I passed on the Milk Duds.
As I left the theater, I thought again about whether or not I wanted kids, and what I really was giving up. I walked back to my apartment, changed into a pair of leggings and a fleece, and went out for a run. I had to work off all that popcorn.
I ran over to Central Park and followed my normal path, up to the reservoir and back again. I cursed myself for forgetting my iPod. For the last few weeks, whenever I ran I made sure to turn my old-school gangsta rap up loud. That way Eazy-E, NWA, and Ice T kept my thoughts at bay.
As I ran today, though, no such luck.
I thought about Jack and his grin. His hands and his lips. His humor and wit. His good heart. I thought about how much he loved me.
Flashes of The Wizard of Oz kept coming to me, and I thought of Dorothy, who had to go all the way to Oz and back before she realized she had everything she truly wanted right in her own backyard.
I came upon a family walking together. The man held a baby, and the woman pushed the stroller. A little girl in pigtails walked in front of them. I smiled and stopped to stretch a little. I watched them as I stretched, and as I watched, I waited.
I waited to feel something. I waited for something to happen. I waited for something to strike me over the head, like a giant gong or a sign that said:
THAT’S IT, GRACE.
THAT’S WHAT YOU WANT.
THAT’S A FAMILY. GO GET ONE.
As I waited for the gong, as I waited to try and feel something, a small, quiet voice spoke up.
What are you waiting for?
Shh! I’m waiting for a sign.
What do you think I am?
You’re not a sign. You’re the idiot who got me in trouble in the first place. You’re the one that convinced me to break up with Jack.
No, love, you did that on your own.
Then what the hell are you saying? What the hell kind of sign are you?
You want a family? Who defines what a family is?
An image appeared: Holly and Nick parading into my bedroom, laughing and carrying on. Another image: Holly and me sitting on my back patio, cocktails in hand, laughing until we cried. Holly and me sitting on the floor in front of her fridge, passing the Easy Cheese. Michael and me arguing politics while others rolled their eyes. Michael and me sharing a bagel, a schmear, and The New York Times. Nick driving me home from the airport.
Jack.
Jack shirtless and shoeless, playing guitar for me while I made our bed. Jack holding my boobies while I washed his hair. Jack lying next to me in bed, Chex Mix bag between us. Jack driving to Santa Barbara with his hand on my knee. Jack asleep in my lap as I played with his hair and scratched his scalp. Jack in my home, in our bed, na**d, watching Golden Girls.
There’s your family.
Who says you can’t have kids someday, with Jack? People change their minds. You have time. And can you imagine two funnier parents on the face of this earth? Or no kids, and the two of you spend your lives together. Not a bad way to sail off into the sunset, eh?
One more image came to me: Jack listening to me sing to him at open mic night.
What was the song you sang?
“Strong Enough.” But it was never a question of whether he was strong enough.
No, but are you strong enough to be his girl?
I thought so.
Why do you doubt yourself? Who cares what the press calls you?
I do.
Get the f**k over it. That boy—that man—loves you. He needs you. You walked away just when he needed you to be strong enough.
Sweet Nuts. Johnny Bite Down. George.
I inhaled so deeply I almost choked.
Stop being afraid.
Don’t worry so much about what you think you should have. Take care of what you do have. Or did have.
Oh no, what have I done?
Nothing that can’t be fixed.
I’d been afraid so long, I almost didn’t recognize it as fear. But it was, and it was ugly. I’d carried fear with me my entire life. Fear was what made me leave L.A. the first time. Fear was what made me give up the dreams I’d had for a lifetime—only now I’d found a way to get what I wanted. Why was I still letting fear come between me and Jack?
If I could create the perfect man for me, he would bear a striking resemblance to my George. And he was right: I did push happiness away. I used errant thoughts and passing fancies to distract me from what was real, what was true. Why the hell did I care that he was twenty-four? Maybe he was supposed to be twenty-four.
Fear. It was a fickle bitch. It was time to let it go.
One last image, unbidden, flashed to my mind: Me, at my heaviest, drowning in sadness.
No more.
