little now,” I suggest.
“What, on the phone?”
I pause with my mouth open, about to make another smart-ass remark, but I pivot.
“Yeah, why not. Maybe shoot me a few pics of the scene and I’ll put you on speaker and we can read. I’ll even lock the door so nobody will hear how awful I am and how great you are.” I sit up, hopeful she’s game.
“I don’t think I’m allowed to send pictures of it,” she hedges.
“I’ll delete them as soon as we’re done. Cross my heart.” I wait while she mulls it over, and I can tell she wants to.
“You trust me?” I add.
Her pause is brief.
“Yes,” she whispers.
I feel that one small word in my chest, and I’m grinning. There’s something special about her trusting me, even about something like this. June was right to warn me—this is gonna hurt.
“Okay, send it my way. I’m locking the door now.” I don’t pretend but actually do it, mostly because I don’t want my mom coming in unexpectedly just because she’s nosy.
My phone dings with her delivery and I put her on speaker so I can open my images and expand enough to read.
“Got it,” I say. “So, you want me to be Jordan Shotcraft?”
“Tory . . . nobody can be Jordan Shotcraft except Jordan Shotcraft.” She has a point.
“Okay, smartass. I mean, isn’t that his character, this Max guy?” I thumb through a few of the lines, getting the sense that most of the work will be on her. This should be easy.
“Yeah, this is the one section I’m struggling with.” She sounds stressed. I’m glad she’s letting me help.
“Okay, then. Let’s go. Ready?” I have the first line, but I don’t want to start reading until she’s ready for it.
She draws in a sharp breath before whimpering a tentative, “Yes.”
I sit on my bed with the phone cradled in my lap, my legs folded and my hands suddenly sweaty. I can’t imagine doing this in front of an audience. No wonder my acting career peaked with junior high and community theater.
“Look . . . kid . . .” The script says pause for dramatic effect, so I am . . . I think. “I’m not really good at this father thing. I think you’d agree, so how about this. Give me a number.”
“A number.” Abby bites out the line, a near growl to her words.
“Yeah, you know . . . an amount. I’ll set you up with whatever you think you need. I can give you money. You’ll be good. You don’t need me—”
“Money!” Her anger is thicker this time. “Ha! Yeah, sure, fine. Go ahead and cut me a check. Cut me out of your life. That’s how things work for Max Stewart. Buy your way out of responsibility.”
“Christine, you know this is for the best.” I feel like such an amateur reading with her. I’m barely finished with a line when she begins hers. The conversation feels so real, so raw. It also feels vaguely personal.
“Yeah.”
There’s a long pause, and I wait through it. It’s meant to be there, but the longer it drags on, the more on edge I get. Something’s off.
“Maybe it is. For the best, I mean,” she croaks. It’s not quite the line as written, but it’s close enough.
“It is,” I hum.
“And maybe, maybe you’ll regret it one day. Maybe I’ll be so famous that you’ll wish you took the job of dad when it was yours to have. But it won’t be there anymore. That job is closed, no more applications being accepted. Eliminated.”
She’s definitely veering now.
“Abby, do you want—”
“And then you can swoop in and play hero just so you can get your foot in the door, earn off of your investment. Those are your words, not mine! Your fucking investment. That’s all I am to you!”
I can hear the tears through her words, and I get why this section has been so hard for her to get through. I’ve read ahead, and while it’s nothing like the words she just spilled out from her soul, it does ring very familiar. This story has a happy ending, though. I know it does because I looked ahead when we read the first time. Abby’s relationship with her father, however, is just one big loop.
“I’m on my way,” I say, not giving her a chance to tell me no.
I grab my keys and wallet, and stuff my phone in my back pocket, jetting down the stairs, out the door and by my