25. June
JUNE
I’m Not That Girl - Wicked
I direct Nick to Wils’ apartment complex and shoot her a text, my stomach more tied up in knots than when I sat in line at cattle call auditions.
I’m a fantasy to Nick, a teenage crush he finally got to act on.
I’m not real. He sees what he wants to see—the perfect girl.
He’s supportive of me touring and acting now because he doesn’t understand what that life entails.
He’ll get tired, or annoyed, or worse—he’ll find someone else. Someone who’ll be with him every day.
When he parks, I can’t make myself get out. But I need this time with Wils. There’s so much I want to say to Nick, and I need to parse it all out first, learn my lines, before having this conversation again. My phone vibrates with a text; Wils is home and ready to buzz me up.
I run my hand over Nick’s cheek, fingers dragging across his five o’clock shadow. “What time do you want to meet tomorrow to go over the show bible?”
“As early as you can get there,” he says, leaning his face into my hand. “Are we okay?”
“Yes.” I put every last ounce of confidence into my answer because I need it to be true. “Between the whole directing thing, and the dinner, and … other stuff, I just need a night. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” I hate that he doesn’t trust me, but I don’t deserve it.
“Yeah.” I lean over to kiss his cheek, and he turns at the last second so our mouths meet. Even this quick brush of his lips sends a pang of longing down to my toes. “Goodnight.”
I exit, pressing the bell for Wils’ apartment number, and the door unlocks with a click and a buzz. Grabbing the handle, I turn and wave to Nick one last time, because of course he won’t leave until I’m safe inside.
My sister only lives on the second floor, so I take the stairs up, and she opens her door before I even knock.
“Figured that was you stomping upstairs. Mrs. Arkhangelsky’s gonna be pissed.” She steps back to let me enter. Her apartment opens onto a long hallway. There’s a kitchen off to the right, and a sliver of her living room is visible at the end of the hall.
“My apologies to Mrs. Arkhangelsky, geez,” I mutter.
Wils crosses her arms, surveying me. “So, what are we thinking? Dive bar karaoke?”
“God, no. I hate karaoke.”
“You literally sing for a living.”
“Exactly. Karaoke is for people who want to screlt ‘Livin’ On A Prayer’, or drunkenly mumble through ‘Piano Man’. And there’s always that one guy who sings the shit out of ‘My Way’.”
“Sorry, I’m still stuck on screlt.” Wils laughs. “What the hell is that?”
“Scream-belting.”
“Oh, right. Naturally. I’m happy to stay in tonight, then. I’ll take my bra off and go goblin mode in my gross jammies. The kind you shouldn’t wear when you live alone in case you fall in the bathroom or choke on something, because you don’t want whoever finds your body to see you in them.”
“Your specificity is both vivid and disconcerting.” Willow’s different in her own space, more open. I like it. “Let’s go goblin mode, baby.”
“Excellent,” Wils says, heading for her kitchen. “We’ll start with cracking open a box of wine.”
I take my time down the hallway, staring at her art on the walls, peeking into her bedroom, and leaning into her living room.
Snooping. I’m basically snooping. Wils’ place is eclectic.
Lots of black, which I expected, but pops of bohemian jewel tones draw the eye with interesting patterns.
Damn, my little sister is fucking cool. “Your place is super cute.”
She joins me in the living room, handing me a glass of wine filled to the brim. “Only the best for my esteemed company.”
I sip my boxed wine before moving to the couch. She filled it so high it’ll spill over the sides if I don't. And I don’t want to spill on her cobalt-colored velvet sofa.
“Brb, gonna get changed.” Wils sets her wine on the coffee table and heads for her bedroom.
I sit in silence, admiring the weird ruby red mushroom statues on her side table. At least, I hope they’re mushrooms. My next inhale is deep, settling. Finally. I haven’t taken a full breath since Nat and Chessie told me about Nick’s crush.
“I’ll give you a hint as to what I was watching before you texted,” she says, entering the living room in baggy hot pink pajamas with little black cats all over them, and an impressive messy bun. “This is the best costume for the day.”
She nailed Little Edie’s weird New England/New York accent.
“And you can always take the skirt off and wear it as a cape!” I double over with laughter, nearly spilling my precious wine.
I sigh and wipe a pretend tear from my eye.
“I knew I shouldn’t have let you watch Grey Gardens that one time I babysat you.
Ten was way too young. But I was deep in a Christine Ebersole phase.
