Chapter 9
Chapter
It’s a no-brainer. Eighteen months into living together, Adam and I sign for another year on the lease.
While we don’t see Stanley very often, he’s been the perfect landlord.
He’ll stop in occasionally to check in on any maintenance needs, and when he does, it feels like an older uncle coming to say hi.
Since he lives alone, Adam’s gotten into the habit of preparing a lasagna for him, while I always grab a new science fiction novel from work as a treat.
The small gestures unintentionally must have paid off, since he let us renew our lease at the same price.
A month after graduating from culinary school, Adam lands a gig as line cook for High Rise, a gastropub in Brooklyn. It’s a significant step up from his job at the diner, and I can’t complain when he brings home their short rib grilled cheese.
While I’m more than thrilled for Adam’s trajectory, for me the next three months feel immobile.
After acting class, I continue to work shifts at the Arcade Bookshop, and while I’m getting auditions, I have yet to land any roles.
Auditioning in a room with your competition is not only laborious but trying for your self-esteem.
There’s always someone who’s a better dancer, who can belt it out louder, or who chooses a better monologue.
Things start looking brighter when I get a callback for a theater troupe touring North America, but I don’t get the part.
It’s the first time I doubt doing any of this and consider giving up and pursuing something more steady like my mom always told me to.
She refused to enroll me in dance classes, so my grandparents paid for it, and she never understood why I would stay after school for choir practice.
Since moving to New York for college, I haven’t returned home, and she’s never bothered to come visit me.
It’s a jarring feeling when your own mother becomes spiteful about your aspirations, when she thinks her not being able to pursue her dreams warrants me not pursuing mine.
From a young age I’ve noticed the way my mom looks at me, like her life would have been different if I wasn’t init.
Through the years, I’ve noticed the looks of sympathy when people find out I don’t have a relationship with my parents.
Maybe it’s worth holding room for disappointment, but to me, it’s normal.
Having what most consider a healthy relationship with your parents feels fabricated, something that you would see only in a movie.
Chloe and her mom are friends, and it’s never made sense to me.
A parent isn’t someone you laugh with and talk about your life with; a parent is someone who yells at you and asks for money to go gambling or buy alcohol.
On some level, I’ve always pushed harder to prove my mother wrong, for her to open up the morning paper and see my name in the Arts and Entertainment section, for my dad to think that maybe it was a mistake to leave.
But wishing things were different is no use—people leave and people disappoint you.
It’s those who have yet to realize that whom I feel bad for.
So now I’m sitting on the foot of my bed crying. I’m sobbing into my hands like a teenage girl who’s gotten her heart broken for the first time. It feels good. I let myself feel all the things I’ve been suppressing.
There’s a knock on my door and before I can wipe my eyes or say just a minute, Adam’s head popsin.
“Hey, sorry, I’m going to the grocer—” His face drops when he sees my red eyes and snot running down my nose and he opens the door wider. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” I sniff and wipe my face with my sleeve.
He nods thoughtfully and squints. “I’m not usually this intuitive, but I have a feeling you’re upset.”
I let out a laugh that then turns into more crying, and say, “I didn’t get the part.
” My eyes are shut and it’s not until I feel his touch that I see Adam kneeling in front of me, pulling me in for a hug.
I don’t resist, and bury my face into his shoulder.
“I don’t even know why I do this. I shouldn’t have wasted my degree. ” I let out another cry.
“Hey, hey.” He rubs my back. “There’s going to be more auditions.”
I know that Adam’s trying to be helpful, but it’s hard to listen to someone who hasn’t worn your shoes.
Being an actor isn’t like applying for a normal job.
It’s dependent on your looks, your ability to hit a high C, how strong your pirouettes are, if you can make a director cry during a monologue—if you’re good enough.
I’m starting to realize that maybe I’m just not good enough.
“Thanks.” I force a smile. “But this was a small troupe…it was low-hanging fruit. My drama teacher told me I was a shoo-in and if I can’t even get this then I don’t know, Adam…”
“It’s their loss,” he says.
“Oh yeah. I’m sure they’re just going to be kicking themselves in six months and realize they made a mistake,” I say over his shoulder.
“They will,” he says confidently. “Maybe not in six months, maybe not in six years, but one day you’ll get to where you need to go, and they’ll wish they could say they started your career.”
“Okay.” I let out an unimpressed exhale through my nose.
“No, I’m serious.” He pulls away so that way we’re face-to-face, but he keeps both hands on my arms. Despite him crouching, his eyeline is parallel to mine.
“A theater group like that—Off-Broadway, Broadway, whatever—they’re a business.
They need money, they need talent. You do this because you love the art. You don’t need them, they need you.”
He wipes a tear from my cheek. It’s intimate, but not in a romantic way—in a way that says you will always have someone who supports you. He squeezes my hand, and I have a feeling this is one of those moments, the ones where no matter how much time passes, I’ll never forget.
