That's the attraction.
That's what I tell myself.
It's not the crinkles around his eyes when he finally smiles or the adorable accent or the fact that he took care of me. It also certainly was not because when he kissed me, I felt it to the tips of my toes.
At least I think I did.
I flop down on Angie's bed. I've taken up the habit of doing this daily. I'm pretty sure she's getting sick of it. Mostly because she rolls her eyes and says, "What now? Let me guess: you're going to ask why you didn't get his number."
"Why didn't I get his number?"
"I told you what to do."
"But it's going to make me seem like a flighty airhead." I amnotcallingBackstage Magazineto ask Carson Reuben for Henderson's information. That's so high school.
And desperate.
I'm not there.
Okay, I'm almost there. But not quite yet.
"You're leaving in a few days. You're running out of time, and it's not like you've come up with a better plan."
I haven't. It's not like I can even casually wander the neighborhood where he lives because I have no idea where that might be. I'm lucky if I can find my way back to this place when I go to the nearest Starbucks. He mentioned an apartment that was flooded, but who knows where that even is. I remember that he said he had a theater about ninety miles away from here. Does he live there too? What was the name of the town?
Smallville.
No, that's from Superman.
Something equally diminutive. It gave me the impression of being a podunk town. Visions of tumbleweeds float through my brain. A place in the sticks for hicks. Hicksville? Hicktown?
"Hicklam!" I bolt upright. "His theater is in Hicklam." I beam, proud of myself for finally remembering this detail.
“Oh God, even thenamesounds terrible. But is he there now? How does this information help you?"
"I don't know, but I feel like it does." I pick up my phone and immediately search for “theaters in Hicklam, NY.”
A hit pops up.
The Edison.
I scan through the website, clicking on various items here and there until I find the page for the administration. There he is.
Henderson Quade.
The picture's a headshot, which shouldn't be surprising considering he mentioned that he was an actor at one time. His smile is small and tight, compared with that of the executive director, Grayson Keene.
It was the smile he wore through the first half of our dinner, though, it gradually disappeared throughout the night. I wonder what makes him hold back like this.
I continue scrolling through the website, looking at pictures of past shows and announcements for this year's up-and-coming season. It looks like they start in late May and run through Labor Day.
And then I see it.
“Oh my God, Ang.Oh my God." My hands start to shake, trembling with excitement. "I found him! He's holding auditions this week—today!—at some studio here. Eighth and Thirty-eighth. Where's that?"
"It's in Midtown." Angie doesn't look up from her phone.
"What's Midtown?"
