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Could I really handle that?
“Auditions are tomorrow,” she says. “If you want to get back into the game, you aren't going to find a better opportunity.”
“But a model?” I ask.
“They're desperate and you're perfect.”
Say yes. Just say yes. Just scream yes and schedule the audition. You don't have to tell Ryan. You don't have to start a fight. Come on. Don't you miss it? Don't you miss reading a script 20 times, finding the nuance in every line? Don't you miss slipping into a role and channeling all the shit that's bothering you and putting it in the scene? Don't you miss being on set and working with other actors to create the most delightful imitation of life? Don't you miss being the professional woman you always wanted to be, excelling at your job, and coming home exhausted? Don't you miss knowing you kicked ass?
Don't you miss acting?
“I have to ask Ryan,” I say, and I hate myself for it. Why can't I just do it and deal with his irritation? Why can't I just do it and convince him later? It's so close it hurts. I could take this audition. I could kill it. I could get the part. Jesus, what if I got the part? I barely survived three seasons of Together and I was only second billing.
“Do you remember when you first moved to Los Angeles and tried to audition for a role as Ophelia?”
“Yes.”
“And I told you my girl is not going to play a role where she throws her life away over some brooding loser?”
“I seem to recall something more along the lines of 'Fuck Shakespeare, no one enjoys that thou and thee bullshit.'”
“Before you got Together, you would have killed someone for this kind of opportunity,” she says.
“I know,” I say, and I try to think up excuses to convince myself. I'm not ready. I'm out of practice. I'm still on hiatus. But none of them matter. I want this. I need this. I need this so much, it will crush me to say no.
Ryan won't like it. No, it's worse than that. It's a direct violation of our agreement. After treatment, he made me promise to take a one year hiatus. He made me promise to think about my life and if I really, really wanted to go back to acting. It seems silly to do something that made you so sick, even if it is your “passion.”
It isn't Ryan's fault. He's a great guy, but he wouldn't understand passion if it slapped him in the face.
“Listen, darling,” she says, “I know Ryan did a lot for you, helping you when you got sick, but you can't let him run your life.”
“I know.”
“Do you think opportunities like this come along every day? You'll hate yourself if you ignore this chance.” Damn. She's right. I will hate myself if I pass up this opportunity. And I'll hate Ryan if he keeps it from me…
“Okay,” I say. “I'll audition.”
I'll think of something to tell Ryan. I'll think of some way to convince him.
I have to.
Chapter 2
Daydreams get the best of me. I am back on set, on another TV show, this time with a sane showrunner. My co-stars and I are best friends. We talk about motivations and practice our lines while we wait. We are all on the same wavelength, melding our interpretations of the scenes, laughing between takes, eager to bring the emotionality every time.
It's just like Together, only without the pesky voice in my head asking me to stuff my face with junk.
When I snap out of it, I am eager to channel my energy into something. But there's nothing here, nothing but glass windows and modern furniture. I need to get out. I need to talk to Ryan, to convince him this is a good idea. Or at least to get a feel for where he stands. We did just get engaged. He should be in a good mood. Right?
I wear his favorite dress—a sleek black and white thing that screams trophy wife—and drive to his office. I practice my potential speech in the elevator. I love you, Ryan. I'll be so happy. This will be so good for both of us. I won't be lonely all day. I won't bother you at work. I won't be such a needy, whiny wreck.
But I know it won't convince him.
Relax, Alyssa, he's your fiancé. He has to listen to you. He has to consider it. Right?
The suite is as clean as it is elegant. White walls. Oak furniture. A sleek silver sign bearing the name of the law firm: Lawrence and Knight. It's only Ryan and his partner, Luke Lawrence. I've still never met him. He leaves every day at a very reasonable 6:00PM.
I knock on Ryan's door. “Come in,” he says. Ryan looks up for a second, just enough to register my presence. He isn’t surprised or delighted, just aware. “What's wrong, sweetheart?”
