RUBY

“You need to call your father.”

The water is running in the sink, so I pretend not to hear Bancroft, making loud splashing noises while I drop pots into the water. Dishwashing is one of my preproduction stress relievers. I didn’t realize it was my thing until this past week.

His arm slips around my waist, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Are you ignoring me?”

I tilt my head to the side, encouraging him to put his lips there as well. He nips a slow path from my ear to my shoulder and then back up again.

“Opening night is a week away, you need to call him.”

“He’s not going to drop everything and fly down to see me play pretend on stage,” I reply, distracted by his mouth and his hands.

Gently, Bancroft forces the pot I’m scrubbing out of my hands and turns me around. He’s smart enough to pin me to the counter with his hips and barricade me in with his hands.

“First of all, do not belittle yourself like that. You are an incredible talent and calling it anything other than performing or acting is unacceptable. Secondly, you need to at least give him the opportunity, Ruby. This is a huge accomplishment and he should learn to appreciate how hard you’ve worked to get here.” I hate how soft and logical he’s being. And sweet. It makes it difficult to argue.

Two weeks ago I finally caved, at Bancroft’s insistence—he enticed me with orgasms and Italian takeout, in that order—and called my father to inform him of my role in an Off-Broadway play.

His response: So I still wasn’t done playing pretend yet.

It was painfully deflating. I had to beg Bancroft not to call him back and give him a piece of his mind. I didn’t want their first introduction to consist of Bancroft calling my father names, such as insensitive, dream-crushing dick. However, I do appreciate how willing Bancroft is to come to my defense. It’s rather sexy.

“I’ll call later today. After rehearsal.”

Bancroft sighs. “Call now so you’re not thinking about it all day.”

Getting it over with is a double-edged sword. “If he says he doesn’t have time it’s going to ruin my day, and I need to be on point. Dress rehearsal is later this week and I don’t want anything compromising my performance today.”

Bancroft sighs and strokes my cheek with a fingertip. “So tonight you’ll call?”

I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod.

“Is there anything I can do to make today easier for you?”

I finger the buttons on his dress shirt. I’m wearing yellow rubber gloves, they’re still sudsy, so I’m making a mess of his outfit. “You could love me–fuck me,” I say softly.

“You want me to love you first?” He peels the soapy gloves off my hands.

“Please.”

He takes my face in his palms and kisses me. It doesn’t seem to matter that we’ve been dating now officially for a month—every kiss still makes my toes curl.

“I always love you, don’t I?” he whispers against my lips.

“You do. And I love it when you do it slow and soft or hard and dirty.”

Bancroft shoves my shorts down my legs and lifts me onto the counter. He drops to his knees and loves me with his mouth first, then with his fingers and his cock, still fully dressed.

It’s an excellent distraction from the nerves. I also never get tired of being loved by him.

* * *

Later that evening I’m sitting in my lounger—my old, ugly one that still takes up space in Bancroft’s condo—reviewing the script for the four-hundred-millionth time while he watches a DVR’d rugby match. I’d sit next to him, but then he’ll want to touch me, and I won’t be able to focus.

I know my lines. I can see the stage, my placement, the position of the male lead—I have to kiss him, which makes me a little nervous since Bancroft is going to see that happen. I’m not sure how he’s going to react. He’s said he’s fine, and he knows it’s acting, but I’m not so sure he’ll be as okay with it as he says he’s going to be once he actually sees it.

“Did you call?”

I look up and pretend I didn’t hear the question. “Hmm?”

“Your father, did you call?”

“He was in a meeting. I left a message with his secretary and provided the necessary details.”

“Has he called you back?”

“Not yet. He will. When he’s not busy with work.” Which could mean a few days from now, or even next week, which would be perfectly fine, because that’s after opening night.

Bancroft sighs, but says nothing. He keeps pushing this, and I understand why. This truly is a huge accomplishment. I have a lead role in one of the best Off-Broadway productions in the city. And I managed to do it all on my own, without anyone making phone calls to get me an audition. My new agent, who I secured a week ago, was highly impressed.

I’ve managed to pay off my overdue rent, and my credit cards are no longer maxed out. It’s still going to take time to get them all down to zero, but I feel like I have control of my life and that’s the important part.

