Isaac
Willow and I stepped out the coffeehouse into the chilly air. As I blinked under the bright sun, it hit me how I’d told this girl—a virtual stranger—everything about my mother. Without feeling like I should be choking it all down. Telling secrets was part of Marty’s assignment, I supposed, but it didn’t explain why the words fell easily from my mouth. As easily as they did when I was performing. No acting this time. I’d been myself for a few precious minutes and it didn’t suck. It was bearable.
Willow made being myself bearable.
I hunched deeper in my jacket and glanced down at her, no longer seeing the Manhattan rich girl living a perfect, pampered life. She closed her eyes, turned her face to the sun and inhaled a deep, cleansing breath.
She needed Harmony in her veins. She left something behind in New York. Something that was destroyed or taken away from her. It wasn’t her idea to come to this town, but once here, she found her escape. Her chance to hide. Or maybe rebuild?
She wouldn’t tell me but she didn’t have to. She’d given me so much already.
“Where are we headed?” she asked.
“Just up here,” I said.
We turned a corner and I led us north, out of downtown. The shops and buildings lining the street were replaced by tall trees—maple, oak and dogwood—just starting to turn green again.
We passed through a small neighborhood, row after row of one-story houses, each no more than eight or nine hundred square feet. Kitchen gardens and low fences separated the lots. Children’s toys lay scattered on the grass, spilling onto the sidewalks, as if they belonged to everyone. Wind chimes played a hollow tune.
“These houses are so cute,” Willow said, her eyes lit up. “What is this neighborhood?”
“It’s called The Cottages. Artsy-type folk live here.”
“Is this what you wanted to show me?”
“No.” I glanced down at her. “You like it?”
“I love it,” she said. “So quiet. And peaceful.”
We passed a house with a pottery wheel in the front yard. Another with small wrought iron sculptures of Kokopelli with his flute, sunbursts and small horses.
“Can’t you picture it?” Willow said. “Having a little house like this? You come out in the morning with a script, drink your coffee and watch the sun come up?”
I nearly stopped walking as her words punched me in the chest. I passed by The Cottages hundreds of times—thousands of times. All the years I lived here, I never thought anything except how lonely it would be to live in this corner of the world.
As we passed the last row of little houses, I saw them through Willow’s eyes. The curtains of my imagination opened on a scene: sitting on a front porch with a cup of black coffee, a script in my lap. Watching the sun rise over the green of the trees and spill between the leaves. Soft arms went around my neck, a lock of long blonde hair fell over my arm and soft lips brushed my jaw, whispering, “Good morning…”
I shook myself out of the reverie.
Nice fantasy, dumbass.
Another curtain rose: me spending another twenty years living in Harmony with my shitty home life dogging me. Half the town afraid of me, the other half judging and whispering. My father’s drunken rampages more famous than my acting. The Pearce name associated with a rotting junkyard sign, not lit up on a marquee.
Fuck this place.
Willow didn’t miss the dark expression on my face this time.
“Not a fan?”
“No,” I said. “I want out.”
“Which do you think?” she asked. “Hollywood or Broadway?”
“Whichever will take me.”
She frowned. “You don’t care? Wouldn’t it be really different to act on film as opposed to being on stage? Wouldn’t you miss the energy of a live audience?”
“Yeah, I guess I would,” I said. “But I’ve never really thought about acting beyond as a means to an end. Using it to get out.”
“Really?” Her face scrunched up as if she had just smelled something rotten. She fell silent, but with more questions behind her eyes.
“Go ahead,” I said. “You can say it. I’m egotistical. Or ungrateful for what I have.”
She shot me a look. “Now that you mention it…”
A small laugh ground out of me like a rusty gear. Instead of feeling insulted, I loved that I didn’t intimidate her.
“I get it,” I said. “But I don’t think of what I can do as talent or a gift. It’s an escape.”
“But can’t you feel what it does to the people who watch you act? It’s like a gift of transportation. An escape for us too.”
I stopped walking and looked down at her. “I’m glad it can be that for you. For anyone watching. But for me…” I shrugged. “It’s all I have.”
“I feel the same,” she said. “Like I was a little bit lost and then Hamlet fell into my lap. To help me find my way again.” Her laugh was nervous. “That sounds all kinds of dramatic. And probably silly.”
“It’s not silly,” I said. “Things happen for a reason, I guess.”
“You think?” Her voice suddenly went sharp. She stopped, her expression twisting in confusion and disbelief. “Everything happens for a reason?”
I blinked at her sudden fury. “I don’t know. Martin’s always telling me—”
“Your perfectly healthy mom having a stroke and dying happened for a reason? You said yourself, it was meaningless.”
My jaw clenched, my own blood rising. I jabbed a finger at my chest. “I get to say what that meant to me. Not you. Not anyone.”
“Exactly,” she fired back. “It’s your story. I hate ‘everything happens for a reason.’ Like someone’s pain doesn’t mean anything yet, but someday it will and then everything will be all right again. It’s bullshit.” She looked up at me, and her expression changed again, tear-filled eyes almost begging me. “What do we do in the meantime?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Try to get by. To survive.”