No more.
I want him back.
Well, now, hold on a second there, sassafras. Who says he wants you back?
That stopped me cold. Would he want me back?
Last time I checked, you left his ass on his big night—walked away from him at his premiere. Embarrassed him in front of his family, then broke his heart. Who says he’ll take you back?
Jesus, what a f**king mess. I was such an asshole. Everything had been about me lately—What did I want? What was best for me?—I never stopped to think how hard all this was on Jack. I took my love from him when he needed it most. I was a weakling, totally wrapped up in my own head, when all he wanted was my heart. And all he needed was my support.
Call him. Call him now.
Right, right! Of course! Call him—where the hell is my phone?
I frantically felt myself up, trying to find my phone. Dammit, I’d left it at home. Probably sitting next to my iPod.
Well then run your ass home, woman!
I smiled at the family I’d been watching. They must have wondered about the strange lady in the park having an argument with herself. But hell, it was New York.
I ran like my ass was on fire. I ran out of the park and across town, my heart pounding in my ears. I must have looked like a lunatic. I was crying and smiling at the same time. The image of Harry running to find Sally on New Year’s Eve flashed through my head. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, and he didn’t want to wait another second. I could relate.
I wanted my Jack. I wanted my family. I wanted my home. I just had to think of the right things to say to convince him I would never, ever, ever walk away from him again.
I made it to my building, yelled a quick hi to Lou as I sprinted past, and hit the elevator. It took what felt like ten hours, during which I tried to compose what I’d say when I called him. I also spent most of the time bent over at the waist, trying to catch my breath after running so fast and furiously.
When the door finally pinged open, I fell out into the hallway. Sweaty yet exhilarated, I picked myself off the floor and raced toward my door, anxious to get to my phone. I barreled through the door and ran through the apartment, frantically searching for my phone. I finally found it where I had left it, on the stack of mail in the kitchen. As I grabbed the phone, I slowed myself down just enough to take a breath and think again about what I was going to say. I couldn’t just blurt it out over the phone, could I?
As I composed myself, I flipped idly through the mail, which included quite a stack of gossip magazines. They remained my guilty pleasure.
OK, you’ve breathed enough. Now get him on the phone and do whatever you need to do.
Yeah.
Gripping my phone for courage, I began to dial when my gaze fell on the magazine on top, which featured a familiar face. It was Jack, falling out of a cab with a blonde draped on his arm. He was clearly drunk, and she was clearly victorious in the way she held on to him. He seemed to be turning his face from the camera, while she posed triumphantly. The caption?
WHERE’S THE REDHEAD?
Chapter 16
I stared at the magazine, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. Was he dating this blonde? Were they sleeping together? Did I even have the right to be asking these questions?
Whether or not I did, my mind whirled in a thousand directions, my eyes riveted to the picture. When I finally worked up the nerve, I read the article inside.
After the premiere of Time in Los Angeles, Jack Hamilton went on world tour, stopping at Time’s opening in his hometown of London, quickly followed by the premiere in Paris. He just recently popped back up on the scene in L.A. and was seen at local nightclubs every night last week. Our cameras caught him exiting a taxi outside the Chateau Marmont hotel in Hollywood with a stunning blonde. When asked where his redhead was—older woman and rumored girlfriend Grace Sheridan—Jack’s words were mumbled and undecipherable. He stumbled into the hotel and was not seen again until the following morning, when he beat a hasty retreat into the Hills. Does this mean Jack is back on the market?
Stunning blonde. Hmpf. And speaking of not stunning, the usually beauteous Jack looked like crap. He was always such a polished pro in public. What the hell was going on?
Maybe he misses you.
More like maybe his fame is going to his head. He seems to have plenty of company.
I read the article three more times before I finally picked up the phone again. I dreaded making this call.
“Hi,” a voice answered.
“Is it true?” I asked, my lower lip beginning to tremble.
“You saw the article?”
“I did. Is it true?” I heard Holly sigh.
“Grace, I love you, but I have a PR nightmare on my hands here, and I have to tell you, you gave up your rights to ask questions about Jack when you broke it off,” she snapped.