“You don’t have to be so nice,” I say. I don’t know when it happened, this shift in our dynamic. We went from being roommates to genuine friends.
“ Nice would imply that I’m going to ignore the snot all over my shoulder,” he says, and there is in fact a large damp spot where my face was. “You will be buying me a new shirt.”
It takes less than three seconds for me to start crying again. Except this time, it’s laced with laughter. “Deal.”
If anything, that night only pushes me harder.
I spend a few extra hours after every dance class practicing my pirouettes and take the time to do my vocal warm-ups every morning, even if I’m not planning on singing.
My acting teacher tells me that there’s an eight-week run of an Agatha Christie play Off-Broadway and that he’d like to set me up for an audition.
I graciously accept and wait for details.
In the meantime, I pick up Murder on the Orient Express from the library to get myself in the mood.
When Adam comes home from High Rise that night, he closes the door a little louder than usual.
“Adam?” I call from the kitchen, where I’m making a sandwich.
“I’m going to quit,” he spits out, and throws his jacket onto one of the kitchen chairs.
“What happened?”
“Michael. I hate him,” he says as he paces around the kitchen.
“What did he do this time?” I lean on the counter, worried to hear yet another horror story about Adam’s new boss.
“I was supposed to switch stations before he became GM,” he says, continuing to pace. “Today, he gave the job to Chris.”
“Oh no…” I know he’s been working his ass off for the past few months. While Adam’s career trajectory is on par with those of other students in his graduating class, he’s always held himself to the highest standard when it comes to his job. “Why don’t you talk to him?” I suggest.
“To who?” He frowns.
“Michael,” I say. “Maybe there’s a reason you didn’t get it.”
“Forget it,” he sighs.
“Opportunities aren’t going to be handed to you unless you ask for them, Adam.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Is that what your morning horoscope told you?”
“Fine, don’t ask for my help.” I roll my eyes and go back to making my sandwich. He’s clearly fine enough to be making jokes.
“All right, I’ll think about it,” he says with a sigh. “And let me make that for you. I can already smell you burnt the toast.”
“I did not!” I move away as he hijacks my sandwich-making station. He ignores me and begins creating a masterpiece with my mess.
Adam doesn’t simply toast bread, he butters the sides and pan-fries it with some salt.
He crumbles goat cheese and pesto on top with sautéed mushrooms and onions.
Although the two of us don’t have an overflowing amount of expendable income, we always make sure our fridge and pantries are full of ingredients.
Denying ourselves a real meal is never an option for Adam.
“Okay, I could have done that,” I defend myself, and lean against the counter.
“Not with the stove on high.”
“That was one time !” I say defensively. “I was just in a hurry.”
“I don’t know how many times I have to say it, but setting it on high doesn’t cook food any faster. It just burns it,” he says, his focus still on the sandwich, which has now turned into a panini that could easily make the Eater NY list.
I shrug and reach for my phone vibrating on the other side of the counter. It’s not a familiar number, but it’s in our 212 area code.
“Hello?” I answer skeptically.
“Hi, is this June Wood?” the voice on the other end asks.
“This is she.” I stand straight.
“Great! This is Caitlin from The York Theatre Company. I have some good news. I wanted to let you know that we’d love to offer you a chorus role in The Mousetrap. ”
I whip my head over to Adam, who’s already watching me with anticipation. He raises his eyebrows, and I aggressively nod and smile. He fists the air, and I try my best not to squeal.
“Oh my goodness, thank you so much!” I attempt to sound as normal as possible but can’t contain my excitement. “I can’t wait!”
“We can’t either,” she laughs. “Rehearsals start November seventeenth. We’ll be emailing everyone details by the end of the week but wanted to personally say welcome and congratulations.”
“Amazing,” I say. “Thank you again!”
“Have a wonderful evening, June,” she says.
“You too!” I hang up the phone and run over to Adam. I did it. I got my first paying role. “I did it! I did it! I got Mousetrap !” He meets me halfway and I jump into his arms, and it takes little to no effort on his end before I’m lifted and seeing him eye to eye.
“Hell yeah you did,” he says, and when the adrenaline wears off, it’s abundantly clear my legs are wrapped around his waist and his hands are on my ass.
Adam’s face drops and I loosen my grip on his shoulders.
This physical contact is a first for us, and I’m surprised that I want to narrow the space between us.
Being close to him feels as natural as breathing.
Except he clears his throat and slowly eases me back down to the floor, my crotch rubbing against his torso through my yoga pants, but that’s fine.
My mouth opens, yet no words come, my mind still lingering on ten seconds ago and the fire in my core that needs to be smothered.
“Congratulations,” he says, giving me an awkward smile, then walks out of the kitchen.
I’m left alone, feeling cold without his warmth. Even though I just got the best news, that feeling of not being enough still prickles at my skin.