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To Kill a Mockingbird is his favorite, of course, followed by 12 Angry Men. Naturally, he complains the latter is sexist. Alyssa, can you really believe women could be excused from jury duty solely because they were women well into the 1960s? Of course, in New York in the 1950s, plenty of women were on juries. So the playwright—it's based on a play, you know—is just a sexist asshole.
When guilt creeps in, I practice my lines for the day. There is so much to memorize every day. I wasn't the star of Together. I always had days off, hours between scenes, plenty of time to rehearse my lines over and over and over. I coveted the time. I got to be someone else, somewhere else, without any concern of lights or directors or bitchy actors. It was just me, just Cindy Bleachers, really. No problems with friends. No problems with family. No loneliness or calories to count in my head. Just my character and the words on the page.
I barely get to work on time. I love having a job. I love having a place to go every day. I love having coworkers, even if half of them are off their rockers, and the other half avoid talking to all the actors. I love every second of performance. But the days are long and there is so much time to wait. There is so much time for guilt to creep into my mind.
Fridays are particularly slow. The closer we get to the end of the day, the more I fill with dread. Another weekend with Ryan. Another weekend of lies. Another weekend of that look on his face, that look I caused. I pray for a high-profile divorce—anything that will keep him working. I check my phone whenever I have a break. Ryan has taken to texting me all day. It's mostly normal stuff. How are you? How is work? Are you sticking to your recovery diet? It's mostly boring stuff. I'm working late. Will I see you at home tonight? How about we rent a movie? I lie about long days. I lie about needing to rehearse after we wrap. At least I don't have to lie about exhaustion.
But Ryan gets more suspicious, and by the fourth week of this, I can barely manage to elude him. I only see Luke one morning and it's only for an hour. Only for a long hug and a few stolen sips of his Earl Grey.
Thursday is painful. Friday is agony. All day, I think of nothing but Luke.
Late in the afternoon, an office PA taps me on the shoulder. “Laurie wants to talk to you. I okayed it with the director. You're not in the next scene. You should have two hours.”
I nod and walk down the hall. Laurie is in my dressing room, giant smile plastered on her tired face. She sits across from Luke. He's all out in a suit and tie, his hair combed back, his eyes bright and brilliant.
“Your lawyer wants to talk to you,” she says.
“I can see that.”
“Interesting that you need a divorce lawyer when you aren't even married.”
Laurie gapes at Luke. She throws me a “you-go-girl” look. “Remember, the walls are thin here and everyone loves to gossip.”
“Especially you,” I say.
“I guess you better fill me in on the details this weekend. Or who knows what rumors I might believe,” she says.
“Are we hiking this weekend?”
“Fine,” she says. “The second my shoes touch dirt. And I want good details. Juicy details.”
Luke smirks. “Thanks, Laurie.”
“Naomi's scene should take about two hours. But it could be as quick as 90 minutes. And if your makeup sweats off, you're coming up with your own excuse.”
“I will,” I say.
Laurie opens the door. “Monday's revisions are on your dresser.” She waves to one of the crew members and shuts the door behind her.
“Strange woman,” Luke says.
“You should see her when she's drunk.”
I sit next to him on the couch, my hands trailing along his neck.
“Not right now,” he says. “I need to talk to you.”
“After,” I say. “Please.”
My body hums just from being near him. I need him touching me, everywhere, all the time. I unzip my top, slide onto Luke's lap, and straddle him. My lips press against his as I bring his hands to my breasts.
He gives in, for a moment, his lips on my lips, his hands on my skin. Then, he pulls away. “Alyssa, this is important,” he says.
“Please,” I say. “I need to fuck you.”
“I'm not sure how to say no to that,” he says. I press my lips into his and he melts into me, his tongue in my mouth, his fingertips on my nipples, the hardness in his slacks pressing against me.
And I lose myself in his touch as he unzips his pants and slips inside me.
