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“I’m Isaac Pearce.” He turned his head in my direction. “My monologue is from A Streetcar Named Desire.”
I let out a slow breath of relief.
Not Shakespeare. Thank you.
My inhaled relief reversed in a shocked gasp as Isaac tore his hands from his pockets. His face morphed from neutral to arrogant rage so quickly, I had to blink to remind my eyes they were seeing the same man. One of his hands balled into a fist, the other jabbed accusingly at the air above the audience’s head as he began his monologue.
I watched, riveted, as he stalked the stage like a predatory animal. He tore off his jacket and flung it to the ground as if it were holding him back. He wore nothing but a white wife-beater underneath and the sight of his body clothed in that tight scrap of cotton stirred something in me that I thought had been suffocated to death.
Light filled in the lines of his muscles. A tattoo darkened his right bicep. Another on the inside of his left forearm. Skin and bone and power, stripped bare under the stage lights. Isaac turned inside-out, acting from the depths of his soul, with every atom in his body, every muscle, every sinew. He thundered that he was the “King around here” and everyone in that damn audience, including me, believed him.
When the words ended, the passion flowing out of Isaac shut off like a faucet. A brief bow, a muttered thanks, and he grabbed his jacket. He strode offstage, back up the aisle to reclaim his seat next to me.
His body was calm, yet it crackled a little. I could sense the last vestiges of his energy dissipating like steam. I stared as he laid his jacket over his knees. Stared at the bare bicep that was inches
from me.
He kept looking straight ahead, then finally glanced at me.
“What?”
“Sorry,” I whispered back. “Can’t hear you over the ghost of Marlon Brando crying his eyes out.”
A tiny smile crooked Isaac’s lips. Twice I’d made him smile now. Come to think of it, the only other time I’d seen him smile was taking his bows after Oedipus.
“Willow Holloway?”
I froze.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I have to follow that?
I swallowed the lump of raw nerves in my throat and started to rise to my feet.
“Any last words of advice?” I whispered.
I wasn’t expecting an answer and so had kept moving out of my seat, but Isaac’s hand wrapped around my arm, gently but firmly holding me back. A jolt of electricity rocketing through me again, settling warm in my belly. His hand was warm through my sleeve, and instead of feeling trapped, my nerves were growing quiet under his touch.
“Don’t think about the words,” Isaac said. “Even if you fuck up or forget the lines, keep going.” He let go of my arm. “Just tell the story.”
Martin called my name again, and the audience started to look around for me. My eyes still held in Isaac’s.
“Tell the story,” I whispered. “Thanks.”
He nodded, and his gray-green eyes flicked toward the stage. Go.
I reluctantly broke away and walked down the aisle between the seats.
Tell the story.
That’s exactly what I didn’t do. I never did. I never could.
I took the three stairs to the stage and stood under the spotlight. Martin Ford, his stage manager, and the assistant director—the woman with the thick glasses who’d been signing us in—sat behind a table facing me. Behind them, the audience blurred into a sea of faceless spectators.
My own nervousness came roaring back on that stage with so many people watching me, rattling along my limbs, making my left leg tremble.
Fuck it, my character Rose was a nervous gal. I’d use the fear instead of fighting it.
“Hi, I’m Willow Holloway. I’ll be performing a monologue from William Mastrosimone’s The Woolgatherer.”
