Chapter 16
I settle into a rhythm. Morning walks along the beach.
FroggoDoggo clients in the midmorning to afternoon.
Evenings on my favorite bench at Windansea, watching the clouds change from peach to pink to fuchsia to cold misty blue.
I’m more grounded. Centered. Sometimes I bring a book.
Mostly, I just sit with my thumb between pages, staring out at the horizon, my mind wandering familiar territory and eventually settling on a pair of honey eyes, high cheekbones, and bleached-blond hair until I’m too cold or too irritated to sit there any longer.
I walk back to my cottage and fall asleep while reading sonnets with Starship Cruiser on the TV in the background.
It beats my old life by spades. No contest. Corporate law is a grind. I have room to breathe. I have room to discover that I like grapefruit better than tangerines. I’ve traded human clients for dogs, and dogs are better than people.
I’m happy, if not fulfilled. I’m catching my breath, even if I have to dip into savings to cover my expenses. I’ll figure this out, and until then, I’ll be perfectly content to sit on this bench alone.
Tonight, I’m shocked to find Mike sitting on my favorite bench. He’s got a book in hand, but his gaze is fixed on the horizon.
“You’re sitting in my spot,” I tell him.
He keeps staring straight ahead, but slides over so at least half the bench is available.
I could keep walking. I could keep standing. But I sit next to him. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going over some of my lines. Opening night is this weekend.”
I reach into my tote and nearly pull out Mike’s sonnets to start my evening reading, but then I remember who I’m sitting next to and press my bag tight to my side as casually as I can.
“What, no words?” he says. “No sharp barb. No quick insult?”
I tap my finger on the book he’s holding. “Do you need help? I can read lines with you.”
“You mean run lines.”
“Same difference.”
“No, actually. Not the same. If I read lines as a director, I would shut down all collaboration and dialogue in my production. It’s downright punitive. If I run lines, then we check each other on accuracy and craft.”
“Fine. I can run lines with you.”
“Again, no.”
“Why?”
“Because you are not an actor.”
“Everybody acts, Mike.”
“And most everybody is really bad at it, Bea.”
“How hard can it be? I memorized stuff for work all the time.”
“When you memorize something, do you say it differently every time? Or do you sound like a fifth grader at a spelling bee rattling off information?”
“I…”
“Do you look for patterns in the language? Or are you just regurgitating words?”
“I can be random.”
“But can you be neutral? Can you hash out choices? Because there’s running lines before rehearsal, and then there is running lines after rehearsal.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning can you keep me from getting locked in, or can you hold me to a choice that’s been made?”
“What choices? You’re reading words that are already written.”
Mike smirks. “See?”
I still don’t understand how this insufferable man is the same one who underlined every gorgeous line of poetry in the volume of sonnets in my bag.
It’s the only explanation I have for the play ticket that is still taunting me in my inbox.
“See what? That you’re self-absorbed or needlessly complicating a beautiful sunset? ”
“You never watch the sunset. You read your book until the light fades. Which one is it tonight?”
I should be irked by that barb, but actually I feel a curl of pleasure to find out that Mike has noticed. “The audiobook of Crime and Punishment.” I pull out my headphones. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” I make a point of sliding them over my ears and turning to face the setting sun.
“Are they on this time?”
I shoot a glare at Mike, but he’s already up and headed for the house.
“It’s not just that I have more time, I have more freedom to explore,” I explained to Stephen during our walk the next day.
“I get to find out what makes me me. I haven’t done anything fun in years, so I’m collecting data.
Trying new things, like live theater, and objectively looking at the results without judgment. ”
This is the reason I’ve shown up to see Mike’s production of Macbeth.
This is the reason I find myself in a small auditorium at SDSU on a Friday night.
I may have bought the ticket because I was desperate to reconcile my two opposing opinions of Mike Benedick, but ultimately, I came because I’m curious if live theater—even uninspired student productions—might spark something inside me.
If I can rib Mike about his performance the next time I see him, so be it.
They went with a ’90s grunge setting, which means a lot of men in unbuttoned plaid flannel shirts. Mike’s bleached-blond hair with grown-out roots is right at home in this setting.
