"There you have it, folks, our time has come to an end," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "What we have learned, what we have seen... I honestly can't say that I know for sure what's just happened here."
"I can."
My head whips toward Vince, confusion etched on my face.
He doesn't elaborate. Just keeps looking at me, that infuriating, captivating smirk still in place.
Heat floods my cheeks again as I clench my jaw, breaking eye contact to face the camera once more.
I'm pretty sure that while everyone else got a kick out of my audition, in my own gay little reality, I've just spent the last hour flirting with Vince Vickers for everyone else's oblivious amusement. None of this makes sense. Does it? This is all for the tape. It's just a comedy.
Everyone who auditions probably runs through the same jokes. Is Vince even into other men? I mean, he mentioned a kid.Vince seems like a family man. A family man from Minnesota who watches Toy Story with his kids.
I'm twenty-seven years old, and I've been dating men since I was sixteen. I can't say much for certain, but I know when I'm being flirted with.
Vince has been flirting with me, I'm positive about that.
The familiar spark in his eyes each time he turns to face me is unmistakable. His eye contact lights a flame inside of me. I can't make sense of any of it from the moment I sat down in the chair next to him.
Vince is the one to break the awkward silence.
"This is Vince Vickers and Bo Peep," I immediately glare over at Vince, feelings of attraction instantly turning into anger once again. Vince continues, "signing off from Los Angeles."
I don't know whether to continue glaring at Vince or keep my gaze on the camera. I end up going back and forth, struggling for words to express my anger that Vince does not present my name correctly a single time tonight.
I've tuned out the laughter of the crew at this point, because they're still going. Thankfully, anything I do now is funny, including my display of genuine anger.
"Have a great night, folks," Vince concludes, grabbing his papers off the table.
The chair scrapes against the floor as Vince pushes himself up, the sudden movement making me flinch. He grabs his script from the table, the papers already neatly stacked despite the chaos of our audition. I watch, frozen in place, as he turns and walks away without so much as a backward glance.
His retreating figure cuts through the studio lights, a perfect silhouette moving with that same infuriating confidence that's been throwing me off balance since he arrived. The crew parts for him like the Red Sea, their laughter still echoing in the air as he disappears through the studio door, leaving me alone at thetable with a script I can barely focus on and a heart that's trying to beat its way out of my chest.
I almost reach out to him, wanting to grab him by the arm to stop him from leaving, but I catch myself.
My breath catches in my throat, sharp and painful. I clench my jaw, the muscles tightening until they ache, before pushing myself up from the chair. My movements feel stiff, robotic, as I straighten my shirt and try to regain some semblance of composure. The realization hits me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs.
I've done it again. The same pattern, the same pathetic cycle—I got caught up in someone, lost in the desperate need to be seen, to matter.
This isn't real for Vince. It's just a job. He came in, delivered his lines with practiced precision, played his part, and walked away. He's a professional actor, and I'm just another scene he's moved past.
I have to work on this desperation of mine, this bottomless need for validation, or it's going to be my downfall. I can feel it in my bones, this slow, steady erosion of my self-worth, one unrequited connection at a time.
I watch as Vince makes his way out of the studio, a group of three to four people following closely behind him. The studio door swings shut behind him with a soft click that echoes in the sudden silence, leaving me alone at the table with nothing but the ghost of his touch still tingling on my thigh.
Apparently, he's a busy person and is off to his next...whatever it is that people like Vince do when they're not torturing yoga instructors for sport. I can feel my shoulders slumping, the adrenaline that had been coursing through my veins finally draining away, leaving behind a hollow ache in its place.
My mind replays the past hour in a dizzying montage of juvenile jokes and confusing touches, of moments where I felt seen followed immediately by instances of being reduced to a cartoon character. The crew begins to pack up around me, their movements practiced and efficient, as if this bizarre audition was just another Tuesday for them. Maybe it was.
I push myself up from the chair, my leather shoes squeaking against the floor as I stand. The papers on the table suddenly look like evidence of a crime I didn't know I was committing. Did I just spend an hour being professionally flirted with for a television show? Or worse—did I imagine the whole connection, the moment under the table where his hand lingered just a second too long?
The weight of uncertainty settles in my stomach like a stone. I came here desperate for a job, any job to keep me afloat in this city that eats money for breakfast. Instead, I'm leaving with a crush on a man who probably doesn't even remember my name, who called me "Andy" and "Bo Peep" more times than he ever used my actual name.
Gary approaches, face unreadable. I brace for judgment, but his eyes already scan past me as if I've vanished. The set scrambles back to life around me.
Gary finds me with a wide, flushed smile. "Hey hun, you were good." His hand claps my shoulder, making me flinch. "I talked to the producers, we're keeping you on. Be back tomorrow bright and early for the pilot. We're moving fast—get ready for insane work weeks, sweetheart."
I stare at Vince's empty chair, wishing he'd stayed. I wanted more of his jokes, more of those fingers squeezing my thigh.
