Acting auditions are like the worst first date ever. And that’s an insult to first dates. I mean, you get all dolled up, turn on your brightest smile, and try your best to make total strangers fall in love with you. Meanwhile, the schlubby guys on the other side of the table take a quick look, shrug their shoulders, and decide there’s something better out there. “We’ll call you,” they say. Yeah, right. The next thing you know—if you’ve got my career, anyway—you’ve been ghosted.

At least on an actual first date, there’s a chance of getting laid before you’re left waiting for the phone to ring. Finding a hot, straight guy on Broadway? Now that’s a one-in-a-million chance.

But sometimes, like magic, the phone does ring. When the casting assistant for the new musical production of Serendipity dropped me a line last week to let me know I’d made callbacks, I did a tap dance of joy before I’d even hung up. It’s the lead role: the kind of part that could make my Broadway career, the kind of part I’ve been waiting to land ever since I arrived in New York seven long years ago. And it’s one of my favorite movies to boot: a romantic holiday classic, right up there with Love, Actually and Die Hard.

But walking into the audition, my heart sinks.

The space is packed. I expected five, maybe ten other actresses, tops. This is closer to fifty. Did that many people even audition for this role in the first place?

I am so screwed.

Nope. I’m not going to let myself think that. A callback is a callback, even if a whole lot of other people also got it.

I stomp the snow from my boots and look around, scanning my competition. After years on the audition circuit, I know the scene. Marissa is in the corner, with her lucky red sweater on—the one that shows her ample assets. She’s beat me out a couple of times for roles, but it’s been a while since she got cast, and she’s five years older than me, which is like fifty in Broadway years. Suzy Chambers is stretching on the other side of the room. Her blonde curls are somehow unaffected by the damp, cold weather, so glossy she can probably see her reflection in them. She gives me a little wave and one of those fake-perky smiles.

It’s easy to be that confident when you’re coming off the touring company for Hamilton.

I used to know everyone in the room, but today, there are a ton of strangers. Young, dewy strangers. I gulp. I’ve been shaving a couple years off my resume since the day I turned twenty-five, but all the face cream in the world can’t compete with actual baby-faced millennials. Where does the time go? I always thought that by the time I was staring down thirty, I’d have leading roles under my belt (and a gorgeous husband, and spacious apartment too); instead, I’m right back here in the cattle call where I’ve always been.

Still, this might be the last time. One big role, one big break . . . and everything could change.

I square my shoulders and march across to an open chair. I dump my bag on the floor and start stripping off my bulky winter coat.

“Jill!” A tall brunette with Bambi-wide eyes hustles over. “So, you got called too? I can’t believe they’re holding the auditions so close to the holidays—can you? I’d have headed home to Buffalo yesterday if it wasn’t for this.”

“That’s show business for you,” I say with a smile. Naomi and I end up at a lot of the same auditions, which means we’ve done a lot of commiserating over the years. “It could have been worse. I’ve heard of one production that did their lead auditions on Christmas Eve.”

Naomi makes a face, but honestly, I wouldn’t have minded that timing either. When you don’t have a family that’s all that enthusiastic to spend time with you, the holidays are just regular days with a lot more crowds and a lot worse public transit schedules.

I haven’t visited my parents in Colorado for Christmas for three years now. The years before that, all they ever did was talk up the wonderful adult education programs I could get into. There’s still time to get your life on track, you know.

I will. I am going to nail this audition and score the part, and it’s only going to lead to bigger and better things.

This is my time. After all these years, it’s got to be.

“Good luck in there,” Naomi says. “I heard they’re asking for two songs and a dance routine.”

“Thanks for the warning.” I reach down for my bag—and my hand closes around empty air.

I look down. “Do you see my bag?” I ask, my voice rising in panic. “Blue, beat up, has my jazz shoes in it?”

Naomi looks around. “I don’t see anything.”

No. No. I curse under my breath and check around, but there’s no sign of it.

“Maybe someone grabbed it by mistake?” Naomi suggests.

Nobody does anything by mistake at an audition, but I ask around, my voice getting louder—and more panicked—with every passing moment. Still no sign of my shoes. Shit. I’m still wearing ugly hulking snow boots from my journey: great for navigating the slushy Manhattan streets. Not so great for a sparkling dance routine up on stage.

“I’m sorry, Jill.” Naomi looks stricken. “I’d lend you mine, but . . .”

She trails off, but I don’t need her to finish. She’s a friend, sure, but she’s not about to jeopardize her own chances to help me out.

Here, it’s every woman for herself.

Damn!

“Jill Simon?” the casting assistant calls. “Jill Simon, you’re on!”

Of course I am.

I swallow back my frustration and follow her through the stage door. So I’m leaving a trail of melting snow and grit with every step and I look like G.I. Jane from the knees down, but that doesn’t mean I can’t crush this audition.

