Chapter Thirty-Eight
OF COURSE, THIS email from Oliver comes in minutes before my meeting with Damian and Debra.
The first time I hear from him directly in almost a month and I’m trying to prepare myself for an interview with an icon.
It’s been rescheduled so many times over the last two weeks that part of me believes it’s not going to happen at all.
That didn’t stop me from doing a full face of makeup, styling my hair, and steaming my white button-down shirt.
It’s a Zoom meeting, so I look outstanding from the waist up; I’m wearing ratty old leggings on the bottom.
I even went so far as to get special wipes meant for computer screens at the Duane Reade down the block, so my computer’s camera is sparkling clean.
Let Debra see me in the best possible light. Please.
I don’t have time to deal with all the emotions swirling through me as I read through Oliver’s email, once, twice, then a third time.
I take that guilt, the love that has no place to go, all of it, and shove it into the far corners of my mind.
Instead, I focus on the script printed out next to my computer and all the notes I scribbled into the margins.
As I close out of his email and fight against a new tingle of nerves working its way through me, I think of the morning I visited my father at his club.
Maybe it’s the delirium of not sleeping well lately, or maybe the memory is just that visceral, but I swear I can smell the fresh café con leche in front of me as his words echo in my mind: Life isn’t a dress rehearsal, hija.
It’s the real performance. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for.
When I tap Damian’s Zoom link, a sense of home settles over me, as warm and comforting as the feel of drumsticks in my hands.
Two hours later, I shut my laptop with deliberate slowness. Halfway through the call, the lady who lives next door to me started playing “In the Arms of an Angel” by Sarah McLachlan on repeat and she’s still going. I don’t care. I just got the fucking job of a lifetime.
Debra Cain is everything. She is poised, thoughtful, and enigmatic, with a kind of graceful command of herself that makes it easy to see how she handles production teams. We clicked immediately, even with the added challenge of being locked in a small computer screen.
Our visions for the score aligned. Production on the film is scheduled to start in February, which means my job picks up in March or April.
We discussed budget at a high level; the pay Damian and Debra quoted is more than enough to keep me afloat.
Contract details will be sent to my agent right after the New Year.
I will be employed.
After almost ten long, hard years, full of unanswered emails and nos from every direction, I finally got a win. I don’t have to move. I don’t have to search for a second job, at least not for a while. I rise from my chair on stiff legs and let out a scream—of excitement and relief.
Sarah McLachlan starts playing a little bit louder.
As my heart rate slows to a more normal rhythm, I throw on some jeans, boots, and my jacket. I don’t even check to make sure I have everything in my purse when I bolt out the door and run down the stairs. There’s one person I need to see immediately.
Well, two people. But one of them isn’t speaking to me outside of work emails.
For the entire A-train ride, I think about Oliver, about all the years we’ve known each other.
Thirteen years, he told me, his eyes sparking with hurt, and it’s clear to me now that we view those thirteen years with very different perspectives.
All this time, I knew him to be an uppity asshole—and he was, in some ways, but because he walled himself in, terrified of being rejected after being cast aside by his own parents.
The same parents that people asked him about constantly.
He must have hated all those questions about his dad.
I was stubborn then. Na?ve, too. I marched into Juilliard thinking it would be the key to the future I’d planned out in daydreams, only to be met with some harsh truths, chief among them that talent and drive are not enough.
There’s always going to be someone more connected, someone who has a leg up. It is a game, and it’s so hard to play.
On a whim, I Google “Anthony Amato.” I haven’t thought of my college boyfriend in years; after graduation, we never kept in touch.
His LinkedIn profile is the first result to pop up.
I click on it and discover he’s got some administrative job at a hospital in San Diego. He hasn’t worked in the arts for years.
Persistence and tenacity, my agent said back in August, and she was right. My stubbornness paid off in some ways. I refused to give up. Still do.
It’s snowing in earnest by the time I emerge at the usual 181st Street station.
Cold flakes kiss my cheeks and dot my hair as I hoof it down the block.
When I round the corner and spot the neon red Besos sign, I can hear the music floating in the air, the familiar rhythms filling me up, comforting me with the sounds of my childhood.
I let myself in the side door using my key, not wanting to make small talk with all the front-of-house staff.
The house band is playing tonight and the club is already half full of guests parked at small tables that fan out from the stage.
