the glasses.
“I know.” He takes the tea with a nod of thanks and retreats to my bookshelves and cactus collection. “The world’s most qualified dog walker.” He reaches up and sends my hanging monkey tail cactus swaying.
“I know the difference between pretend and real.”
“But maybe I don’t.”
It’s not easy to sleep with bright moonlight winking at me through my blinds.
Then again, it’s not easy to sleep knowing that Mike is steps away on my pullout sofa.
He was reluctant to stay, but I pointed out that if he died from heatstroke overnight, he wouldn’t get to play the best part he’s ever played.
The show must go on! So he agreed to sleep on my couch.
Why did I push him? A dead landlord is no good to me, I tell myself.
I listen to his peaceful breathing. I take note of how his chest rises and falls. He has zero issues sleeping at my place, and it isn’t fair. How does he make everything look so easy?
I don’t know when I doze, but I must because the next thing I know, I’m waking up to the sound of Mike at my stove, rattling a pan on the burner. Something smells divine.
“You promised me cookies,” I say.
“Omelets are a lot healthier than cookies.”
“But I don’t like them.” I honestly haven’t been able to stomach even the thought of eggs since my stint on Adam’s couch.
“You’ll like these.”
He’s right. The omelets are delicious. “Did your grandma teach you how to make these too?”
“No, but my high school buddy’s grandma in Texas did.”
We talk about Texas. I learn his mom’s treatment lasted until his senior year. She entered hospice two weeks before his senior prom.
“I didn’t give a hoot about going, but she wanted to see me dressed up. She died three weeks after. I know she wanted me to walk at graduation, but I couldn’t muster the energy to care. I was done with Texas. I moved out here that summer.”
“Your dad must miss you.” I slide open my kitchen window. It’s still hot out, but I’m a sucker for the sound of the surf in the morning.
“He’s okay. He’s got a new wife and a baby on the way. I know he loved my mom, but he’s a kind of happy now that I never saw growing up.”
Mike smiles, and I want to hug him. I want to tell him that it’s okay to be…not okay about everything. The universe served him a raw deal, and he doesn’t have to take it like a champ. “Are you okay?”
“I’m an actor. I’m meant to be a broken, suffering vessel for other people’s genius.” He takes our dishes to the sink. “That was a joke. I’m fine. More fine than I’ve been in years. Fixing up Grandma’s house has been a way to work through stuff. You know?”
“What did you mean?” I can’t stop the words that are coming now. “When we were talking about the difference between real and acting yesterday, and you said, ‘Maybe I don’t.’ What did you mean?”
“I meant I would do things in character that I wish I could do in real life. Like”—he approaches—“touch you.” He’s breathing heavily as he brings a tentative hand up and gently, so gently, brushes the side of my face.
I lean into his touch. I want to reciprocate, but I’m afraid I might spook him or me.
“Getting too close.” He swallows and takes a step closer. Ocean wind blows in, and the fabric of his shirt brushes against my stomach. Closer, yes. But still not close enough.
I slide my hand over his. “Why can’t you do these things in real life?”
“Because I can’t have you.” Half a smile. As if it was the simplest, plainest truth in the world.
I meet his eyes. Take in his lips, so close to mine. I start to reach up to stroke his firm jaw.
“Cactuses are so cute,” he whispers, but then he backs off. “But they don’t belong to anyone.” There’s no heat in his affable smile now. He grabs his towel and shorts and heads toward the door. “Thanks for letting me stay. I owe you cookies.”
And then he’s gone. Exit stage left.