Sewanee smiled. “I only have six scenes, remember?”
“Yeah, well, the last time we were on location together it was only supposed to be a week and look how that turned out.”
Sewanee watched Adaku realize what she was saying as she was saying it. Saw the flare of panic in her eyes, the last-minute decision to add a cheeky grin at the end, the way she went back to her smoothie in an effort to look casual. As she’d said, Sewanee was her best director; she knew all the tics in Adaku’s performances.
To put her at ease, Sewanee changed the subject. “You know, I should go with you to the gym, see what routine they’ve got you doing.”
Adaku shook her head and did some hamstring stretches. “You’re on your own for that. I’m heading to London tomorrow for the Girl in the Middle premiere and press. I’ll be there for . . .” She stared at the floor, calculating. “Three? Four days? Then back here, but just for an overnight, because The Originator is sending me to Georgia for some off-grid team-building thing with the other girls in my ‘tribe.’ And then there’s two weeks of weapons training, which I’m sure you’ll be a part of. Then Australia.” Adaku took an intense slurp and said through her cringe, “I can’t believe I’ll be trudging through backcountry Georgia swampland this time next week.”
Sewanee peered at her. Adaku’s usual go-go-go attitude seemed to be limping a bit. She always approached the world like one big improv setup: yes, and! Right now, though, Sewanee was seeing more yes, but. “You taking care of yourself?”
“Yeah! Just tired is all.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
“Be brilliant in this film so we can do more of this.”
Sewanee stood to go. She had a lot of recording to burn through if she was going to Australia. She quickly calculated when she might next see Adaku, given her schedule, and the answer was bleak. So she said, “Hey, why don’t I take you to the airport for the Georgia trip next week?”
Adaku shook her head. “It’s the morning after the Audies, you don’t love me that much.”
“Wanna bet?”
Adaku smiled. “Okay, but I’ll meet you at your place. No need for you to come all the way East only to take me all the way West. Plus”–she winked–“give you more time to get Brock out of your bed.”
Sewanee scoffed as she walked to the front door. “I doubt he’ll be at the Audies.”
“Why not?”
“He’s all smoke and mirrors. The whole pseudonym thing. No one knows who he is!”
They said goodbye, Adaku taking her empty shaker into the kitchen, Sewanee closing the door behind her.
As she walked to her car, she rolled the audition pages into a telescope, tapping them against her leg in a jittery beat.
The thought of acting again, of putting herself fully out there after having hidden away in a 4x4 sound booth for all these years, was making her heady. Was she really ready to do this?
Yes.
Hell, yes.
It shocked her that whatever trepidatious fear she’d carried for so long could be so instantly, so thoroughly, overruled by excitement. By being given the opportunity to make it right. Like being given a second chance. Like Claire and Alessandro. And all of it, somehow, kept her circling back to thinking about Brock.
If she were Adaku, she might say everything happened for a reason or the universe was harmonizing or some shit, but she . . . well, that wasn’t her.
Still. Something was cohering. Maybe it was one of those seven-year cycles people talked about. Maybe she was finally coming around the dark side of the moon.
She’d text him later: Question. Why does the moon go dark?
But right now, in this moment, she had a question for herself:
Why was she so afraid to talk to him?
It made no sense.
Everything was coming together for her, and he was a part of that. Why couldn’t she bring herself to tell him the story she’d put off telling him? Twice now. Her “Why.”
What was the worst that could happen? She would discover it wasn’t–he wasn’t–the fantasy she hoped he would be? No. Was it that she would no longer be the fantasy she wanted to be? Yes. And how pathetic was that?
The time had come. She would act again and she would stop acting with Brock. She’d be honest. And worst case? They’d stay friends. Colleagues. They’d continue to make a ton of money voice-banging, as the Facebook fans called it. The idea that he would, for some reason, cut her off entirely was as absurd as the idea that the fantasy was real. Both imagined outcomes so equally ludicrous they essentially canceled each other out.