But I can’t.
He veers off the path once to walk me past a white clapboard house. “This is one of the oldest surviving buildings in Manhattan, the Blackwell House,” he says. “The Blackwells owned the entire island until 1828, when they sold it to New York.”
Finally, he drapes his arm over my shoulder as we walk back to the path, and something deep inside me aches at the feel of him there. There’s some part of me that still remembers how safe I felt with Alessandro way back when—and how scared I was after.
Please, don’t leave me.
The tears that streamed down my face as I said those words threaten again at the memory. I push them away and look out over the water toward Queens.
“This is it,” Alessandro says, “the old smallpox hospital.”
I look at him, then past him at the remains of a crumbling three-story stone building sprawling across the southern tip of the island. It’s all gothic, with intricate stonework over the entrances and peaked windows, built from the same gray stone as everything else, with a roof that caved in decades ago and climbing vines all up the walls. It looks totally creepy, like it’s got to be haunted. I half expect gargoyles or whatever.
“It’s eerie,” I tell Alessandro. “But really cool.”
“That it is.”
I shudder when he smiles down at me.
We loop around the large building and over to the path on the Manhattan side of the island, where we lean against the rail, him gazing back at the ruins of the hospital, and me looking toward the city. As we stand here, I realize everything in me feels calmer just being out of it. Everything is slower here. It’s quiet, and even though it’s technically still part of Manhattan, it feels like a whole different planet. I can stand here and watch the city race by and for the first time I can remember, I don’t have to worry if I’m keeping up.
“What are you thinking?” Alessandro asks.
When I look up at him, I realize he’s staring at me. “When does it stop being hard?”
I’m not really sure what I mean, but Alessandro looks back over the city with a pensive expression and shakes his head, as if he understood me perfectly. “Damned if I know.”
WE’RE DOING SCENES from fairy tales tonight and I’m Sleeping Beauty. From the Disney version, no less. I tried to tell Quinn I’m totally not the girl for this part. I don’t do airhead. But he said the true test of an actor’s grit is when they have to do something out of their comfort zone.
So here I am, way the hell out of my comfort zone.
Nathan is Prince Phillip. Better him than Mike. Mike’s kind of a douche.
We’ve got the scene when Princess Aurora (me) meets Prince Phillip (Nathan) in the woods. Of course, I’m clueless and don’t know I’m a kick-ass princess, so I swoon all over Prince Phillip and he falls in love with me at first sight because I’m so ditzy, and I need a big, strong man to protect me.
By the time Nathan and I are done, I feel like I need a shower.
“Pick something better next week, Quinn,” I grumble when I take my seat next to him.
“That was horrible, Irish,” he says, shaking his head. “Worst I’ve ever seen from you. Utterly uninspired.”
“It’s hard to be inspired when the role sucks. The least you could have done was given me the evil fairy. I could have gotten into that.”
“But any great actress figures it out. You needed a challenge, and I handed you one. Instead of rising to it and showing us something softer, you bashed it over the head. Sometime you’ve got to let your softer side show, Irish.” His lips press into a line. “And I’m not just talking about the play.”
I fidget with a hole in my jeans as the next group, Kamara, Vee, and Mike start on their scene from Hansel and Gretel.
When everyone is done, Quinn stands. “Next week, Greek tragedies. Pick up your roles on the table.”
I move to the table and see my name on a script for Antigone. Mike and I are doing the scene together.
As I’m scanning through my part, Nathan comes up behind me. “Sorry that was so lame.”
I look up and shrug. “We didn’t have much to work with.” I lift my script for next week. “This looks a little more promising.”
“Good.” He scratches the top of his head. “So . . . there’s this—”
“Dude! Tell me I’ve got something better than Hansel,” Mike says, clapping Nathan on the back and cutting him off. He scoops his script up and flashes me a grin full of perfect white teeth. “Looks like we’re together, Irish.”
“Looks that way,” I say, folding my script into my back pocket. “See you guys later.”
But as I walk home through the park, I can’t stop thinking about what Quinn said, because as he said it, I realized something. I walk around every day wearing a face that’s not mine. I’ve hidden my softer, weaker parts behind a character who’s tough and doesn’t need anyone—my comfort zone. But Alessandro brings those parts out in me. Something about being with him pries those softer parts out from under my armor. He brings out that little girl that I was when we met. But I can’t go back to that. Not when I’ve worked so hard to get to where I am.
Sometimes Quinn is wrong.
Chapter Twelve
I’VE LEFT THREE voice mails for Brett in the ten days he’s been gone, and he finally called me back at two this morning. He was in a crowd somewhere, but between the loud music, the fact that he was drunk enough that he was seriously slurring, and the woman whining that he should hang up and dance with her, I couldn’t catch where. I’m not even sure what city he’s in.
The thing is, what bothers me about that whole scene isn’t the fact some chick (and probably more than one) is obviously making moves on Brett. What bothers me is that I really don’t care. I wanted to feel angry or upset when I hung up. I even went out to the living room and kicked his couch, but the only thing I felt was a sharp pain in my foot—which still sort of hurts as I walk into the Argo Tea.
I know I really need to stop whatever I’m doing with Alessandro before it turns into something I can’t stop. But every time I open my mouth to say something like, “I can’t hang out with you anymore,” something else comes out, like, “Tell me about Rome.” So, as we hop on the A train, which is standing room only at lunchtime on a Saturday, I still haven’t said anything. I justify it by telling myself I’m not taking an insane risk. My secret’s safe and we’re just exploring the city. I’m having fun . . . more than I have in a long time.
It’s amazing how a person can convince themselves of almost anything. Even when that anything could cost them everything.
When we get off one stop later, at Forty-second, I take the long way past the bus station, leaving Alessandro wondering if we’re bussing it for a minute, before heading down Eighth Avenue toward Thirty-ninth. When we take the right on Thirty-ninth, he looks at me and smiles. “The flea market.”
I shoot him a glance. “I’ve heard Hell’s Kitchen is the best. Cool vintage stuff.”
His smile pulls wider. “Good choice. I’ve never been.”
It’s warm for late November—almost seventy. After the cold snap we’ve had for the last few weeks, the streets are crowded with people basking in the sun, soaking up the last bits of warmth before winter hits for real. Many are in sweaters or sweatshirts, but there’s the occasional T-shirt or tank top. I picked my favorite light sweater—white with silver threads through it. It’s got an open neck and is snug without being tight. Alessandro is wearing khaki cargo pants, black army boots, and a snug black T-shirt. And those arms are truly spectacular—lean and long and muscular and totally hot. Watching his biceps strain the fabric at the hem of the short sleeve, I can’t deny the little part of me that’s dying to run my fingers over those muscles to see if they feel as solid as they look. I want to trace the veins to where they disappear behind brushed cotton.