The Last Phone Booth in Manhattan(62)
“What do you mean?”
I leaned in a bit closer and lowered my voice. “Do you remember the crazy story I told you about how I reunited with Gabe on Christmas Day, and the mysterious phone booth that gave me his address and all that?”
The shift in conversation seemed to jar him but he answered, “Yeaaah, of course, who could ever forget a story that included a ghost guard?”
“Exactly. Well, I don’t really know how to say this, but Gabe and the phone booth and this audition and this character, it’s somehow all connected.”
“Wait a minute. Maybe just start from the beginning, what’s connected?” he asked.
“Where do I even begin?” I said, replaying the long series of strange events that had led to this moment before answering. “I was with Lyla and we stopped for a hot dog at this cart downtown. I’m handing over some cash for two sodas and look up and the guy, the hot dog vendor, has a silver-bell pin on his jacket, the same exact pin the ghost guard was wearing. And before he gets shooed away by a policewoman for not having a permit, he says to me the same thing the guard said on Christmas Day: ‘No space of regret can make amends for one life’s opportunity misused.’”
Charlie’s eyes grew wide at the recognition. “That’s from Marley Is Dead, the song ‘No Space of Regret.’”
“I know! How strange is that? And I looked it up, and the line is actually taken from Dickens’s original Christmas Carol story. The guard said that to me months before I ever even knew about the audition.”
Charlie scrubbed his hand over his face and shook his head in disbelief. He opened up his mouth to speak, but closed it, seemingly not knowing what to say.
“There’s more. So after the hot dog vendor was chased away, I took off after him in search of some answers, but I lost sight of him in the crowd, and you’ll never believe where I ended up . . . at the phone booth. The very same phone booth from Christmas. The last phone booth in Manhattan. Only this time it gave the address of the Greenwich House Theater—”
“Where the Marley Is Dead open call was being held,” he said, finishing my sentence.
“Yes! Don’t you see? The phone booth, it’s guiding me to the past and present and—”
“Future? I don’t know. That sounds a bit far-fetched. Maybe you’re searching for more meaning in all of this than there actually is.”
“No, I don’t think that’s it. There are too many parallels.”
“It’s a beautiful thought, Avery, but fate is choice, not chance. It was your choice to give Gabe a second chance, to stay for the audition, to prepare as hard as you did for the callback. To put it all on the phone booth almost cheapens your accomplishment.” He stood up from his seat. “And it’ll be you who earns the role once you work your butt off these next couple of weeks.”
Was he right? Was it simply easier to attribute all the recent good in my life to a phone booth rather than myself? I nodded. “Thank you. For the talk and the pie. Seems I really needed both.” I smiled and turned to leave, but then quickly spun back. “Oh, is it okay if I just freshen up in the back before dinner?”
“My Mimi’s es su Mimi’s. Have fun and I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said as he scooted out of the booth.
I looked up at him, a flash of panic washing over me. I’d put in for that day off when he made up the schedule for this week! “No, remember? I took tomorrow off. I’m going to Vermont for a long weekend with Gabe.”
“Thaaaat’s right. Have a good time. When you get back, it’s full steam ahead on the audition prep, right?”
“Yup, I’ll be gone for just a long weekend, and then we can hit the ground running.”
“Sounds like a plan. Congrats again, BrAvery. Remember, you earned this.” He swiped our pie plates from the table and left me to get ready for my date with Gabe.
Chapter Thirty
Remembering just how tiny our favorite French bistro was, enough room for maybe ten or twelve tabletops, I rid myself of my jacket and tote at the coat check and squeezed past the bar and into the main dining room. Floating in the air were the sweet notes of “La Vie En Rose” played by the accordionist through the quaint, chic restaurant, the music competing for my attention against the scrumptious smells of browned butter, sautéed onions, and garlicky escargot. My mouth watered at the memory of the rich flavors, and I practically power-walked to find Gabe, who was already seated at our favorite booth—a private nook in the back, away from the hustle and bustle of the kitchen.
He gave me a sweet wave and stood to greet me, kissing me on both cheeks playfully like we were real Parisians out for a night in Montmartre, a fun exchange we shared every time we’d come.
I raised my right eyebrow. “Our table?”
Gabe shrugged sheepishly. “I requested it when I made the reservation.”
I glanced around the restaurant, a flood of memories rushing back to me. The way the candles made the room glow with a pink hue as the light bounced off the crimson curtains. The way the sumptuous blue velvet banquettes felt against my skin where the hem of my dress stopped at my thighs. And the way Gabe tucked his napkin in his lap and opened the menu like he didn’t already know what we were going to order.
We always got the same thing, but I loved how he pretended like he might change his mind, and how he showed off his limited high school–level French to the waiter, which turned me on a little more than he knew.