Chapter 12
Seven weeks until Opening Night
I am looking forward to our first rehearsal now that Theo and I are back to good, now that I know I might actually do a decent job with Helena. I’m looking forward to working with Max and Bailey. And Will. I am looking forward to seeing Will again, even if I have decided not to go there.
This summer might be okay after all.
I am just pulling up to the theater when a text comes in from my mother:
We have a surprise for you!
What surprise? I shoot back.
You’ll have to wait and see!
I sigh. I am in no mood for mischief.
I see him as soon as I enter the room. His back is to me, his wavy blond hair perfectly in place, in a linen shirt and jeans, trying to look down-to-earth, but he isn’t.
He is surrounded by a group of young women, his natural habitat.
They are laughing at something he’s saying—that is, until they see me, and they stop and look at him expectantly.
One of them leans in and whispers to him, and he turns around.
And there he is. Nick Fucking Nolan, the movie star.
My ex-lover, ex-costar, and current mortal enemy, and for some inexplicable reason, he is in North Lake, in my rehearsal hall.
Why, why, oh, why is he here?
On set, in the TV world, being surrounded by beautiful people is normal.
Here, among mere mortals, he is practically luminescent.
He seems taller, more chiseled, more intensely beautiful.
He looks in every way to be the dreamboat leading man.
He’s chatting away as though he somehow belongs here, as if his presence here is to be expected.
He’s charming the locals, showing what an everyman he is.
He doesn’t know how to breathe without the adoration of women raining down on him.
He turns in slow motion, it seems, sees me, and I catch it: I see that hair of a flicker of the real him, the real man even I only barely know.
It’s almost imperceptible. He covers it instantaneously with bravado, and the real him is gone, replaced with the plastic version.
He tilts his head to the side, clutches one hand to his heart as if to say, At last, here she is.
He strides toward me and opens his arms wide; everyone is watching us, everyone nervously thrilled.
What will they do? Are they friends? How is this going to go?
Will there be drama? We love drama! But no.
There will be no drama. I’m a fucking professional.
Nick throws his arms around me, and I respond gingerly.
I don’t want to press my body against his body.
He smells expensive, the same Tom Ford cologne that used to make me nearly vibrate if I caught a whiff.
I bought a bottle so I could spray it on my pillow when I went to sleep without him.
Now it turns my stomach. Once I stole his shirts from set.
Now he’s unrecognizable, which is a relief.
“Mira,” he says fondly. “Here you are.”
“What are you doing here, Nick?” I keep my voice flat, as though any emotion at all will betray all manner of mayhem inside me.
“Theater, darling!” He spreads his arms and turns grandly. The plethora of women titter. “Your parents didn’t tell you?”
I glance at my parents. My mother’s fists are clenched up to her face in excitement as she looks wildly at me for my reaction. My father avoids my glare and drops his eyes toward his script. “Tell me what?” I ask, although every cell of me is already sinking with suspicion.
“I’m here to play”—he glances at his script—“Dimitry?”
“Demetrius.”
“That guy!” He laughs. I bet he hasn’t even read the play.
“Why, Nick?”
“Why am I, an act-or, act-ing?” He rolls his eyes and looks conspiratorially at the woman nearest to him. She nearly chokes on her giggle.
I grab him away from his harem. “Don’t fuck with me. Why are you in my town, in my parents’ play, in my life at all? What about . . . Batman?”
His head drops. “Lego Batman fell through.” He sighs. “Something about copyright . . .” He reaches for my hand. “I thought maybe you’d be glad to see me. I miss you. I should never have let you leave.”
“I’m not,” I huff, though the touch of his hand has sent a jolt straight to my cervix.
“Listen.” He takes my other hand. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a total ass. I don’t know . . . I just really miss you.” He leans in, and I snatch my hands back.
“Stop it,” I hiss. “No one knows about you.” He smiles; everyone knows about him. “About us.” His smile drops. He looks almost disappointed. “No one knows that we are anything but colleagues.” I blink at him. “No one even knows I’m off the show yet.”
“Okay, well, that explains why your parents were so easy.” He smirks.
“What? How did . . . Nick, why are you even here?”
He puts his hands up in defense. “Can’t a guy give back a little to the community and do a little Shakespeare between seasons of his international hit TV show?