When I move into Bancroft’s condo, which is an eventuality if things keep going the way they are, I want to come in as a positive contributor—maybe not with a huge bankroll, but at least I’ll be stable and not a burden.

“Does he realize how important this is to you?”

It’s my turn to sigh. “I know you just want to help, but you have to understand, my father’s first priority has always been himself.” It’s why my mother is all the way in Alaska—she desperately wanted to make opening night, but she’s in the middle of the ocean taking pictures of whales or something. It was a challenge to hear her over the crashing waves.

She’s coming later this month and she’s promised to stay a week or so. I can’t wait for her to meet Bancroft. She’s going to love him.

Bancroft drops the conversation. I’m glad. I don’t think my heart can take more of my father’s disdain or his dismissal of my chosen career path.

* * *

Six days later I’m in full costume. Butterflies have taken over my stomach. I peek through the curtains. Somewhere out there in the crowd are Bancroft and Amie. He wanted to bring his parents, but I told him it would be better if we waited on that. I’ve been to their house for dinner. Bancroft warned me about his mother being uptight. He didn’t have anything to worry about, though, she was nothing but sweet with me. And his brothers are a trip. He was right, they look nothing alike, but they’re all huge.

Three days ago I spoke with my father. He informed me he had meetings and golf, but he’d see whether it would work later in the month.

I tried not to be disappointed. But I am. Bancroft knows it and so does Amie, but I’m done trying to prove myself to my father. He’s not even a role model I want to look up to. He’s made his millions on penis-inflating drugs. Our ideas on what counts as a successful career don’t align.

I push aside all the worries and focus on the present. It’s opening night, and I’m the lead in an Off-Broadway performance. It’s a huge, positive step. It’s an accomplishment. It’s in that frame of mind that I step out onto the stage and wait for my cue.

It isn’t until it’s over and the house lights come up that I can finally see Bancroft and Amie in the audience. Armstrong had a thing so he couldn’t be here, which is fine, since I’m still struggling to warm up to him even after all this time. To the right of Bancroft is my father. He’s a good head shorter than Bane, lean and wiry rather than built. His hair is gray at the temples, receding at the crown. His typically serious face is cracked wide with a smile. He claps with vigor rather than with his usual golf-course propriety.

I shift my gaze to Bancroft as I link hands with the cast and step forward to take a bow. The cheers and applause grow louder, a thunderstorm of clapping that makes my heart soar and tears spring to my eyes.

The overwhelmingly positive response and the packed theater feed my pride. Someone hands me a massive bouquet of flowers so heavy it makes my arm ache. Backstage is a whirlwind of excitement. We’re all buzzing from the adrenaline of a successful performance.

I rush to change and greet the people who have stayed to congratulate us on a successful first night. My stomach is a knotted mess as I make my way through the crowd in search of Bancroft, but I keep getting stopped, for introductions, shaking hands with new people who pay me compliments that make me blush.

I’ve just finished thanking someone when an arm slips around my waist. “How’s my starlet?” Bancroft says in my ear. He politely excuses us and steers me away.

“Are you responsible for this?” I ask as we maneuver through the crowd, toward my father and Amie.

He doesn’t need me to explain the question. “I may have called and had a conversation with him about the importance of being supportive. He seemed very receptive once I made it clear how hard you had worked to get here. And that carving our own path rather than blindly following the one that was laid for us takes infinitely more courage. That seemed to resonate with him.”

I stop walking and grab the lapels of his suit jacket. He seemed shocked at first, but then he smiles and bends to kiss me. “I have so much love for you.”

“You were stunning up there tonight. Perfect.”

“You’re a little biased, what with you being my boyfriend.”

“I think the reaction of the audience should indicate that, despite my bias, I’m correct. Also, I wanted to murder your costar when he kissed you. Later, when I get you home, I’m going to claim that mouth as mine again.”

“I look forward to that.”

Amie is the first to hug me, and then I turn to my father, bracing myself for whatever it is he’s going to say. He’s holding a massive bouquet of flowers. He looks almost as nervous as I am. I haven’t seen him since Christmas. He’d been too busy to attend my convocation.

“I’m so very proud of you, Ruby.” And then he wraps me in a huge, warm hug, the kind I’d forgotten he could give. And that’s all I need from him. Just his pride and his love.