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“Don’t take my word for it.” He tossed today’s copy of Harmony Tribune on my lap. “Vera Redding says you’re a tour de force, and that woman hates everything.”
I smiled and put the newspaper aside. “It’s a good play for me. It’s jus
t what I needed.”
The play, and the theater, and Marty Ford, were exactly what I needed; more steps in my healing process. The fear of potentially losing him or the HCT to the city council’s renovation plans shook me to the bone.
“We have to fix this city council situation, Marty.” I cleared my throat. “Can Isaac help?”
“The council says the project can cost millions. I don’t know that he has that.” He smiled sadly and held up his hands. “And even if I wanted to, I have no way of asking him.”
As I biked home after work, my throat ached with tears. The pain of missing Isaac was slugging me in the chest with every heartbeat. I didn’t have an appointment with Bonnie that afternoon, but I wished I did.
Back home, Greta and I sat on my little porch. We shared a pitcher of homemade lemonade and ate peas straight out of the pod. The sun was setting in Harmony, the lightning bugs flaring as they flitted among the juniper bushes that separated Greta’s and my house. The cicadas were deafening—waves of buzzing that came and went like a tide. Children played in their yards. Neighborhood cats slunk here and there or dozed in the last of the sun’s rays. Greta and I didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to. The evening was quiet. Warm. Peaceful. It was everything I needed.
Almost.
When the sun had set, Greta packed up her baskets and said goodnight. Inside my place, my phone lay on the kitchen counter, a notification flashing on the display: I had a missed call and a voicemail from Dad. After the stint in Texas, Ross Wilkinson had moved them back to Manhattan. They’d come full circle and arrived back where they started, this time without a daughter.
“Hello, Willow.” Dad’s voice always sounded strained on voicemails. As if he were forcing it over a boulder of guilt. “Mom and I wanted to see how you’re doing. She told me about your work with the theater, trying to restore it and…such. A worthwhile endeavor.” He coughed. “We’re looking forward to flying in for the last performance of your show. And I hope this isn’t too presumptuous, but we planned a little party afterward for you, your cast mates and director at the Renaissance Hotel in Braxton.” A pause. “I hope you consider attending. Please let me know. All right, then. Goodbye.”
I set the phone down. I didn’t want a party. I wasn’t even certain I wanted my parents at the show. We were slowly rebuilding a tentative relationship though I suspected deep down, we’d never be the same. Bonnie told me that forgiveness is for the giver’s peace, not the receiver’s, but I wasn’t there yet.
And hearing Dad’s voice piled more painful memories on top of the mess in my heart, and made Isaac’s silence all the more deafening.
I sat on my small blue couch, opened my laptop and Googled his name. I scrolled past the articles about Long Way Down. Article after article raved about the breakout performance of Isaac Pearce—”an electrifying actor of raw intensity”—the Los Angeles Times raved. The text was broken up by photo stills. He was twenty-two now, and even more ruggedly handsome than before.
I checked articles on tabloid sites, because I had to know.
I found more shots of Isaac, caught at bars and clubs and events in Los Angeles. Always alone, a cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth, a hard glint in his eyes. Comparisons to a dark-haired James Dean abounded, right down to the speculation that Isaac was gay. His lack of female companionship hadn’t gone unnoticed by Hollywood.
Or me.
It was insanity to think he abstained from women for me. I’d broken his heart. More likely, he was being careful with his privacy. Guarding it against outside threats.
Who could blame him?
Still, hope burned in me, small and fragile. With shaking hands, I picked up my phone again and scrolled through my contacts for Isaac’s phone number. It rang once before an electronic voice message played: We’re sorry, this phone is no longer in service.
Though it was silly and hopeless, my fingers typed a text.
A2, S2
“Never doubt I love,” I whispered, like a prayer.
I hit send.
The little red exclamation point in a bubble popped up immediately.
This message could not be sent.
The message was sent. It just couldn’t be received. Not for three years now.
Still, hope burned.
I kept calling for him, sending my plea into the void.
No answer.