I’ve practiced the song for weeks. It’s the perfect fit for my vocal range. And I want it bad.

The assistant ushers me onto the stage. The stage lights are low, so I can see the front row, filled with people. I recognize two of the guys sitting in the center. There’s Robbie London, the production’s hotshot director, leaning over in deep conversation with Oliver Gage, Serendipity’s producer. Most Broadway producers are old and anonymous, but Oliver is like the most eligible (straight) man in theater. He’s got the tousled blond hair and sexy green eyes of a Disney prince, paired with a tough-guy jaw and perpetual five o’clock shadow that adds a little edge. Pair that with his killer instincts for picking a hit, and is it any wonder he’s got a reputation? Rumor has it, he dumped Scarlett Johansson for Zoë Kravitz—and then cheated on her with Charlize Theron.

Yup. Player.

And also the man I need to win over with my kick-ass audition if I’m even going to stand a chance.

I stand there and clear my throat. No one seems to have noticed I’m even here.

Considering my dripping entrance, maybe that’s a good thing.

I glance at the assistant who’s standing in the wings. She nods. Okay, here goes. I grasp the microphone, ignore the puddle forming around my feet, and launch into the song.

“You’ll never expect it,

But it’s just around the corner,

Hold on or you’ll regret it,

You’ll find even more now.

Serendipity!

Yes, it’s more than a dream . . .”

My voice vibrates from my chest and rings through the vast room. It feels good. Sometimes, you just know you’re killing it. I get into the movement, giving them a little shimmy and checking to see if—

They’re ignoring me.

Gage and London and their colleagues are chatting away as if they’re alone in the theater. No one shoots so much as a glance my way. My voice is filling the theater like I’m meant to be on this stage . . . and it’s falling on deaf ears. What the hell?

I’m determined to make them notice me. Throwing all the passion I can gather into the song, I finish the chorus and launch into the next verse.

“And if somehow tomorrow,

You find another way—”

I’ve made it two lines in when London holds up his hand. “Thank you,” he calls out without glancing up. “That’ll be all.”

He still isn’t even looking at me. Too busy checking his phone.

I stop. “OK,” I call back, trying not to let the rejection slice me open. Maybe I sang it so well, they already know they love me. “Do you want my next song, or the dance number?”

Pick the song, I pray. I’m not exactly equipped to go step-hop-kicking my way across the stage in these boots.

“Neither, thanks. You can go.”

Go.

I let out a strangled snort of laughter. Go where? Back to my tiny studio apartment, or my revolving list of shitty part-time jobs? The parents who are disappointed in me, or the hookups who never stick around for breakfast in the morning?

What am I doing with my life?

It hits me in an instant, right there in the glaring spotlight. I’m Marissa. I’m the one who’s too old for this, past my sell-by date. I’m the one clinging to a dream that stays just out of reach. Those guys down there in the front row have no idea what it takes to keep trying, to audition day after day, hoping that this time—this one, final time—will make it all worthwhile.

“Didn’t you hear me, sweetheart?” Oliver looks up at me, impatient. “You’re not what we’re looking for this time.”

“How would you know?” My voice echoes across the theater before I can stop myself. “You didn’t even look at me. Did you hear a single word of my song, or was that text message just so-o-o important it couldn’t wait?”

“Excuse me?”

Now you could hear a pin drop. Everyone’s looking at me in shock, but it’s too late to take it back. I’ve got seven long years of rejection pumping through me, and right now, these people are standing for everyone who’s ever told me no.

“No!” I cry. “You’re not excused! We’re human beings, you know, not robots! I’m up here doing my best, we all come and do our best for you, and the least you could do is give us two seconds of your attention. Two measly, lousy, seconds. Hell, why not make it three? Maybe then you’d judge the person pouring their heart and soul into this performance and not the headshots in front of you!”

They’re all listening now. Listening and staring at me like I’m a freak of nature that suddenly appeared on the stage. Oliver Gage’s brilliant green eyes are fixed right on me. But I can’t stop. My mouth has a life of its own. A sassy, argumentative life.

“In case you didn’t realize, we spend our lives preparing for this,” I continue, my hands on my hips. “College and classes and workshops and more classes! All so we can hone our craft and deliver a performance that moves and engages people. But you’re too busy fiddling with your phones to even look twice. Have you got the slightest clue what it’s like to open your heart to someone and be totally ignored? Of course not! Because you weren’t crazy enough to become actors. Well, thank you for your precious time,” I finish, reality dawning on me in all its horrifying glory. “I’ll let you get back to your amazingly important lives.”

I literally drop the mic on the stage.

Oh, crap. What have I done?

I give them a quick curtsy. Then I run like hell for the exit—my boots stomping with every step.