Alexis calls out cheerfully, announcing her reentry into the studio, not even caring that she’s interrupting the number. But for once, she hasn’t pissed me off. For one bizarre moment, I’m grateful for her center-of-the-universe ways, and my internal organs thank her because my envy starts to subside.
“Alexis, take it from here,” I say to her and gesture carelessly toward the front of the room. “Jill, you can just watch the rest of the number.”
Alexis resumes her post and Jill retreats, surprising me by taking a seat next to me. Strange, because she’s been avoiding me as much as I’ve been avoiding her. But now she’s inches away and she’s lit up like the sun, shining brightly from her brief moment in front of a very small crowd. She locks eyes with me, and all I want is to ask her to have dinner with me so I can spend time with her away from here. Get to know her. Hear her stories. Learn what makes her tick. “Thank you,” she says, with so much happiness in her expression. “I loved that. Even though it was only for a few minutes.”
I stay impassive. I have to keep it professional with her, even though every single thing about her threatens to ensnare me further, especially that hopefulness, that sheer joy she has in her job. “Like I said before, you’ll likely be needed for this show,” I say.
“I saw the call sheet for the next few weeks. The stage manager has me scheduled with Brayden, the understudy for Patrick,” she says, and when she breathes my lead actor’s name, she glances at the front of the studio where he’s running through the song with Alexis. Jill practically inhales him with her eyes and as she lingers on Patrick, I connect the dots. She has free reign to gaze at him with reckless abandon since he’s on stage. She can stare longingly without it being obvious, and that’s what she’s doing. She’s gazing at him and sighing happily.
As I watch her watching him with such affection in her eyes, a hot stab of jealousy pierces clear through my chest. It hurts worse than I’ve ever experienced. More than I’ve ever felt the angry ache of this all-too-familiar emotion because there’s a whole new level of envy rising up in me now. Reaching new heights.
He’s the one she’s in love with.
Patrick f**king Carlson.
My lead actor.
I leave the studio without a word and head to the bathroom. I turn on the cold water, and wash my face. I do it again, and again and again, jealousy still burning through me. I grip the edge of the sink, wanting to rip it out from the wall with my hands.
What the f**k is wrong with me? I hardly know her, and I can’t get her out of my system. I don’t want to go down this path again with an actress, I don’t want to take another chance. But yet, the prospect of her with another man feels far worse, and it’s consuming me because I don’t want her to be with Patrick what-so-fucking-ever. I can’t watch that happen under my nose. Even if she’s on my banned substances list, I can’t witness the woman I want so badly fall more deeply into love on my stage, in my show, in front of me.
I look at my reflection in the mirror. The glass is smudged and there’s a crack in the corner. These old rehearsal studios in New York are in worse shape than they should be. But I still see who I am. A man who gets what he wants. A man who knows one thing incredibly well—his job. Who can devote endless hours to work. Who can move actors around like chess pieces. Who can bring out the best in them. Who’s earned awards for doing just that.
For knowing exactly how to handle actors.
I let go of my hold on the sink, turn off the water, and dry my hands, each move a step in my new strategy. Because I’m not the director for nothing.
I make the f**king rules.
I can change the rules.
I can make the rules work for me.
She’s not mine, but she can’t be his.
I return to the rehearsal room, sit down next to her and take some small bit of victory when she looks away from him and at me.
“You’re not going to rehearse with Brayden,” I tell her.
She looks crestfallen. “Why? I don’t understand.”
“Because I’m going to rehearse you as Ava. You’ll rehearse with me.”
Chapter 12
Jill
During a break in rehearsal the next day, Shelby pulls me into the group dressing room that all the chorus gals share.
“What is it?”
She pats the chair in front of the mirror. “Sit. Time for your hair stylist to work her magic.”
“Braid me, baby,” I joke.
“No. I changed my mind. You need a French twist. Something ridiculously alluring.”
“Does that mean a French braid is too innocent?”
“It means right now I’m in the mood for getting my fingers into a twist,” she says and bumps me with her hip then pushes my shoulders, forcing me to sit down.
“Do your thing then, Miss Broadway Stylist.”
Grabbing a water bottle from the dressing room table, she sprays a bit of mist to smooth out my hair, humming along to the number we worked on earlier today. I watch in the mirror as her fingers weave and thread, twisting and tightening until minutes later, she declares “Ta da.”
She hands me a mirror, and swivels me around. I hold it up and check out the back of my head. A classy, sophisticated twist. Like something a movie star would wear on the red carpet. I hop off the chair, and kneel down in front of her, bowing. “I’m not worthy. I’m not worthy,” I tease.
“Oh, shut up. It was fun. And besides, that gets my desire to style out of my system for the day.”
“You can use me anytime,” I say and we return for another round of dancing and singing and working with the music director, while our director spends the afternoon with the stars. Then, everyone leaves and it’s only Davis and me.
* * *
We are alone in the rehearsal studio.
“Your hair is up.”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t have it up earlier today,” he says matter-of-factly, as if he’s merely reporting on his day’s observations. But his observations are about me. Self-consciously, I bring my hand to my neck, nervously brushing away a few loose tendrils. “I can take it down.”
He shakes his head. “Leave it up. It works for Ava.”
“For Ava?”
He nods. “Yes. For Ava,” he says, emphatically, making it clear that this rehearsal is all about Ava. That’s 100 percent fine with me.
He takes a seat at the piano. I’ve never seen him play before. “You play?”