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“And yet, you wouldn’t invest a cent in it, even though it’s falling apart.”
“The next owners will renovate it.” What a maddening woman. What is she getting at?
“I’m sorry,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest as she speeds up. “I realize my actions have consequences, grave ones, but I had nochoice. I was in a really dark place. I couldn’t stay in New York after what we found out.”
“You did a lot of growing up in the last few months,” I point out.
“I really did,” she says. “So did you, though.”
The elephants in the room—Paul and Grace—have been acknowledged, and now would be a good opportunity to broach the subject of the pregnancy, of my mother’s videos, of the betrayal. But I don’t. This will not serve my purpose. I’m here to bring her back to New York, not remind her why she ran away.
“Darkness is all I know,” I reply tersely. “And yet you don’t see me dropping commitments left and right just because I’m in a bad mood.”
“It’s not a bad mood.” Her tone changes, the edge in her voice more prominent. “I couldn’t stand the idea of staying in that apartment.”
“Why didn’t you say anything? We’d have found you appropriate accommodations in Manhattan.” I kick a small rock on the side of the road.
“It’s not just about the apartment.” She shakes her head. “It’s about my future.”
“You’ll have no future if you don’t return to New York immediately!” I stop dead in my tracks, a few hundred feet from the river she was telling me about. I’m screaming. Why thefuckam I screaming? I don’t think I’ve screamed my entire adult life. No. Scratch that. I never raised my voice when I was a child either. It is such a common thing to do.
I turn to her, and for the first time in months, no—years—I am thoroughly and royally pissed off. “I’m going on a flight back home in five hours, and I expect you to join me. You have an annual contract with Calypso Hall. I don’t give a shit about your mental state, just like no one gives a shit about mine. Contracts are meant to be honored.”
“Or what?” Her face hardens. Sweet Winnie Ashcroft is sweet no more. Maybe she was never that bundle of innocence and oatmealcookies people pegged her to be. Or maybe she is simply growing up right in front of me, and she will no longer be pushed around by anyone. Paul. The world. Me.
“Or ...” I lean forward, a mild smirk tugging on my lips. “I’ll sue you, and you’ll have to come back, anyway.”
A second ago, I didn’t think it was possible for me to hate myself more than I already do. But I was gravely mistaken. Because the look on Winnifred’s face makes me want to vomit my inner organs and then feast on them. For the first time, disappointing someone means something to me.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Then opens it again.
“You mean to tell me that after everything we’ve been through together, you’re going to sue me because I skipped town and your theater has to make do with a temporary actress, for a role that had overtwo thousandwomen auditioning for it?”
“Yes.”
“This is how little everything that’s happened to me, toyou, means to you?” She searches my eyes. She is not going to find anything there. I perfected the art of not showing any emotions decades ago.
“Oh, gosh.” She steps back, shaking her head on a dark chuckle. “You really don’t care, do you?”
I say nothing. How amIthe bad guy here?
She is the one who left without even saying goodbye.
She is the one who quit on her role.
“You’ve given up,” I reply mildly. “What was the point of this entire journey? Of us meeting? Finding out the truth? If you refuse to stay and fight for what you came to New York for? You just ran back to your mommy and daddy. To rainbows and pies. To the place you know damn well is too small for you, too uninspiring for you, toowrongfor you.”
“Our needs change as we get older.” She throws her arms in the air. “It’s okay to settle for comfort!”
“It isterribleto settle for anything,” I grit out. “Comfort is the last thing an ambitious, talented twentysomething woman should be feeling. You shouldn’t even be within a hundred-mile radius of comfort.”
She stares at me with bone-deep frustration.
“I’m not coming back,” she says, finally.
“Of course you are. You’ll finish your post; then you’ll leave. Don’t worry, I’ll be happy to pay for your ticket back to Shitsville.” I glance around, scowling.
She presses her lips together, closing her eyes. “Maybe you’ll never understand, and that’s okay. Every person’s journey is different. But I should’ve done this months ago. Come here, sort out my thoughts, make sense of everything that’s happened to me. I’m sorry I ignored my responsibility. I know it isn’t fair to Lucas, the cast, and you. I wish I could turn back time and not take the role.”
