“I wish I could fast-forward twenty-four hours and know that I pull this off,” I murmur.
“It’s okay if you don’t—I want to put that out there. But I really think you will.”
My eyebrows jump up. “You do?”
“Of course. I know you’re … umm, absentminded. Sometimes. But you’re also sweet and big-hearted and you’ve worked your ass off to perform in a stage showyouhelped choreograph. If they’re not impressed by that, there’s no getting through to these people.”
“I’m in the ensemble.”
“You’re performing in theMoore Theater. Dude, stop discrediting yourself. You could be in one scene shining some bastard’s shoes and I’d still be impressed as hell. You’re living your dream. It doesn’t matter if you’re not some famous big name.” He waves a hand toward my door. “None of us are. We’re all working to get to the point where you are now.”
I shift my weight, uncomfortably aware that he’s right, but it’s not enough. All my life I’ve loved acting, loved performing, and over the last few years I’ve had this image in mind of my name in lights and my parents seeing that and knowing I’ve made it. I might be a walking disaster in real life, but on that stage, under those lights, doing something I’ve rehearsed until I’ve bled, muscle memory takes over. It’s the only time I’m graceful. The only time I feel put together.
It’s a pipe dream. I know that. But it doesn’t stop me from hoping.
The show runs for three weeks and starts soon, but after that I’ll be back to children’s parties and whatever minimum-wage position I can find, while I volunteer until something else comes along.
“If it helps … pretend you’re not you today,” Gabe says.
I turn to look at him. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re an actor. You haven’t seen these people for like, what? A decade? None of them know who you are now.”
My bottom lip curls between my teeth and I think through the possibility. Act. Like in a role. Of myself. A brand new, highly successful and confident Christian Kilpatrick. A guy who has his shit together and doesn’t live with five other roommates because he can barely scrape together enough jobs to cover food and utilities, let alone rent.
The idea … isn’t the worst one. The only time I’m good on my feet is when I’m on stage. When I’ve cemented the steps into my muscle memory so solidly I don’t have to think. I just go through the motions. Because when I think, I fuck up, and that’s what I’m worried about happening.
I’ve always been a screwup. Absent-minded, with my head in the clouds, walking through life and bumping into all my problems.
I’m not the guy who gets to win.
I’m not the guy who comes out on top.
And normally that’s okay.
“Breathe, Chris,” Gabe says, holding back a smile.
“I think you’re onto something.”
“Well, I am incredibly smart.”
“No, I mean it. Datesfor—Jordan—said to flick him a message with some info about me and I’ve been holding off, but I could … well, notliebut maybe stretch the truth a little. Give my personality some oomph. Whoreallyknows what an ensemble cast member earns anyway?”
“No one.”
“Exactly.”
“But please tell me you’re not planning on introducing yourself likeHi, I’m Christian, and I make a billion dollars a yearbecause I’ve gotta say, it’s trying too hard.”
I laugh. “Of course not. But maybe I could rent an insane car, like a Ferrar–”
“Nope. You’ve already spent too much money on this thing. Today, Christian Kilpatrick will be impossible to intimidate in his fancy clothes and priceless confidence. He’ll hold his head high and won’t get flustered … and he’ll do it all without a goddamn Ferrari.”
As much as I want to huff, he has a point.
“And you’resurethis Jordan guy is solid?” Gabe presses. “He’s not going to fuck up your story?”
I quickly shake my head. “Hundreds of reviews and he hasn’t messed up yet.”