She held my gaze a moment, then nodded. “I’m sorry but…” She ran her fingertips beneath her wet eyes. “Some things happen and it’s like the power going out. Or the volume turns down to mute.”
I nodded. “Yeah, it is.”
“Until.”
“Until?”
“It’s something my grandmother told me once. She said every story has an until. Something bad happens that shows the character what they want most. But where is the until that puts everything back together? When does the character actually get what they want most?”
“When they allow themselves to have it,” I said. My hands itched to brush the lock of hair that had fallen over her cheek. “Or when they go and take it.”
“That’s why you’re leaving Harmony,” she said.
“Yes.”
She nodded, then huffed a sigh. The strength returned to her voice. “I wish I was as brave as you.”
“Auditioning for a part in Shakespeare’s most famous play without having acted a day in your life sounds pretty brave.”
“Or stupid,” she said, with a small laugh. “I’m sorry for what I said about your mom.”
“Don’t be.”
“Too late. I am.” She was smiling again and my eyes were drawn to her full lips that glistened with a touch of gloss.
I wondered what it tasted like…
Willow jerked her chin down the street. “That must be what you wanted to show me.”
I followed her gaze to the Harmony Amphitheater across the street.
“Yeah,” I said, snapping my eyes away from her. “Yeah, that’s it.”
We crossed the quiet street and passed under a freestanding square arch of white stone. The theater was a circle made of tiers of cement stairs that wrapped all the way around with a stage in the center. Random, free-standing cement blocks were placed here and there around it, as a kind of abstract decor. Green grass surrounded the amphitheater, or it would be green once spring came. Now the sun beat down on muddy patches in the brown and yellow turf.
“I come here sometimes at night,” I said. “To smoke and be alone.”
“I can see why.” She held out her arms. “Why didn’t Martin stage Oedipus out here?”
“Too cold in January.”
“Oh, right. But summer time? Does he do shows?”
“No. Too expensive to rent.”
“Bummer,” she said. “Can’t you just see it? Shakespeare-in-the-park?”
“I can,” I said, easily imagining Willow building a life here. A house in The Cottages and a summer of Shakespeare in her backyard. While I ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction.
“So can Marty,” I said. “He dreams of expanding the theater program to outdoor productions.”
“Why doesn’t he?” Willow said, climbing up on one oblong block of cement. She sat and dangled her booted feet over the edge.
“No funds,” I said. I leaned against the block, my shoulders level with her waist. “He won’t tell me much, but the previous owner of HCT didn’t manage the books very well.”
“Is it serious?” Willow asked. And the genuine concern in her voice made my damn heart swell.
“I don’t know. But it’s another reason I need to get out of here. I can’t make any money here. But out there,” I waved my hand to indicate basically anywhere but Harmony. “I have a shot. I can help him out.”
“You won’t forget where you got your start,” Willow said, her voice softening.
I shrugged, but smiled to myself and reached for my Winstons. “You mind if I smoke?”
“Yes and no.”
I glanced up at her, squinting. The sun was behind her, turning her long, wavy hair into a golden halo around her.
She looks like goddamn Lady Godiva.
I cleared my throat. “Yes and no?”
“Yes, I mind because it’s not good for you. No, the smoke won’t bother me.”
I nearly put my smokes away.
Do not start with that changing-yourself-shit, Pearce. You’re leaving.
I tapped a cigarette out of the pack, put it between my lips and lit it with my silver Zippo. As I exhaled my first drag, I noticed a small black X inked on the knee of Willow’s jeans. “What’s this?”
“Nothing,” she said, a little too fast. “I doodle when I’m bored. Paulson was putting me to sleep the other day.”
I nodded. I wasn’t an expert on clothes, but I could tell her jeans didn’t come out of the bargain bin at The Outpost. Designer brands ran at ninety bucks a pair. Not something you wanted to mark up with black ink.
Let it go.
I took a drag and looked over the amphitheater. I liked coming here at night, when the white stones glowed in the moonlight. My own Stonehenge. In the light of day, the space echoed with all the activities it hosted in Harmony: the fair in summertime, the occasional wedding ceremony and the high school graduation I wasn’t invited to.
“I heard George Mason High holds graduation here,” Willow said, apparently reading my mind. “Are you going?”
“No.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Nope.”
“What about all the other school events and experiences? Football games…” She kicked her feet against the cement block. “Dances.”
I shrugged. “I’m nineteen. I’ve had enough of high school.” I glanced up at her. “I remember there’s a Spring Fling or something coming up. You going?”
Oh shit. It sounded like I was asking her. I didn’t even go to the school anymore; I couldn’t ask her. Could I?
“No, I’m not going,” she said slowly.
“There might be rehearsal that night,” I said, tossing my cigarette on the ground. “Is why I mention it.”
“True. And anyway, no one’s asked me.”
“Justin hasn’t asked you yet?” My voice was casual and I slouched as I looked out over the amphitheater. Just a guy making conversation. Oscar-caliber acting.
“What? No. Justin and I are only friends.”
“I got the impression…” I shook my head. “Never mind.”
“The impression I like him?”
