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These days, I can’t shed a tear to save my life. Super Bowl commercials. Cheesy Hallmark movies. Women pushing strollers on the street. People without housing. Wars, famines, humanitarian crises. Expired yogurts that belong to Paul in the fridge. “Mad World,” by Michael Andrews. The list of things that usually make me weep is long and tedious, but my body is all dried up. In an emotional coma, refusing to produce tears.
Cry. Feel something, darn you! Just one thing,I inwardly chide myself as I burst out of the theater, a blast of humid heat slapping my face.
New York wears her weather like a weapon. Summers are long and sticky, and winters are white and ruthless. These days, it seems like the entire city is melting into the ground like an ice cream. But for the first time in years, the heat doesn’t get to me. All I feel is a mild chill, thanks to the fifteen pounds I’ve lost since Paul.
My eyes are still dry.
“No, you shouldn’t cry. You’re happy,” I mumble to myself aloud. “Fine. Maybehappy’s not the right word ...satisfied. Yes. You’re satisfied with your little accomplishment, Winnie Ashcroft.”
One good thing about New York is no one ever looks at you twice when you talk to yourself.
I stride along Times Square, oblivious to the sights, the scents, the festivity in the air. Putting one leg in front of the other requires enough effort these days.
My phone dances in my pocket. I withdraw it, swiping to answer my agent, Chrissy.
“Don’t worry.” I roll my eyes. “I didn’t forget to attend the audition this time.”
I’ve been very forgetful these past few months. Understandable, everyone keeps reassuring me, but I can tell some people are at the end of their rope. I rarely show up to auditions, meetings, and social functions these days. Forget to eat, to exercise, to call relatives and friends back. My niece’s birthday came and went, and for the first time since she was born, there were no lavish gifts, no balloons, no surprise visit from Auntie Winnie. Most days I’m slumped on my couch, staring at the door, waiting for Paul to return.
Ma and Dad say I should cut my losses. Pack up and move back to Mulberry Creek.
There is a job with my name on it back home. Drama teacher for my former high school.
Ma says my childhood sweetheart, Rhys Hartnett, works there now as a football coach and can pull all kinds of strings. She claims it’s a done deal. A great, comfy position to fall into while I figure things out. But the idea of leaving the apartment Paul and I shared makes my skin crawl.
Plus, taking favors from Rhys Hartnett after our messy goodbye just seems ... wrong.
“Yes, I know you decided to grace them with your presence—very charitable of you, by the way.” Chrissy chuckles on the other end of the line.
I shoulder past a flock of tourists taking selfies in front of billboards, giggling and squeaking, without a care in the world.
“How’d you know I showed up?” I toss my last few dollars into the open jaw of a violin case of a street performer without breaking stride. “You spying on me now, ma’am?”
“No, though sometimes I’m tempted, just to check that you’re okay. You know I’m a fierce worrier.”
Darn Chrissy and her heart of gold. Idoknow that. And, truth be told, she is one of the only people in New York who cares about me. She and Arya, the woman who runs the charity I volunteer for. Most of my social network is back in Mulberry Creek. Chrissy took me under her wing when I first signed up with her. I think she saw in me someone she once was. Young and impressionable, fresh off the bus. Easy prey to New York’s bloodthirsty sharks. She came from Oklahoma. I, from Tennessee. But it’s the same story all over again. Small-town girl trying to conquer the Big Apple.
“Well, missy, for your information, I’m fine and a half,” I announce. “Been eatin’ all my veggies and practicing self-care.”
“If you think I’m buying what you’re selling, you’re in for some disappointment. But we’ll revisit the subject later. Back to your audition,” Chrissy says decisively.
It was the first audition I attended since the plane crash and the only role I cared about since Paul passed away.
I want this role. I need this role.
“What about my audition?” I ask.
“I have some news.”
Oh, no. That was fast. Was I really that bad they couldn’t wait to pounce on their phone and call my agent?The woman doesn’t belong onstage.
“Listen, Chris. I tried. Sure did. I went in there and gave it my all. Maybe I—”
“You got the role, baby!” Chrissy announces.
I freeze midwalk. A couple of people crash into me from behind, muttering profanity. Making an unannounced stop on a sidewalk in Manhattan is a serious traffic offense.
Wait ... I got the role?
