We used to be pretty good friends. We’d psych each other up for upcoming auditions and then talk each other down after our numerous rejections. We’d help each other rehearse the small two-bit roles we’d occasionally land, spending late-night hours after Mimi’s closed reading lines back and forth over slices of whatever pie of the day we had left over. There was never anything romantic between us beyond some fun flirtation and showstopping duets. It was just nice to have a work buddy who really understood what it was like trying to make it as an actor in New York.
When he saw me, his mouth dropped open. His deep voice startled me from my gawking. “My God,” he sighed, “BrAvery Lawrence, is that you?!”
I’d completely forgotten the nickname he’d anointed me with after a particularly saucy rendition of “Big Spender” from Sweet Charity that had a group of buttoned-up businessmen losing their minds. Man, I made some good tips that night.
“You still work here?” I threw my hands over my mouth. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for that to come out as rudely as it did. I’m just surprised to see you.”
He chuckled and nodded. “Yeah, still here. I am the manager though now, so you know, livin’ the dream. And what about you? Off touring with the Royal Shakespeare Company doing proper th-ee-ehh-ter?” he asked in a mocking British accent.
“Not quite, more like looking for a job. And though I’m a little out of practice, I swear I still have some juice left in these pipes,” I said, even though I wasn’t quite sure that was true. It’d been more than a hot minute since I’d taken ’em for a real test drive, so I was hoping that, if called to it, muscle memory would kick in and I would be able to squeak out a passable rendition of something.
“I have no doubt. You were one of the few servers who could hit a high E above middle C.” Charlie slowly put his receipt book down by the register, dusted off his hands, and extended an open palm toward me, his eyebrows helping to communicate the invitation. “You know, we do have an opening . . .”
Mimi’s always had an opening. The waitstaff was exclusively made up of wide-eyed actors who’d come to New York in hopes of getting their big break, but instead would wind up having to wait tables to make ends meet between auditions. Eventually, though, a part or national tour would come along, and off they’d go, leaving a spot to be filled by the next young hopeful.
“So? How ’bout an audition?” Charlie asked and again thrust his open hand forward toward me.
I looked around, still unsure of what he wanted me to do with it. “Wait, what? Like right now? I’m not warmed up! In fact, I’m ice cold, you know, not having sung basically anything outside of the shower in the past few years.”
He dismissed my concern with a wave of his still proffered hand. “Like riding a bike. I’ll take it easy on you. No high Es above middle C. Not until you’re ready, I promise.”
Before I could protest any further, the familiar chords of Grease’s “You’re the One That I Want” erupted through the space. My heart constricted both at the song choice drumming up memories of Adam and our spectacular engagement and the fact that Charlie was pulling me up onto the counter to sing for the first time in forever.
“C’mon, Sandra Dee, you got this. It was our song, remember?” he said, handing me a mic and a light-pink satin jacket.
He opened up the song with Danny Zuko’s first lines, and I was initially worried I wouldn’t remember all of the words. But as soon as he started to sing, looking at me with a handsome smile and gyrating hips, I burst into giggles and let my inhibitions fall away. When we got to the chorus, as if rehearsed, we both crooked our thumbs in our belt loops and did the iconic shuffle, complete with a little hop on the word honey, just like John and Olivia. It was amazing how naturally it all came flooding back: the moves, the singing, and most of all the rush of adrenaline I felt every time I’d ever stepped onstage.
By the end of the song, the room was on its feet clapping and singing right along with us, even demanding an encore performance.
Charlie squeezed my hand as we took our bows. “Well, BrAvery Lawrence, it looks like you’re hired.”
I stepped out of the diner and into the hustle and bustle of rush hour. Considering it was mid-January, it was one of those unexpectedly warm winter days that, even if just momentarily, reminds you spring is somewhere on the horizon. I decided to walk home instead of taking the subway, figuring I could take advantage of the nice weather and get in some steps. Once Adam had hired a driver, we’d hardly ever walked, always opting to be dropped at the door of our next destination. I’d forgotten how much you can miss in New York when you aren’t a part of its rhythm. It was the difference between merely appreciating a song on the radio and playing live at Madison Square Garden, your fingers tightly wrapped around the bass.
I blended into the crowd of tourists and commuters and let myself be carried along with them down the packed sidewalks, appreciating the shops, sights, and smells. I’d never grow tired of the scent of candied cashews from the Nuts4Nuts vendors perched at every corner. My stomach grumbled as the sweet aroma drifted up my nose and straight into my belly, causing me to immediately make a U-turn to buy a bag. I dug around my pocket for some change and handed the vendor four quarters.
“It’s three dollars a bag, hon,” he deadpanned.
“Sorry. Just give me one sec.” I set my tote down, unpacked my new phone （my old one was still sitting and collecting dust in an evidence box in a precinct somewhere） and my makeup bag on the sidewalk, and fished around for another few bucks. “Here you go,” I said, reaching up to hand him two singles.
He passed me the warm bag of nuts as I brushed off my knees. I stuffed my makeup bag back into the tote and picked up my phone from the ground, noticing its screen illuminated with a text message notification.
Our place at 10:00.—G.
With everything that had happened these last couple of weeks, I’d managed to push the strange encounter with Gabe on Christmas out of my mind, unsure my fragile heart could handle anything beyond that one chance meeting.
But intrigued, I read over the text again. Our place. A sense of overwhelming wistfulness slammed into me at the familiarity of Gabe’s words. My breath caught in my throat, and, hands trembling, I couldn’t suppress my curiosity at being revisited by this ghost from my past and promptly typed back, See you there.
Chapter Ten
Before our bizarre Christmas encounter, Gabe and I hadn’t spoken in close to seven years, our last exchange taking place at the very same café where I sat waiting for him now. After almost five years together, our relationship hit an iceberg of Titanic proportions, and we called it quits the morning after what had been the most important callback audition of my career—one I completely blew, one that cost me more than just the part: it cost me everything.
At twenty-three years old, I’d only ever known the Gershwin Theatre to be the forever home of one of Broadway’s most celebrated and Tony-clad shows: Wicked. Even though I hadn’t managed to secure an agent post-graduation, I was lucky enough to secure an audition after dazzling the show’s musical director （unbeknownst to me at the time） while belting my way through a rendition of “Defying Gravity” for a pre-matinee crowd at Mimi’s.