Dinner service is usually the slower part of the night; things really pick up once people have had a few cocktails.
That’s when the dance floor fills up and things start to get loud.
No one pays me any mind as I slip into the back.
My stomach rumbles at the smell of all that good food in the kitchen.
I peer around, looking for my father, but don’t see him anywhere.
It’s only the usual back-of-house people—the cooks in their white coats and hairnets who have worked here for as long as I can remember, servers in their all-blacks flitting in and out, the dishwasher grinding away with stacks of plates and trays of glassware.
He looks up and nods to me when I pass by him. I wave in return.
Tucked away in the very back of the building is the office door. It’s little more than a repurposed closet, but it does have a computer, a bunch of filing cabinets, and a desk jammed in there. The door is cracked open, light spilling out onto the tile floor, and I know instantly that’s where he is.
Knocking softly, I peer inside. “Papi?”
“Hija?” My dad’s eyes widen as he looks up at me. He’s seated at the desk with a pile of yellow and pink carbon-copy papers spread out in front of him. “What are you doing here?”
I scooch my way inside and sit down on a red plastic crate that’s been turned upside down. “I have some news.”
He gasps and grabs his phone. “Did I miss it?!”
“No, I haven’t told everyone yet. I wanted to tell you first.” I pause to relish that look he’s giving me—dark eyes shining, all excited anticipation. “I got the gig. The Debra Cain movie.”
“?Wepa!” he shouts, jumping from his chair in triumph. “I knew you’d get it!”
He pulls me up with rough hands so we can jump and shout and hug together. The metal filing cabinets rattle around us. As good as it feels to make my dad proud—to know that I’m escaping destitution for a little while longer—there’s a dark cloud hanging over my head, keeping me from truly soaring.
My dad clocks this as soon as we calm down. His thick eyebrows furrow as he looks at me, the telltale line of concern splitting his forehead nearly in two. “What’s wrong, hija? Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“It is!” I let my hands drop to my side as I sigh. “I just—I think I fucked things up. With Oliver.”
It’s a testament to his genuine concern that he doesn’t scold me for my choice of language. “What do you mean? I thought things went great with the show.”
That’s what my parents believe because that’s what I’ve told them—through the group chat, over dinner, anytime the topic of my work comes up, which is often.
Only Amanda knows the truth about it. As close as I am with my dad, the subject of who I’m sleeping with is not something I’ve ever wanted to broach, so I bite my lip, unsure of how to explain what I’m feeling, what I’ve done.
“They did, for the most part. The music itself is good,” I start. “But I said some things behind his back that he overheard, and now he won’t talk to me.”
He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Aye, hija.”
“It’s—well, it’s complicated. You know he was a jerk when we were in college, but we hashed all that out and things were good between us.
” A gross oversimplification of the last four months of my life, but it’ll have to do.
“And then he heard me say some things that weren’t true, and I tried to apologize to him right after, and again in a text message, but he won’t respond.
It’s fine if he’s done with me after this job is wrapped up. I just… I need him to know the truth.”
My lip trembles. It’s the first time I’ve let myself acknowledge that Oliver may want nothing to do with me once Lineage is finished.
Even with all the uncertainty around us, before that cursed conversation with Damian, I thought that Oliver would be in my life in some way.
That if we couldn’t make it work as a couple, I’d at least get to call him a friend.
“A text message?” my dad asks, clearly offended. “Celia, I raised you better than that.”
“He won’t answer my calls.”
Dad puts a warm hand on my shoulder and looks me square in the eyes when he says, “Words aren’t always the answer, hija. You have to show people how you feel.”
There’s a big lump in my throat when I nod. He’s right. I just have to figure out how to do that.
FROM: Celia Garcia
TO: Oliver Barlowe
DATE: Wednesday, December 2 at 7:57 PM
SUBJECT: (no subject)
I got your email about the recording session. Thanks for setting that up. Do you want to conduct? Or we can split it?
I’ll get the score printed and bound. I have a guy uptown who does a great job. I can drop them off to the NY Phil’s admin offices. Are your parts done? If so, I can handle that this week so everyone has a chance to practice their parts.
I think about you all the time. I hope you’re doing well.
FROM: Oliver Barlowe
TO: Celia Garcia
DATE: Thursday, December 3 at 3:23 AM
SUBJECT: RE: (no subject)