I stepped out of the diner and into the hustle and bustle of rush hour. Considering it was mid-January, it was one of those unexpectedly warm winter days that, even if just momentarily, reminds you spring is somewhere on the horizon. I decided to walk home instead of taking the subway, figuring I could take advantage of the nice weather and get in some steps. Once Adam had hired a driver, we’d hardly ever walked, always opting to be dropped at the door of our next destination. I’d forgotten how much you can miss in New York when you aren’t a part of its rhythm. It was the difference between merely appreciating a song on the radio and playing live at Madison Square Garden, your fingers tightly wrapped around the bass.
I blended into the crowd of tourists and commuters and let myself be carried along with them down the packed sidewalks, appreciating the shops, sights, and smells. I’d never grow tired of the scent of candied cashews from the Nuts4Nuts vendors perched at every corner. My stomach grumbled as the sweet aroma drifted up my nose and straight into my belly, causing me to immediately make a U-turn to buy a bag. I dug around my pocket for some change and handed the vendor four quarters.
“It’s three dollars a bag, hon,” he deadpanned.
“Sorry. Just give me one sec.” I set my tote down, unpacked my new phone (my old one was still sitting and collecting dust in an evidence box in a precinct somewhere) and my makeup bag on the sidewalk, and fished around for another few bucks. “Here you go,” I said, reaching up to hand him two singles.
He passed me the warm bag of nuts as I brushed off my knees. I stuffed my makeup bag back into the tote and picked up my phone from the ground, noticing its screen illuminated with a text message notification.
Our place at 10:00.—G.
With everything that had happened these last couple of weeks, I’d managed to push the strange encounter with Gabe on Christmas out of my mind, unsure my fragile heart could handle anything beyond that one chance meeting.
But intrigued, I read over the text again. Our place. A sense of overwhelming wistfulness slammed into me at the familiarity of Gabe’s words. My breath caught in my throat, and, hands trembling, I couldn’t suppress my curiosity at being revisited by this ghost from my past and promptly typed back, See you there.
Chapter Ten
Before our bizarre Christmas encounter, Gabe and I hadn’t spoken in close to seven years, our last exchange taking place at the very same café where I sat waiting for him now. After almost five years together, our relationship hit an iceberg of Titanic proportions, and we called it quits the morning after what had been the most important callback audition of my career—one I completely blew, one that cost me more than just the part: it cost me everything.
At twenty-three years old, I’d only ever known the Gershwin Theatre to be the forever home of one of Broadway’s most celebrated and Tony-clad shows: Wicked. Even though I hadn’t managed to secure an agent post-graduation, I was lucky enough to secure an audition after dazzling the show’s musical director (unbeknownst to me at the time) while belting my way through a rendition of “Defying Gravity” for a pre-matinee crowd at Mimi’s.
After moving through the first several rounds of the rigorous process, the final audition for the national tour was down to me and only three others for the lead role of Elphaba. It was the closest I’d ever gotten . . . and without representation, likely would get. I’d tried like hell to dismiss the negative self-talk and the niggling anxiety I always battled when I stepped in front of a panel of producers and directors, but standing and waiting in the wings for my turn, flashes of me choking at Tisch’s senior talent showcase and botching every subsequent audition bloomed from a small bud to an invasive weed that creeped and crawled through the fertile soil of my mind. Sweat prickled on my palms, and I wiped them down the flowing black cape I’d brought with me to wear for my big number.
Right before it was my turn to go on, one of the techs walked me through the mechanics of how the flying lift for “Defying Gravity” worked one final time.
“It’s pretty simple. When you’re ready to go up, just step back and onto the platform, evenly distributing your weight on both sides. The safety latch will lock, and off you’ll go,” he said as he checked the seat belt–like contraption that was meant to snap closed as soon as I followed his instruction.
I nodded to him that I understood and waited for the swell of the orchestra to cue the big moment. But as soon as the time approached for me to join in the song where I would need to take in the deepest breath I could, nerves caused me to shift my weight a little too quickly, and the mechanism snapped shut around my middle before I was ready, snatching from me the long pull of air I’d just drawn into my diaphragm.
Instead of a beautiful long E at the end of the word “Meeeeeeeeee” as I soared through the air, the jarring jolt produced more of an “Oooooooo! ” that, paired with the jerk of the belt, created a sound more like a cow would make than the triumphant declaration of the show’s verdant heroine. The image of me dangling in the air mooing at a panel of Broadway’s elite still haunts me to this day, the expression of horror and embarrassment on the musical director’s face like a GIF that plays on a loop in my brain.
After that, like the Wicked Witch of the West, I pretty much melted down, never quite recovering—in (or from) that audition or how much it damaged my confidence.
As soon as I took my final bow and offered a quick “thanks” to the panel, I raced backstage eager to get out of that room, out of that theater, and as far away from my epic failure as I could. Tears of frustration streamed down my face as I tightened my grip on my small duffel and maneuvered through Times Square toward the subway and back home. I tried to call Gabe, in need of a supportive voice or word of comfort, but instead, it just continued to click over to voice mail, indicative of him silencing my call. Seriously? He knows how important today is. Is he really too busy to even pick up and see how it went?
Jamming my phone back into my pocket, I slipped in my AirPods, hoping to drown out the world, and the noise, and all of New York for just a minute. How could I have blown it so damn bad?! The echo of my lowing “moo” reverberated in my mind, causing me to physically shudder in spite of the warm summer air. My senior showcase. Every single audition since. Was it self-sabotage?! Didn’t I always know that auditioning is a key part of life as an actress?! In spite of the number of hours I spent preparing, the number of times I’d put myself out there, it wasn’t getting any easier, and I didn’t seem to be getting any better.