I looked back at her. “That he likes you.”
“Oh,” she said, her brows coming together. “God, I hope not. He’s nice enough. I mean, he gives me a ride after rehearsal. But…”
I felt myself craning forward for the rest of her sentence, my ego gleefully throwing out suggestions.
He’s dumb as a brick.
He secretly can’t read.
He farts when he laughs.
“It feels more brotherly to me than anything else,” she finished. “I suppose because he’s playing Laertes.”
“Yeah,” I said and my ego high-fived itself.
“I’m so…not into being with someone right now,” Willow said with a nervous lilt to her words. “Not for a while, anyway.”
I heard a whisper on the breeze, or ever again. A heaviness in her eyes hinted she had lost something and had almost given up trying to find it.
She hasn’t given up, I thought, a fierce admiration welling in me. That’s why she’s doing the play. To find it again.
In that moment, I vowed to try to cut out all the egotistical bullshit and jealousy over Justin. The dance was out of range now anyway. I couldn’t ask her to go even if I wanted to. Which I didn’t. My job was to help her find what she was looking for in Hamlet, however I could. Even as it dented my eagerness to get the hell out of Harmony.
Willow shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted at me. “So what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you like anyone?” she asked, her voice a half tone higher than usual. She laughed. “That’s such a high school thing to ask.”
“No,” I said. “If all goes to plan, I’m leaving Harmony, remember? Stupid to start something now.”
“Sure. Makes sense.”
A silence fell.
“Yeah, so I probably won’t go to the dance,” Willow said. “I’m not good in that kind of situation anymore.”
“What kind of situation?”
She shook her head. “Never mind. I should get back.”
Willow started to scoot down off the block. I held my hand out to her to help. She hesitated for a fraction of a second and then took it. I held my other hand out and she took that too. I steadied her as she hopped down and then we were standing face to face. Close enough I could see her pale blue eyes had lighter shards of blue in them, like a topaz. Close enough to smell the sweetness of her breath—coffee tinged with sugar. Close enough to dance if we wanted.
“Thanks,” Willow said, gazing up at me.
“Sure,” I said.
I still held her hands. She didn’t let go.
“So,” she breathed, still not moving.
“Yeah.”
I glanced down at our hands. I hadn’t touched something this soft and good in ages. The sleeve of her coat bunched up and I spied a black mark on the inside of her forearm, close to her wrist. Willow drew in a breath as I turned her hand over. An X, about the size of a quarter, was stark on her pale skin.
She tugged her hands away. “I really need to get back.”
Every instinct cried out to take her hand again, to ask her what the X meant. To lick my thumb and erase it off her skin. I didn’t know what it meant but the sight of it made my stomach feel heavy.
“Willow—”
“I doodle when I’m bored. I told you that.” Her voice was sharp but her smile wobbled. “Let’s go.”
We walked the short distance back to town wordlessly. Back in front of the theater, Willow shouldered her bag and glanced around. “Thanks for today. I think Martin would be happy with our progress.”
“I do too.”
God, would he, I thought.
“So, I guess I’ll see you Monday?” she said.
“You have a ride home?”
“Oh, uh…” She still wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I was thinking of walking.”
“To Emerson Hills?” I said. “That’s a mile and a half and it’s getting dark soon.”
She raised her brows. “I’m not allowed to walk in the dark?”
“You’re allowed,” I said, “but I don’t want you to.”
Willow’s expression softened. “Oh. Okay. If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t.”
As we walked toward my truck in the theater parking lot, every dent and scratch in the blue paint screamed for attention. Once inside, Willow sat with her eyes locked on the view outside her window. Her hands clutched her bag tight, her coat sleeves tugged far over her wrists.
We were silent on the drive to Emerson Hills, where the flatness of Indiana was broken by a few rolling hills. We passed a small overlook with a view of downtown Harmony. Most of the houses here were huge. No cottages or trailers allowed. Stables and trees in the backyards instead of piles of rusted, twisted metal.
Willow directed me down one street. “Right here is good,” she said with a vague wave of her hand.
“Which one is yours?” I asked, pulling to the curb in front of a house built in brown brick and gray stone.
“This is great, thanks,” she said. She grabbed her bag and reached for the door, then paused, her hand white-knuckled on the handle. “Thank you. Not just for the ride, but for showing me the amphitheater and for our talk. I think it helped.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Was it helpful for you, too? I mean, as far as what Martin wanted from us?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It was.”
I scrambled to think of something else to talk about, anything to keep her in the car for one more minute…
“Okay, then,” she said, grabbing her bag. “I’ll see you Monday night.”
“Yeah. See you.”
She climbed out of the truck and shut the door, then waved at me from the curb. And didn’t move.
She’s waiting for me to drive away.
Normally, nothing could’ve budged me from the curb until I knew she was safe inside her house. But I made an exception and flipped the truck around to head back to the western edge of town, to my shitty trailer. In my rearview, I watched as Willow fidgeted with her bag. Maybe she was digging around for her house keys, but I doubted it. And by the time I turned the corner, I knew the brown and gray house I’d pulled in front of wasn’t hers.