“I know, I know. But you have to tell me!” I begged, my lower lip quivering as tears ran rampant down my face.
“I don’t know, Grace. He’s been so hard to get a hold of lately. After Paris, he just kind of checked out. No more press, no more interviews, and he stopped answering my calls. I don’t know what’s going on,” she admitted, her tone softening.
“Oh, Holly. I messed up. I messed up big time,” I wailed.
“Tell me something I don’t know, fruitcake,” she said, and I laughed a little in spite of myself.
She put her PR nightmare on hold, and we spent a long time on the phone. I told her what had happened between me and Michael, and she wasn’t all that surprised. Despite my determination mere minutes ago, we agreed that perhaps now was not the best time to reach out to Jack. I needed to concentrate on the upcoming show. She promised to come out for the opening, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t need some girl time. I needed to focus one-hundred-percent on the show and turn my attention back to my career. I’d been so focused on my personal life—and on Jack’s career—that I’d mostly neglected to realize how wonderfully my own work was going at the moment. Michael had invited a few reporters in to watch rehearsal a few days ago, and the early feedback was good—quite good. Particularly for the leading lady.
“Just hold on, m’dear, and Holly will be there soon,” she said. “We’ll toast your success, have a few cocktails, and, if necessary, I’ll sleep with you,” she quipped, once again making me laugh.
“Well, if there’s anyone who needs to get a little, it’s you. That’s for sure. How long has it been anyway?” I asked.
“Hey, Grace, I need to scoot. Call me later if you need to, okay?”
“Okay. Will do, asshead.”
“Things will work out exactly as they should, I promise,” she said.
“I trust you,” I said, then hung up the phone.
I looked at the magazine once more, then threw it in the trash. I would figure this out, but looking at those pictures was not going to help me.
***
In the final days of rehearsal, I threw myself into my work. It was my saving grace. I found strength in the connection I shared with Mabel, and I spent more time at the theater than ever. After rehearsal sometimes I would steal onto the stage, when the crew had left and it was almost deserted. Standing center, with an empty house, I felt the energy flow through me. In this space I felt more at home than anywhere else on earth. How privileged I was to have a shot at this life, and I was taking full advantage of it. I was proud of myself and what I’d accomplished, and whether the show was picked up or not almost didn’t matter.
Pffft…
Well, yes, of course I wanted the show to do well. Oh hell, I wanted to see my name in lights. I wasn’t too proud to admit it. I could own that, but I was also thrilled to be involved in this industry in any way. Even if I couldn’t be on a stage, or in front of a camera, I now knew I’d need to look into a new career path that kept me in this industry, as this was clearly where I was meant to be.
The days and nights of final rehearsals sped by, and soon I found myself collecting Holly and Nick from the airport. They’d flown in for my big night, and it felt wonderful to have them with me again. I focused on them and just tried not to think about what Jack might be up to right now. But I did wonder if he remembered when my show was to open.
On the way into the city, we sat in the back of the town car, staring like complete tourists as the driver took us down Broadway. Although Nick had been a screenwriter for years and Holly by now was a grizzled old Hollywood veteran, they were just as taken aback by the lights and the built-in energy of the Great White Way as I was—each and every time I passed by Forty-Second Street. As the three of us stared at passing marquees outside the landmark theaters, we were mesmerized.
“Can you believe I’m here, Holls? Actually here?” I breathed, squeezing her hand.
She looked at me, no doubt ready with one of her patented remarks, but she simply smiled and squeezed my hand back.
“Yes, I can totally believe it.” She grinned, and we shared a moment in the back of the car. A moment that was somewhat dimmed by the half-naked guitar player on the street corner, but a moment nonetheless.
Between rehearsals I spent the next few days showing them my favorite haunts around the city, and in a flash it was opening night. That evening, in a tizzy of nerves and panic, my stomach once again reminded me who was in charge, and I vomited my lunch all over the floor of my dressing room. Michael, being a trooper and anticipating my stage fright (perhaps also fearing for his shoes), had a mop standing by.