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Martin’s face folded into concern and I immediately wished I’d kept my damn mouth shut.
“It’s not your fault,” he said, holding my gaze in the mirror. “You got the wind knocked out of you, kid. They held you back so you could catch your breath. You shouldn’t be ashamed of that.”
As usual, I didn’t have a decent reply, so I changed the subject.
“Hamlet?” I said. “I thought you were leaning toward Glass Menagerie.”
Martin held up his hands. “Len’s right. I have to use the talent I have and you need to be on bigger stages. Hamlet is the ultimate role and it’s going to get you noticed professionally.”
“Maybe.”
“Not maybe. Guaranteed. I’ve been reaching out to a few talent agencies. A couple of bigwigs from New York, one from Los Angeles. The LA guy has already committed to seeing you this spring.”
I sat back in the chair. “Are you shitting me?”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “I hate to lose you, Isaac, but I’m kicking you out of Harmony with this one. I want Hamlet to be your grand finale.”
I stared. Martin knew the score with me and my old man. He knew I was saving up to get the fuck out of town. Our scrapyard and gas station didn’t make shit. Between minimum wage to clean up the theater as Martin’s unofficial handyman, and pulling $30 per show to perform in it, it’d be another nineteen years before I had enough. Never mind that the idea of leaving Pops to drink himself into a stupor in that shitty trailer always soured my getaway plans with guilt.
“You have to take care of yourself, Isaac,” Martin said. “You’re meant for something bigger and better than what you have now. And I know this is the part you don’t believe, but you deserve something better.”
I looked away to the mirror and wiped the last streaks of dried blood from under my eyes. “I have to audition first,” I said, my voice tight in my throat.
Martin swatted me between the shoulder blades. “Yeah, you do. Don’t blow it.”
I made a noncommittal sound and slid out from under his hand on my shoulder to pull on my boots.
“Heading home?” he asked. “Or a hot date with one of your women?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m going to work.”
“No chance,” he said. “You have the night off.”
“I can’t afford to take the night off.”
“You think I’m going to dock your pay? On your birthday?”
Martin hauled his bulky, scratched up leather bag onto the dressing table. He dug around and came up with a thick red envelope. “Happy Birthday, kid.”
I stared for a moment, then took it from his hand. It was gift-card heavy. Probably for the clothing store in Braxton. My heart sank in my chest under the weight of everything Martin had given me tonight. Not just the card.
Hamlet, the role of a lifetime.
The talent agents.
A real shot at getting out of here.
The gratitude overwhelmed me, filling me up, and mangling what poor words I struggled to utter.
“You didn’t have to do this. Any of it. But… I’m grateful.” I cleared my throat and stuffed the envelope in the back pocket of my jeans. “I mean, really. Thank you.”
“It’s from both Brenda and me,” Martin said. His smile tightened. “How’s your old man going to be tonight?”
“He’s probably got the surprise party all ready to go.”
Martin crossed his arms and pressed his gaze.
“You know how he’ll be, Marty.” I shrugged on my leather jacket. “Passed out or on a rampage, itching for a fight.”