As much as I’m looking for cannon fodder, I’m not finding any. Mike’s Malcolm is solidly supporting the leads of the play. Then along comes act 4, scene 3, where Malcolm gets the spotlight for a bit, and I am not okay.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t believe what I just saw.
There’s this scene in an iconic Starship Cruiser episode that has become a meme: A distraught Pathfinder captain demands, “Get him back! Bring him back!” when her second-in-command time-travels into another dimension.
When act 4, scene 3 of Macbeth ends, this meme comes to mind.
That bewildered desperation is exactly what I’m feeling.
Get Mike back, bring him back onstage. I need to see more of him. At the very least, I need to understand why my heart melted when he said the line, What I am truly, is thine and my poor country’s to command.
How does a man dressed in ’90s grunge say a few words and convince me he is the future king of Scotland after pretending to be a reprehensible villain? It’s not only bewildering, it’s arresting.
I thought I might see evidence of the Mike who uses the margins of great literature as a journal—while also getting to ogle the man onstage. Because even with ratty bleached-blond hair, he is gorgeous.
I was not prepared to find him alongside a villain. Because that’s what happened in this scene. He was a noble king, and then a villain, and then a noble king again. And he exuded grace, humor, charisma, and that crackling intensity from the first time we met in the escape room.
I spend the rest of the play angry that Shakespeare didn’t write more lines for Malcolm.
I drive home confused that any director would take all of Mike’s talent and potential and stick him in a supporting role.
Was it a fluke? Was it a trick? Some sort of Stage Door “the calla lilies are in bloom again” scenario playing out where tragedy and other extenuating circumstances create lightning in a bottle when there was only hot air before?
What I am truly, is thine and my poor country’s to command.
It’s Tuesday, and even though it’s been a few days, that line still makes me shiver every time I think about it. I can’t stop thinking about it, which is the only excuse I have for nearly plowing into my mother in downtown La Jolla.
“So how was the play?” she asks as I untangle Bailey’s leash from her red-soled heels.
“What play?”
“Macbeth.”
“How did you know?”
“If you don’t want your mother knowing what you do on a weekend, don’t mention it to your brother who plays tennis with her every Sunday.”
“I’m going to kill Adam.”
“Oh, don’t blame your brother. You didn’t put him under oath, and he only mentioned that you were busy on Friday. I was the one who put two and two together.” Mom stoops to pet the corgi. “So how was Mike Benedick? Any good?”
“He was…” Unsettlingly good. Memorable, funny, persuasively villainous, and then so affable.
“The boy’s got talent. All of Adam’s hires do.”
“No… Mike’s got something more memorable than talent.”
Mom looks up. “Go on.”
“He’s got…an energy. Maybe… I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“Intelligence.”
“Excuse me?”
“Natural ability can get you far, but you need a clever mind to be memorable onstage. Particularly when you’re in a supporting role and don’t get the good lines.”
“He had some good lines.”
“No, dear, but he was smart enough to make it seem so.”
I think back. What I am truly, is thine… Mike, as Malcolm, brushed a thumb to his temple, then smiled half-heartedly. Malcolm was in over his head and knew it. I’m pretty sure everyone in the audience swooned at that point. “Maybe so.”
It was definitely that line that made me buy a second ticket—for the Sunday matinée this coming weekend.
“Did you tell him?”
“Tell him what?”
“That you liked it so much you’re going a second time.”
“How do you do that?”
“Lucky guess. Please tell me that you’ll at least strike up a conversation when you see him next.”
“I don’t see him.”
“You live at the same address.”
“Yes, but there is a fence, and I make sure to keep it locked.”
“If he finds out from anyone but you that you saw his play twice, it’s not going to go over well.”
I bristle. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Darling, if you want to be the strong, sharp, sexy legal mind on the other side of the fence, you can’t get sloppy and dabble in pining, shrinking-violet territory.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear any of this. I was curious about Mike’s play. I enjoyed it because I always enjoy Shakespeare. So I made plans for this weekend to attend a lecture that I missed last Friday, and I might as well stay for the matinée. It has nothing to do with Mike.”
Mom braces a hand to her hip and fixes me with her try-again stare.
“It has almost nothing to do with Mike.” He’s just really good and fun to watch. A dangerous villain morphing into a sincere, unassuming hero, and somehow being witty throughout.
