The Last Phone Booth in Manhattan(47)
No. Really? All the songs in the entire Broadway canon, and here I was face-to-face with the song that stole my mooment . . . I mean, moment?! My brain raced through my Sophie’s Choice as I became increasingly more aware of the growing impatience of the panel on the other side of the casting table.
“I Dreamed a Dream” would, without a doubt, be the safer bet, but there were no big moments to really show the power of my belting voice. “Defying Gravity” had a much bigger payoff—if I could just hit that high E above middle C and not sound like a barnyard animal. I reasoned that without a flying contraption to contend with and after $600 spent at Miss Tilly’s, the odds might be slightly in my favor. I fumbled for the amethyst I still had in my pocket and channeled the energy from the small stone to help me make the decision I knew I had to make.
I glanced back over at the casting table, the agents’ restlessness now palpable. I was the last audition—the only thing standing between them and a cocktail at the end of their very long day—and if their nerves weren’t already frayed, my little exchange with the pianist had likely pushed them over the edge. I had no choice but to pack it in or knock it out of the park. There was no in-between.
So, though it was risky, I let the accompanist know my decision and stepped center stage. To their astonishment and mine, with the help of Lyla’s advice about believing in myself and Miss Tilly’s Reiki magic, I smashed that final note right out of the room and into the stratosphere.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I had barely made it past the threshold of the theater’s exit door, practically bursting at the seams with excitement about how well the audition had gone, when my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and smiled (even wider) to see Gabe’s name and number flash across the screen.
“I know I just saw you last night, and I’m sure I should be playing this way more cool, but I was just thinking about you and had to hear your voice,” Gabe said before I even got the chance to say hello.
“You were thinking about me?” I asked, mockingly coy.
“Like a lot. What are you doing right now?”
“Actually, I just had a killer audition. I have no idea if anything will come of it, but it’s the first one that’s felt . . . I don’t know . . . like I actually may have impressed them.”
“Sounds like you knocked it out of the park. Let me take you to dinner tonight? To celebrate. Anywhere you want just so long as roller skates aren’t involved,” he teased.
I tucked the phone under my chin to free my hands to dig around in my purse for my MetroCard. “Still recovering from DiscOasis I gather?” I joked as I slid the pass over the turnstile and navigated my way through the underground maze of tunnels to the platform for the M Train to get me back to Bushwick.
“I should tell you that I feel great and didn’t ache at all the next day, but I’d be lying.”
I lowered my bottom lip into a pout, hoping he could hear it in my voice. “Everything hurts, huh?”
“Oh, just my knees . . . and . . . hips . . . and back . . . but totally worth it.”
I laughed. “How do you figure that?”
“Well, I got to spend time with you, didn’t I?” The smile in his voice turned my insides to butter. “So? Dinner tonight?” he asked again.
“I wish I could, but I can’t tonight. I’m catching a morning train to Connecticut to visit my parents and I’m not even packed yet. I haven’t been home in . . . God, I don’t know how long it’s been? With everything that happened, it was simpler to keep our phone calls short and the details vague to protect them from really knowing just how much of my life had been tied up in Adam’s. I just couldn’t face their disappointment. Honestly, I’m still not sure I can,” I said, realizing that all these weeks later, it likely wouldn’t be any easier. “Hey, do you want to go in my place? They always liked you,” I offered as a sad attempt to lighten the mood.
“I don’t know about going in your place, but I’m happy to go with you, if you think that would help.”
“You would really come with me to my parents’? Don’t you have like a thousand things you could be doing with your weekend?”
“Meh, whatever else I’d find to occupy my time probably wouldn’t be as fun. And definitely wouldn’t be as cute. Besides, in all the times I visited Woodbury during college, we still never made it to Flapjacks, Connecticut’s oldest pancake house.”
“I hate to be the one to have to tell you, but it’s not the oldest pancake house anymore. The Connecticut Historical Society found out there’s an even older one in New Haven. Stripped the town of our plaque and everything.”
“They even took the plaque? Those bastards. Well, I’d still like to try it. With you. If you want.”
“Well, I do want. I’m grabbing the 10:10 from Grand Central. Meet me underneath the gold clock at 10:00?”
“I’ll bring the coffee. Tall drip with two shots of espresso, oat milk, and one sugar,” he recounted by heart.
“Sounds perfect.” Both the coffee and his plan to join me for the weekend.
True to his word, Gabe met me at precisely 10:00 a.m. underneath the big gold clock located in the center of the famous train terminal. He looked adorable in his casual weekend wear: gray hoodie, fitted black track pants, his unruly dark hair tucked underneath his well-worn Yankees cap, the same one I was pretty sure he had back in college. He had a small brown leather duffel slung over his shoulder and was clutching a steaming cup of coffee in each hand.