“First come, first serve. Take any spot that’s open. Should be plenty, the matinee crowd just left,” the hostess said, gesturing to a few empty spaces.
I snagged an open seat between two couples enjoying their lunches and a performance of “Mr. Cellophane” from Chicago and shrugged out of my coat as the server approached to take my order.
“What can I get for you?” she asked.
“Just some coffee.”
“We have a Starlight Espresso, a Phantom of the Mocha, an Americano in Paris,” she said, rattling off a list of Broadway-themed drinks.
“You don’t have just coffee? There used to just be coffee.”
“Closest thing I can offer you is a Do-Re-Misto.”
I nodded. “Sure, sounds great.”
A few minutes later, she set the steaming drink down in front of me. I checked around for the sugar canister, but seeing none attempted to borrow some from the couple to my right, but they were so razzle-dazzled by the spectacle, I couldn’t seem to get their attention.
I pushed up from the counter and leaned all the way forward. “Hey, excuse me, can I get some sugar for my coffee?”
The server whizzed by me to drop off a Don’t Cry for Me Margherita pizza to another patron, completely ignoring my request. I called out to the other server behind the counter, his back to me as he ran a credit card through at the register.
“’Scuse me, can I get some sugar, please?” I repeated.
“Sure, here, no problem,” he said, spinning on his heels and setting the dispenser down beside my cup.
I could hardly believe my eyes. “Charlie?”
The man in front of me stood about a head taller than I remembered, sporting a clean, short haircut, so different from the floppy-haired young guy I worked with almost ten years earlier. Charlie’s face, once soft and cherubic, now had the chiseled features of a man, from his structured chin to his hollowed cheekbones. The only feature unchanged were his deep-set warm cornflower-blue eyes. He was simultaneously the guy I closed the diner with every weekend and one I barely knew anymore. My eyes widened to take him in. No question, he was still startlingly good-looking, like a professional headshot come to life.
We used to be pretty good friends. We’d psych each other up for upcoming auditions and then talk each other down after our numerous rejections. We’d help each other rehearse the small two-bit roles we’d occasionally land, spending late-night hours after Mimi’s closed reading lines back and forth over slices of whatever pie of the day we had left over. There was never anything romantic between us beyond some fun flirtation and showstopping duets. It was just nice to have a work buddy who really understood what it was like trying to make it as an actor in New York.
When he saw me, his mouth dropped open. His deep voice startled me from my gawking. “My God,” he sighed, “BrAvery Lawrence, is that you?!”
I’d completely forgotten the nickname he’d anointed me with after a particularly saucy rendition of “Big Spender” from Sweet Charity that had a group of buttoned-up businessmen losing their minds. Man, I made some good tips that night.
“You still work here?” I threw my hands over my mouth. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for that to come out as rudely as it did. I’m just surprised to see you.”
He chuckled and nodded. “Yeah, still here. I am the manager though now, so you know, livin’ the dream. And what about you? Off touring with the Royal Shakespeare Company doing proper th-ee-ehh-ter?” he asked in a mocking British accent.
“Not quite, more like looking for a job. And though I’m a little out of practice, I swear I still have some juice left in these pipes,” I said, even though I wasn’t quite sure that was true. It’d been more than a hot minute since I’d taken ’em for a real test drive, so I was hoping that, if called to it, muscle memory would kick in and I would be able to squeak out a passable rendition of something.
“I have no doubt. You were one of the few servers who could hit a high E above middle C.” Charlie slowly put his receipt book down by the register, dusted off his hands, and extended an open palm toward me, his eyebrows helping to communicate the invitation. “You know, we do have an opening . . .”
Mimi’s always had an opening. The waitstaff was exclusively made up of wide-eyed actors who’d come to New York in hopes of getting their big break, but instead would wind up having to wait tables to make ends meet between auditions. Eventually, though, a part or national tour would come along, and off they’d go, leaving a spot to be filled by the next young hopeful.
“So? How ’bout an audition?” Charlie asked and again thrust his open hand forward toward me.
I looked around, still unsure of what he wanted me to do with it. “Wait, what? Like right now? I’m not warmed up! In fact, I’m ice cold, you know, not having sung basically anything outside of the shower in the past few years.”
He dismissed my concern with a wave of his still proffered hand. “Like riding a bike. I’ll take it easy on you. No high Es above middle C. Not until you’re ready, I promise.”
Before I could protest any further, the familiar chords of Grease’s “You’re the One That I Want” erupted through the space. My heart constricted both at the song choice drumming up memories of Adam and our spectacular engagement and the fact that Charlie was pulling me up onto the counter to sing for the first time in forever.
“C’mon, Sandra Dee, you got this. It was our song, remember?” he said, handing me a mic and a light-pink satin jacket.
He opened up the song with Danny Zuko’s first lines, and I was initially worried I wouldn’t remember all of the words. But as soon as he started to sing, looking at me with a handsome smile and gyrating hips, I burst into giggles and let my inhibitions fall away. When we got to the chorus, as if rehearsed, we both crooked our thumbs in our belt loops and did the iconic shuffle, complete with a little hop on the word honey, just like John and Olivia. It was amazing how naturally it all came flooding back: the moves, the singing, and most of all the rush of adrenaline I felt every time I’d ever stepped onstage.
By the end of the song, the room was on its feet clapping and singing right along with us, even demanding an encore performance.
Charlie squeezed my hand as we took our bows. “Well, BrAvery Lawrence, it looks like you’re hired.”