She dreamed for herself a play in a small theater, something dark and original, which would call upon her forgotten talents and demand that she make them real. She dreamed a Shakespearean stage, plain and promising, a heroine of wit and courage, someone who demanded height. Rosalind, she thought. I wonder if Ryan knows anybody who would see me for Rosalind. She dreamed of constructing entire worlds out of thin air, planets where girls were allowed to eat, and men weren’t driven by power.
When she looked up, Kyle was gone. There were a few workmen hovering nearby waiting for her to finish her prayers, or her farewells. They were already bored with how long this was taking. She really needed to go. There would be a giant feast back at Mom and Dad’s, lots of food with mayonnaise in it, brothers and sisters who were worn down and punchy in their grief, others too, good-natured neighbors and relatives who would express their sorrow and then try to pump her for stories about show business. She would be nice to them all, and diplomatic; she wouldn’t tell the whole story, which no one would believe anyway. And then she would sneak off into one of the back bedrooms, call Ryan and let him know that in a few days she would be back, available for auditions by the end of next week. Maybe she’d call Seth and make him have a drink with her; they could drive out to Montauk and howl at the moon. Make out in his backseat. Life had to be more fun than being a movie star made it out to be.
How old am I? she wondered. For a moment, she couldn’t quite remember. The last time she’d talked to Ryan, there was some discussion of shaving a few years off. You turn thirty, no one wants to know about it. What did it matter? Surely starting over was something that life would insist on, one time or another. She dug into her bag for the keys to her rental car. In spite of everything, the world was still new.