But being an introvert didn’t translate to embracing loneliness. She was lonely. In fact, she was terribly lonely for love. Although she’d never had a serious relationship, and didn’t necessarily have the time, energy or courage to pursue one now, she yearned for someone to love and love her back, with a constant, aching longing that was surpassed only by her single-minded determination to succeed on Broadway.
Her favorite plays—and the ones for which she was highly praised at Tisch—were all romances: traditional, heartbreaking romances like most of Shakespeare’s oeuvre, of course, but also The Importance of Being Earnest, Cyrano de Bergerac, Blithe Spirit, and Prelude to a Kiss. Elise loved the language used to express love in these plays, almost as much as she loved—and feared—the idea of true love, itself.
Loved it because when it was true it sounded so perfect, so romantic. Feared it because from everything she’d ever read or watched, someone always ended up getting hurt. She yearned for the very thing that scared her, and it made no sense, but maybe that’s just because her experience was so limited.
My opinions of love are all based on fiction, she thought, huffing softly as she stood at a crosswalk, a cold avenue-breeze cutting through her T-shirt and making her shiver. She was hoping to make it through Spring without needing another raincoat. Hers had been stolen from Vic’s one night, and she simply didn’t have the means to purchase another. She rubbed her arms, reminding herself that April had just as many warm days as chilly, and hoping tomorrow would be one of the former.
But wouldn’t it be heaven, mused her romantic side, as she started walking briskly again, to have her hand clasped in someone else’s, someone’s warm and strong fingers laced through hers as he walked her home? Wouldn’t it be lovely for him to fall into bed beside her and hold her until morning when she’d have to get up for the brunch shift at Vic’s? Wouldn’t it be bliss to know that he was in the audience every night, even if the play was a stinkbomb from hell? Wouldn’t it be thrilling to know that when she opened the stage door, he’d be standing there with roses, and tease her by asking for yet another autograph?
She bit her lip, forcing such silly and useless romantic fantasies to the side. Even if she somehow managed to find someone who saw beyond her shyness and religious background, there was no room in her life for love, and that was the truth. Love was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Heck, she couldn’t even afford a spring jacket. And she probably wouldn’t have a part in two weeks because she couldn’t imagine such a bad play would demand additional performances.
Wincing at the state of her life, she quickened her pace, straightened her spine and reminded herself as she always did of how much she’d give up for her dreams: her home and family, friends and boyfriends…she’d dedicated her whole life to the stage and she was too invested to turn back now. Nobody “made it” right away. If you wanted something badly enough, you worked for it. You left your parents and sisters and home and church and took a bus to New York City without looking back. You paid off your loans as best you could and you went without jackets and bus rides to save money. You acted in stinkbombs because it was still a chance to act and if you didn’t take the part, there were one hundred other girls lined up who would. You worked long hours at Vic’s only to show up for rehearsal on fumes. You accepted it when your director said there would be no curtain call because he wanted his farcical play to end on a “low” note, and you certainly didn’t feel sorry for yourself when thousands of other hopeful thespians were leading the exact same life.
Besides, she reminded herself, with a bit of wistful bravado. You aren’t a quitter, Elise Klassan. One day, you’re going to see your name in lights. One day, the stage door will be mobbed.
Chapter 2
Preston Winslow dreamed of Elise Klassan’s breasts and woke up harder than marble in the bedroom of his posh Fifth Avenue apartment. He immediately regretted his decision not to let Beth stay overnight, which had prompted the response: “Screw you and don’t call me anymore, Pres. I mean it.” Really, he couldn’t blame her; she’d tried everything to get an invitation into his bed, and after asking him outright if she could stay over and being refused, she was hurt and embarrassed. But he just wasn’t interested in sleeping with Beth; he was completely distracted by some unknown, off-off-Broadway actress who he’d never even met in person.