caving in. “Maybe not. I could be in New York, and we could go back and forth.”
“You deserve that, Annie. I couldn’t live with the thought of you having less than you deserve.” She’s too bright, too creative, too connected. “And this sounds selfish as fuck, but letting you in… it’s hard for me. To do that, I need you with me. To see your face, to hold you, to know everything’s going to be okay.”
“I keep feeling,” she starts, swiping at her face, “like it’s not our time. Like I’ve been waiting for years and I only get glimpses of it, and we have to fight for every single moment. I just want it to be our time, Tyler. Just once, I want today to be our day.”
I tug her against me, dropping my lips to her forehead. “Then let’s make today our day.”
So, we do.
We stroll LA like tourists.
We laugh and dance and make out like we’re in high school.
I have my best friend, the woman who makes me feel more alive than I’ve ever felt.
I hate letting go of her hand when I drive her to the airport.
Watching her walk away is a million times harder.
I stay at LAX, staring at the departures level until someone honks loudly from behind and I eventually pull out.
On the way back to my place, I roll down the windows.
When I thought of being in LA, staring at the ocean, I dreamed of freedom, but now the air feels colder, and I’m left thinking freedom never felt so lonely before.
19
There’s nothing like having professionals read—and sing—your script, especially if it’s the first time you’ve heard it out loud.
The SoHo loft is chic and spacious by New York standards. It’s still cozy with eight of us sitting in a circle, chairs from the table and stools from the bar pulled around so we’re all facing each other.
I’ve always loved the tradition of a reading. It’s like being on stage, nerve-wracking and thrilling at once. It’s not unlike reading my poem in front of Carly, though the stakes are much higher. It’s personal because my work is personal.
I sit back, pull the pencil from behind my ear, and tap it lightly against my leg as the actors sight-read a song.
The dark-haired woman singing the lead stumbles over a part of the chorus—partly because it’s tricky and partly because everyone’s flagging a bit after three hours of working on this show.
I hold up a hand. “Let me fix that. Ten-minute break?”
Everyone nods, and I scribble the change I want on her version on the book. If it works, I’ll put it into my version, the master.
When I finish, I check my phone. Sure enough, there’s a message from my writing partner.
Miranda: How’s the reading going?
Annie: A few rough spots. I’ll keep you posted. How are you feeling?
Miranda: My body’s rebelling. Have a drink for me.
My throat closes up. Her chemo started this week, and she wanted to come today, but I told her to take care of herself.
It’s another reminder of how much is riding on this.
A drink appears at my shoulder, and I look up.
“You need a break too,” comes a kind, masculine voice.
Jeffrey is tall and pushing sixty-five, with a receding hairline and sharp blue eyes. After reviewing the information on the funders, I knew he was my best chance. The man has three granddaughters and a history of seeing potential in unusual projects.
“This is amazing,” I tell him. “Thank you for being so receptive when I asked if we could move the reading to your place. I know Ian usually hosts.”
“My pleasure. Can’t let him have all the fun. Besides, your pitch was persuasive.”
“That’s a kind way of saying I showed up at your office unannounced and sang you one of the songs.”
His smile is gentle, but his eyes sparkle as he nods toward the balcony. “Let’s step outside. It’s a nice night.”
I follow him out, and he pulls the door shut after us.
“My first musical, we were workshopping it for months,” he says under his breath. “Ran three years off-Broadway and—”
“Ten years on it,” I finish.
A Broadway show costs millions to stage, and most don’t make that back. Then there are the unicorns, the ones that resonate—Phantom of the Opera, Rent, Hamilton. They cover all manner of things, but they stay with us.
“They’re not all like that,” he goes on at my expression. “A production has to capture people in the right way, at the right time. Most never do