“It’s nice to see you smile like that.”
“Like what?”
Mom unscrews her water bottle and dumps it in the empty dog bowl outside a cute little boutique. The corgi laps it up. “Say you were to go home today after walking all the dogs, knock on his door, and tell him everything you’ve told me. What would happen?”
“His already swollen ego would explode. He would take my compliment and twist it into some silly, mortifying crush on my part that he would then mercilessly tease me for.” I omit that he’d have every right to do so.
“Or he’d say, ‘Thank you.’”
“‘Thank you’?”
“And you could say, ‘You’re welcome,’ and then go back to your books and your Starship Cruiser.”
It would look like a come-on. “Why do you want me to play nice with Mike Benedick, anyway? Does he impress you?”
“He’s the first boy you’ve talked about in ages. As your mother, I’d like to know a little more about why that is.” Mom pulls me in for a hug. “It was fun running into you, honey. I’m looking forward to our lunch in a couple of weeks. Maybe sushi.” Mom dashes off.
Bailey yaps at me.
“It’s not that simple,” I tell her as we walk back to her house.
“I’m a prickly pear who is ready to become a spinster with a collection of truly heinous mugs.
” The corgi pauses to scratch her ear with her hind leg.
“I have what might as well be Mike’s diary under my pillow.
I’ve read so many of Shakespeare’s sonnets and his thoughtful comments that I could get tattoos of both now.
All over my rib cage. Not that I’m making plans or anything.
” I did get a quote for a tattoo—I’d have to walk a lot more dogs to pay for it.
When I get home, I dig the sonnets out and flip to my current favorite. Sonnet 149. Yes, I’m here for all the angsty, obsessive, frustrated, Dark Lady sonnets. And so, too, is Mike.
Oh, Will, he’s written in the margins, did penning any of this make it any easier? Of course it didn’t.
What must it feel like, he muses in the margins of Sonnet 146.
I turn the page and smile when I read his notes around Sonnet 147.
This. He circles the sonnet. This is what it feels like.
His pen strokes are incredibly angular. They become downright abrupt when he underlines the couplet at the end and writes, I could not agree more.
I know for a fact it is common for people to see the same movie multiple times when it is in theaters. Why not? If it’s good, it’s good and holds up to multiple showings. No one is shamed for it.
There is nothing strange about me deciding to see Mike’s Macbeth a second time. It’s not just about him. There’s something about the ritual of live theater that I enjoy. The communal experience, the quiet hush as the lights dim, the excitement and immediacy of the story, the characters.
Ogling how strands of Mike’s bleached hair fall across his face. How his eyes shine.
The man has charisma and presence, and if I could, I would have happily sat here for each of his shows. Not just because he’s all kinds of interesting for all kinds of reasons, but because he pulls themes and ideas out of Shakespeare that I’ve never seen before.
The curtain falls on the final show. The lights come up, and a man dressed in a black suit walks onto the stage to thank us all and invite us to a reception to meet the student performers.
That’s when I start to sweat. While objectively there is nothing wrong about enjoying Shakespeare, I don’t relish the idea of Mike knowing that I am here. For the second time.
I try to sneak out the back via the balcony exit, but of course I walk right into the reception. The cast is all there, some still in their costumes and makeup, others in their street clothes, which due to the staging choices feel a lot dressier than the grunge costumes.
I spot Mike. He’s near the canapes, smiling, laughing, talking happily with his adoring public in a pair of jeans and a clean white button-down. His hair, which was a greasy, grungy mess onstage, is pulled back in a neat ponytail.
I am not going down in a shame spiral. I’m going to act the professional and keep my head high.
“Congratulations,” I offer to the nearest actress. “Wonderful production. Your interpretation of Lady Macbeth was inspired.”
“Thank you, but you must know I had help. Our director was fantastic. I’ve never been much for Shakespeare, but he made it personal for me.”
“Really?” A bit of relief floods into my veins. Mike, too, would have benefited from a fantastic director. My attraction, or admiration, is misplaced.
“You want to meet him?”
“I’d love to!” I crane my neck to find the man in the dark suit who announced the reception.
“Mike!” the woman shouts. “You’ve got a fan. She wants to hear all about your directorial brilliance.”