” I want to interject that this is my community, not his, but truthfully, these days, we have about equal claim to it.
“And maybe get his girl back in the meantime?” He winks.
“But how . . .” I am interrupted by my mother clapping us all to attention. We are about to begin. “We aren’t done here.”
“I sure hope not,” he whispers, too close to my face. My blood quickens, despite myself.
“Everybody! Take a seat!”
I stalk off to the other side of the room, where Theo has saved me a seat.
“Do tell . . .” he murmurs, not looking at me.
“He’s an asshole.”
“I mean, that’s evident. Why is he here?”
“To woo me back, it seems.”
“Back?! Girl!”
“I’ll tell you later.” I pause. “He’s playing Demetrius, apparently.”
“What about Will?” Will was supposed to play Demetrius.
“Ugh. I don’t know.” I glance around the room, only now realizing that Will isn’t here.
Theo sighs. “Does he know?”
“The irony? Probably not.” The irony being that Demetrius treats Helena like hot garbage before Puck’s misdirected magic transforms his heart. That won’t be happening here.
My mother makes an embarrassing, gushing speech about how lucky we are to have a real star in our show (Theo kicks me under the table), and everyone is a little confused but mostly just excited. Nick soaks it up like the synthetic sponge that he is.
At the break, I pull my parents into the small kitchen in the rehearsal hall.
“Why is Nick Nolan here?” I demand. “What’s going on?”
“Well, he’s going to play Demetrius, darling,” my mother coos. “Aren’t we so lucky?”
“What about Will?” I glare at my father, since my mother is clearly going to be useless here. My father clears his throat.
“Will, uh, well, the, uh . . . opportunity, you see . . . and Mr. Nolan, well, Nick, as it were . . . presented himself . . .” He is bumbling. My father is a lot of things, but he never doesn’t know what to say.
“Presented himself, how?” I turn back to my mother. “What’s he talking about? What’s going on here?”
“Goodness, darling, I certainly didn’t expect this kind of reaction. We thought you’d be pleased.”
“Why would you think that? You know nothing about me!” My sigh is nearly a growl. “How did this happen?”
My dad clears his throat again, a second attempt at coherence. “We were contacted,” he says, then, pleased with this new footing, continues, “by Nick’s agent.”
“Nick is between seasons of the show.” My mother looks at me pointedly.
“As you know.” Obviously Nick has given her only a version of the story.
“And he very generously offered to lend a little more, well, star power”—here, she avoids my eyes—“to our production. Free of charge, if you must know.” She raises her eyebrow at me, as though I should have thought to be this benevolent.
“And he brings with him some significant sponsors. And with the additional ticket sales, well, it will fund our entire next two seasons. Our production value . . .”
“Pyrotechnics!” blurts my father in an uncharacteristic display of enthusiasm. “We can do pyrotechnics!”
“Where is there a need for exploding fireballs in William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Ross? Don’t be asinine.”
“We’ll find a place,” he says. “Maybe Oberon throws fire, or at the wedding celebration . . .”
“That’s much too heavy-handed. Honestly, what next? An army tank onstage?”
“Stratford already did that,” my dad says. “The Scottish play, 2009.” Even in an argument, my parents won’t say the name Macbeth inside a theater. None of us would. Old theater superstition.
“Um, hello? Excuse me, can we circle back to me here?” They both look at me surprised, I know, because they have indeed forgotten I am standing here. “What about Will? What about the person you already cast in the role?”
“Will understands,” my dad says. “It’s what’s best for the show.
We’ve only had the one rehearsal so far.
A big Hollywood actor brings too much to our show to turn him down.
” They have no idea of the levels to which Nick is too much.
“We will make it up to Will. He knows that. It’s .
. .” He softens a little. “It’s not good form.
” He clears his throat. “I—I don’t like it, I’ll say that. But what are we supposed to do?”
“So, a famous person approaches you out of nowhere and randomly asks to be in a community theater Shakespeare production, and you remove an actor whom you know and trust, who is already doing well in the part, in order to put someone who is famous for playing a real estate detective in his place?” I look between them, for answers.
They are, blessedly, silent. “And he’s going to do it for free.
And he’s going to inject a ton of money into your production.
And it has yet to occur to you both to wonder why this man is doing all of this?
” They look at me blankly. “It never occurred to you to talk to me about this?”