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“Did you call?”
I look up and pretend I didn’t hear the question. “Hmm?”
“Your father, did you call?”
“He was in a meeting. I left a message with his secretary and provided the necessary details.”
“Has he called you back?”
“Not yet. He will. When he’s not busy with work.” Which could mean a few days from now, or even next week, which would be perfectly fine, because that’s after opening night.
Bancroft sighs, but says nothing. He keeps pushing this, and I understand why. This truly is a huge accomplishment. I have a lead role in one of the best Off-Broadway productions in the city. And I managed to do it all on my own, without anyone making phone calls to get me an audition. My new agent, who I secured a week ago, was highly impressed.
I’ve managed to pay off my overdue rent, and my credit cards are no longer maxed out. It’s still going to take time to get them all down to zero, but I feel like I have control of my life and that’s the important part.
When I move into Bancroft’s condo, which is an eventuality if things keep going the way they are, I want to come in as a positive contributor—maybe not with a huge bankroll, but at least I’ll be stable and not a burden.
“Does he realize how important this is to you?”
It’s my turn to sigh. “I know you just want to help, but you have to understand, my father’s first priority has always been himself.” It’s why my mother is all the way in Alaska—she desperately wanted to make opening night, but she’s in the middle of the ocean taking pictures of whales or something. It was a challenge to hear her over the crashing waves.
She’s coming later this month and she’s promised to stay a week or so. I can’t wait for her to meet Bancroft. She’s going to love him.
Bancroft drops the conversation. I’m glad. I don’t think my heart can take more of my father’s disdain or his dismissal of my chosen career path.
* * *
Six days later I’m in full costume. Butterflies have taken over my stomach. I peek through the curtains. Somewhere out there in the crowd are Bancroft and Amie. He wanted to bring his parents, but I told him it would be better if we waited on that. I’ve been to their house for dinner. Bancroft warned me about his mother being uptight. He didn’t have anything to worry about, though, she was nothing but sweet with me. And his brothers are a trip. He was right, they look nothing alike, but they’re all huge.
Three days ago I spoke with my father. He informed me he had meetings and golf, but he’d see whether it would work later in the month.
I tried not to be disappointed. But I am. Bancroft knows it and so does Amie, but I’m done trying to prove myself to my father. He’s not even a role model I want to look up to. He’s made his millions on penis-inflating drugs. Our ideas on what counts as a successful career don’t align.
I push aside all the worries and focus on the present. It’s opening night, and I’m the lead in an Off-Broadway performance. It’s a huge, positive step. It’s an accomplishment. It’s in that frame of mind that I step out onto the stage and wait for my cue.
It isn’t until it’s over and the house lights come up that I can finally see Bancroft and Amie in the audience. Armstrong had a thing so he couldn’t be here, which is fine, since I’m still struggling to warm up to him even after all this time. To the right of Bancroft is my father. He’s a good head shorter than Bane, lean and wiry rather than built. His hair is gray at the temples, receding at the crown. His typically serious face is cracked wide with a smile. He claps with vigor rather than with his usual golf-course propriety.
I shift my gaze to Bancroft as I link hands with the cast and step forward to take a bow. The cheers and applause grow louder, a thunderstorm of clapping that makes my heart soar and tears spring to my eyes.
The overwhelmingly positive response and the packed theater feed my pride. Someone hands me a massive bouquet of flowers so heavy it makes my arm ache. Backstage is a whirlwind of excitement. We’re all buzzing from the adrenaline of a successful performance.
I rush to change and greet the people who have stayed to congratulate us on a successful first night. My stomach is a knotted mess as I make my way through the crowd in search of Bancroft, but I keep getting stopped, for introductions, shaking hands with new people who pay me compliments that make me blush.
I’ve just finished thanking someone when an arm slips around my waist. “How’s my starlet?” Bancroft says in my ear. He politely excuses us and steers me away.
“Are you responsible for this?” I ask as we maneuver through the crowd, toward my father and Amie.
He doesn’t need me to explain the question. “I may have called and had a conversation with him about the importance of being supportive. He seemed very receptive once I made it clear how hard you had worked to get here. And that carving our own path rather than blindly following the one that was laid for us takes infinitely more courage. That seemed to resonate with him.”
I stop walking and grab the lapels of his suit jacket. He seemed shocked at first, but then he smiles and bends to kiss me. “I have so much love for you.”
“You were stunning up there tonight. Perfect.”
“You’re a little biased, what with you being my boyfriend.”
“I think the reaction of the audience should indicate that, despite my bias, I’m correct. Also, I wanted to murder your costar when he kissed you. Later, when I get you home, I’m going to claim that mouth as mine again.”
“I look forward to that.”
Amie is the first to hug me, and then I turn to my father, bracing myself for whatever it is he’s going to say. He’s holding a massive bouquet of flowers. He looks almost as nervous as I am. I haven’t seen him since Christmas. He’d been too busy to attend my convocation.
“I’m so very proud of you, Ruby.” And then he wraps me in a huge, warm hug, the kind I’d forgotten he could give. And that’s all I need from him. Just his pride and his love.
Epilogue: Socks
BANCROFT
Four weeks later
Ruby’s schedule is very much the opposite of mine, so text messages and brief phone calls are sometimes all we can manage for days on end.
Tonight is one of her rare nights off. She performs five days a week, often twice a day, especially on weekends. It’s wonderful, but it means I’ve restructured my own schedule so I’m home on her days off.
She spends most of those days in my condo. Currently, she’s lounging in her hideous recliner and I’m stretched out on the couch with Francesca curled up in my lap. She moved here about fifteen minutes ago, and before that she was snuggled up in Ruby’s shirt with her head peeking out of the neckline. Ruby thinks she needs a friend to love. I’m inclined to try the stuffed variety first. I’m not sure why Ruby’s sitting so far away—apart from her need to give that awful chair a reason to continue to take up space in my condo. Not that I would throw it away on her. Sometimes I threaten to, though.
In the time we’ve officially been dating, I’ve managed to convince my father to limit my business trips and to allow me to oversee the renovations on the New York hotels alongside Griffin.
Ruby has had a huge role in helping to facilitate this. My father adores her. It’s not a surprise. She’s easy to adore, and when I mentioned sending me out of the country would take me away from a new relationship I was trying to foster, he softened. Then I threw my brother Lexington under the bus, saying he was still unattached, so sending him instead wouldn’t be a bad idea. I was hoping it would help rebuild my father’s trust in him after the London hotel issue.