God, ‘Another Winter in a Summer Town’ is so fucking sad. ”
I’d begged Mal to coach me for college auditions with that song, but he’d said I was too young.
I’d argued that I could nail Little Edie’s emotional beats.
But now, at almost thirty, I admit seventeen-year-old me wouldn’t have understood looking in a mirror, expecting a young girl’s reflection, but seeing someone older instead. Because it’s been happening to me.
I gulp my too-sweet boxed wine to get away from those memories.
“It was weirdly formative,” Wils concurs. “But it was either that or I was going to watch YouTube compilations of Trixie and Katya’s most unhinged moments.”
“Starting with least or most?”
“Least of course, they want the ad revenue.”
“ Grey Gardens it is. We should put shorts on our heads like Bill Hader in that Documentary Now spoof.”
Wils quirks a brow, pressing play on the movie. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”
“Getting drunk and putting shorts on our heads?”
“No, just—chilling on the couch, talking, that’s not our schtick.
I mean, not since I was ten and you scarred me for life.
” She picks at one of the buttons tufting the back of her couch.
“And I’m glad you texted, I really am. But is something going on?
You look …” She grimaces, hand gesturing to my face.
“Thanks,” I mutter into my wine glass. After another large gulp, I set it on the coffee table, both relieved and afraid that Wils is asking what’s going on.
I need to talk to someone, but that means telling the whole truth.
And there are parts of this story I’m not proud of.
With a sigh, I answer, “I don’t know what I’m doing. ”
Wils shrugs. “Get in line.”
“I don’t know how to explain it.” I groan, dragging my hand through my hair.
“I like Nick. I—I love him, Wils. I’m pretty sure he feels the same, but he loves the idea of me.
Not the real me. And I don’t know if it’s even fair of me to say something because technically this started out as a fake relationship. ”
“Slow the fuck down. You and Nick are faking?”
“Not anymore. But, yes.” I stare at my lap, unable to meet her eyes. “I pretended we were dating to get out of an awkward situation at the beginning of Conservatory, but gossip traveled fast, and in less than an hour, everyone thought we were actually dating.”
“So you’re dating for real now. But you think Nick doesn’t like you?”
“Because he doesn’t see me. I found out—not from Nick—that he had a crush on me in high school. He likes an idealized version of me that he puts on a pedestal.”
“And the only way to get off a pedestal is to fall,” Wils murmurs.
“I’ll disappoint him.”
She leans in, waiting until our eyes meet to say, “If that man finds you disappointing, then that’s his fucking problem. The only person you should care about disappointing is you. Not Nick, not Mom.”
“I know.”
“This is a lot of pressure.” She fiddles with her now lopsided messy bun. “Are you maybe looking for a reason to break it off with him?”
I need another mouthful of wine after that question. The alcohol burns, but it loosens something, too. Or maybe it’s Willow. “There’s no way this ends well.”
“What about long distance?”
“That availability check I told you and Mom about? I got the audition. If I go on tour again …”
Her voice softens. “It’s a whole different kind of long distance.”
“And Nick is so kind, and s-so good. He deserves more than what I can give.”
Wils raises her sassy eyebrow. God, I’m still jealous. “Now who’s up on that pedestal?”
“Excuse you, you're supposed to be on my side.” I shift closer, until we’re knee-to-knee. “The reality of dating me is going to let him down. I let people down.”
Her spine straightens into a take-no-shit pose. Reading my sister’s mannerisms is like coming home. “Who’s telling you this shit? You haven’t let anyone down.”
“I’ve let Mom down,” I counter.
“Be for real, Junie. Mom never shuts up about you. She’s so disgustingly proud of you, I bet she’d start a newsletter about how wonderful you are. But then she’d miss the chance to tell everyone over and over.”
But I owe that to our parents. “She gave up everything for us. For me. She got pregnant with me and quit playing professionally. Mom didn’t even teach privately again until Laurel and I were out of the house. All those dreams she had, she gave them up. But I can give her that dream, through me.”
“Oh, you sweet, sweet eldest daughter. You know that’s not your job, right?” Her reply is so matter-of-fact that my shoulders bunch at my ears.
“Of course it’s not. But I want to do that for her. And I thought that’s what she wanted, too. She spent so much money and time shuffling me to rehearsals and classes and university. Now, all of a sudden, I’m supposed to just give it up.” I sweep my arm wide, overdramatic, just how I like it.