Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 47112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
No one reacts to this news, earth-shattering as it feels to me. I wonder what Trishelle is doing out in the audience— probably losing her mind. The five of us take a seat on stage, save for the girl who’s going first. She steps forward and begins her scene. I can see the girls to my left fighting the urge to mouth the words along with her. I’m fighting that urge as well, and only win my shutting my eyes and thinking through scene three. It’s the romantic scene— I’d be crazy to try the comedic one. I suspect that in a perfect world, I’d be able to drum up some tears for the emotional high bits, but this isn’t a perfect world, and I’m not actually an actress, so whatever.
The second girl goes, then the third. They finish their scenes, thank the panel, and then return to their seats. No one claps, though I know that’s because it’s an audition, not because any of them did poorly— even with my eyes shut, I can hear their flawless Atlantic accents, the clack of their kitten heels as they walk across stage, inventing blocking, miming serving tea. I’m relieved, at least, to not be preforming the same scene as them— I’d look particularly bad in comparison.
“And lastly we have Anna Milhomme,” the disembodied voice somewhere in the house says. “Scene three. Whenever you’re ready, Miss Milhomme.”
“Alright, yes, thanks, okay,” I say, like my brain just chucked down a handful of “affirming words” dice. I try my best not to linger on that though, take a breath, and—
“One moment, please,” the disembodied voice says, and I nearly fall forward as I put the brakes on the scene. I hear mumbling out by the panel, shuffling, movement, but I can’t do much of anything beyond stand stock still and smile, waiting for the great and powerful Oz to give me permission to continue.
“Sorry about that, Miss Milhomme. Go on,” the voice says swiftly.
I nod, take a breath again, and begin.
“I guess what I’m trying to say,” I start, tapping in to my own trepidation, my own uncertainty, and using it for the character, “is that I’m leaving him. I’m leaving all of them— I’m leaving them because even though I thought they mattered, they don’t. You’re the one who really matters to me, and I should have known that from the start.” I take a breath, as I know I started rushing. “We can leave right now if you want, Jeremy. But let’s leave. Let’s leave together.”
I pause, trying to keep the character’s look of hopeful fear locked on my face while the panel reads Jeremy’s lines. A man clears his throat, then reads the response. “You can’t just walk away from all of it, Melissa. That’s not how love works.”
I open my mouth, prepared to give the next line, but then I freeze. That voice, it was deep and familiar and steady and—
Focus, I say, and move forward, shaking my head in response to my fictional lover. “That’s exactly how love works. That’s how I love you. That’s how we love each other.”
“Love doesn’t force you to isolate yourself. I never said we had to leave, Melissa. I just said you had to be with me— really be with me, instead of being with the distractions.”
I swallow, turn around and face the back of the stage, pacing toward it. It looks— I hope— like I’m especially in character, but really I’m just buying myself time to wipe the look of shock off my face. That voice— it sounds like Tyson. It sounds exactly like Tyson. When I spin back around I squint, trying to see the panel, but it doesn’t work. Am I imagining things?
The line, the line, say the next line. “We can’t be isolated when we’re together. That’s not how it works. And we don’t have to leave, then— I don’t care! Stay, leave, I just need to do it with you, whatever it is. I love you. I’ve loved you from the start. And I keep saying it, and you aren’t saying it back, and I’m beginning to think that I just offered to walk out on my life for nothing at all, and Jeremy—“ I stop, choking on the words, because there are tears in my eyes. They’re not for dramatic effect— they’re real, because that voice has sent a lifetime’s worth of memories flooding back into me.
“Do you need the line?” the voice asks. It’s gentle. It’s kind. But it’s also steady, and calm, and hard, and it’s him. I know it’s him. I close my eyes and shake my head.
“…To walk out on my life for nothing at all, and Jeremy, stop looking at me like that! What are you staring at? What do you want?” I finish, my fingers shaking. I hear movement from the house, then footsteps, but I don’t know where to look— until a shadow swings his legs over the edge of the stage, then rises. Tall, broad shouldered, confident, walking toward me without the slightest hint of doubt. I hear a murmur of confusion ripple though the girls behind me. Tyson is silhouetted until he’s only a few feet from me, at which point his eyes suddenly become visible, locked on mine.