I stand in front of him as he raises his right hand for a selfie. A glimpse of the screen shows that I’m leaning back against his chest, both of us smiling. We look like a couple.
We look like a couple?That’s nuts. The drugs must be messing with my perspective. Randall has thousands of selfie pictures exactly like this one. I’ve seen them with my own eyes when I stalk-scrolled his hashtag.
We slip into the theater from the lobby, our entrance hidden by the darkened section of the back rows. The expanse of red seating and the overhead chandeliers of the Plaza Theater never fail to impress.
Randall whispers “wow” and I couldn’t agree more. How is my little play up on that massive stage?
The theater is dim except for the stage where they’re running tech on a sequence that features our most complicated lighting design. It’s the scene equivalent of Macbeth encountering thewitches in the forest whose incantations initiate his violent ambition.
Instead of a forest, the setting is a boardroom. Replacing three witches are three zombie-complexioned men in expensive business suits. The men’s insidious drivel is accompanied by shifts in lighting from the bland florescent glare of corporate bullpens to erratic strobe lights. A stage length distance from the men delivering cryptic messages is Joy who stands at the end of the table.
This is the beginning of her corruption.
The actress playing Joy, Marisol Yang-Cruz, is exceptional in her role, embodying ambition and vulnerability equally. But something is off with the men.
When the scene ends, I walk down the aisle and into the light. Cast and crew gather around to greet us. I give a quick introduction of Randall and stave off the group’s concern over my wrist. It’s sweet but unnecessary, because my mind is elsewhere.
The scene looked wrong from the back because the men appeared passive when, on the contrary, they should look aggressively predatory.
“We need to run it again. From the back rows, it doesn’t work that you’re sitting. Let’s redo the scene quickly. You need to crowd in on her. John and Kaden, you two move from this angle,” I jump into instructions while leading the cast through a re-blocking.
The change isn’t complicated, but ought to solve the scene’s unwanted stagnancy. After fixing that scene, we move on to others. I dictate notes about tomorrow’s rehearsal to Susan, my assistant, because I can’t write for shit.
Time flies when you’re a week from performance. Randall steps beside me and places his hand on my lower back,prompting me to check my phone. Hours had passed and I completely ignored him. He’s probably pissed.
“How’s your pain level?” he asks, concerned. “It’s been over two hours since your injection, and you haven’t sat down. I went to the drugstore down the street to get ibuprofen and something cold.”
Randall holds up a bag of peas. Now that he’s mentioned it, discomfort radiates along my entire right limb. Not pain, exactly, but an unwanted tingling.
“Thank you,” I say when he presses the peas against my wrist. “I’m good now.”
“Elise, you’re pale. And your wrist is swelling. I need to get you home.”
“I said I’m good,” I state with more curtness than I feel. But I can’t handle Randall right now.
His concern, although it comes from a good place, brings on the familiar weight of guilt. What was I thinking, taking him in here when he has no interest in theater? Did I expect this man to wait around for me while I fixed endless, last-minute details?
“It’s fine if you want to leave,” I say.
Earlier, he claimed he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. I bet he regrets driving all the way to Cleveland.
“I don’t want to leave. At least take this,” he says, holding up a bottle of water and two pills. “It will take the edge off.”
The way he says it, so low and sultry, I’m brought closer to another edge; one where I’m imagining the last time we were on a stage, having sex behind heavy curtains.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m supposed to focus, not get horny.
“Thank you,” I say, fighting the lump in my throat as I sway closer. I get a whiff of Randall’s clean masculinity. The desire to bury my face in his neck overwhelms me. It takes considerableeffort to remember why I cannot be thinking about his aroma, or his neck, or his kisses.
Randall is a helpful friend and a great guy. However, he is the ultimate distraction. In one week, there is a performance that will determine the trajectory of my future.
Being around him opens a pandora’s box of reactions I’m not ready to process: glee, affection, care, but also distraction, confusion, and jealousy.
God, I hate myself for that, most of all. I can’t get over the video of him driving away with another woman.
That’s why there are rules, dammit. To keep this attraction in check and our expectations to zero. I don’t want to be accused of being a shitty, neglectful partner who drives her boyfriend into the arms of another woman. Been there, done that, and hated every minute.
When he’s sure I’ve taken the pills, Randall moves a stray hair falling over my forehead and kisses me on the temple. “You’re welcome.”
