evermore: a short story collection

tolerate it

I sit and watch Chris reading, his head bent low over the script. I don't even try to conceal the proud smile that covers my face as I look at him. When he first came to me with the idea of making a movie that featured a character largely inspired by my own life, I was skeptical. But now, watching him pore over the script again and again, I know the story is in good hands. Chris is a gifted storyteller and his first foray into writing and directing is highly anticipated by everyone in the industry. My story, every painful memory wrapped in barbed wire in my mind, is softened on the page, as if Chris wrapped every moment in a blanket and cradled them close to his heart. Through Chris' eyes, it all makes sense, every past mistake, every moment of despair, led to this. It was worth it, it had a purpose. The day he sold the script, I greeted him with a battle hero's welcome, cheers, and a mini confetti cannon. We'd ordered in a fancy dinner and laid the table with our best dishes, then nearly broke them all when the evening quickly turned to victorious love-making. I could nearly cry with the memory of that day, so filled with light and joy.

I wake in the middle of the night and watch him breathing in the bed beside me, his eyes closed. As I watch his chest rising and falling peacefully, I think to myself: I'm the kind of person who will always be miserable. The thought paces back and forth in my mind as I try to decide if it's because I'm always striving for something more, which would say something positive about my character, or if it's because that's just who I am, a miserable, joyless person. I should be happy. Rationally, logically, what Chris had told me made sense. I had bounded home that day after the audition, sure it had been just a formality, waited for Chris at the door like a child. But he let his hand drop mine as he walked down the hallway, barely met my eye. He'd had limited control over casting, he said, he fought hard for me, but ultimately, it wasn't up to him. I'd wanted to fall to my knees, to scream and beg, but I hadn't. I'd hugged him, said it was fine, I was fine. Maybe I had imagined it, but I thought he'd sensed some of my desperation even with my pretending. I felt something like disdain in his distance the next few days. It didn't matter. My agent had said the same thing. The ages didn't line up, I was too old now to play my teenage self. Angelica, the girl they'd ended up casting, was nineteen, the same age I had been when I first came to LA. The age I was when I first met Chris. They'd offered me a producing credit instead. I was lucky, she'd told me. A tear leaks out of the corner of my eye unbidden. "I'm happy for him," I whisper to myself in the dark.

I sit and listen. Chris is introducing our movie at TriBeCa. My heart is pounding with anticipation. The audience is hanging onto his every word, eager to get lost in the world he's built. He begins a list of thank yous, starting with his director of photography, and my stomach begins to flutter. I drop my gaze to my lap, suddenly nervous to be called out as his inspiration in front of this esteemed crowd of our peers. But then, "Enjoy the show!" My head snaps up in disbelief. He's done, he didn't mention my name at all, not as muse, not as his partner for nearly ten years. I'm stunned, and my hands move of their own accord, coming together again and again as the audience around me roars their excitement. Chris gives one last wave before departing the stage and his eyes rove past mine over the crowd, as if I'm just one more adoring, clapping fan. Chris makes his way back to the empty seat beside me, and my body, aware of every eye on us, performs autonomously: gracious smile as he lowers himself into the chair, loving pat on the arm as he settles in. Finally the lights dim, and my face sets in a stony, unreadable slate. I can feel the ice radiating out of me from where the shard still stabs my chest, and Chris must too, because I feel him glance at me questioningly. I keep my gaze locked on the screen.

Lights up. Full minutes of standing ovation. Chris sitting beside me accepting it, pride and joy rolling off him in waves while his hands are clutched at his chest in false humility.

I sit and watch him shake hands with producers, accept praise from critics, laugh conspiratorially with Angelica as they make their rounds with the reporters. She grabs onto his arm as if her laughter will knock her slim frame right over, and I see him pat her hand and leave it there. I feel a bead of clammy sweat roll down my spine beneath the scratch of my beaded dress. Finally, his eyes meet mine across the room, and he waves me over, his face cracking into a bright smile. It's his show smile, no more for me than for the photographers following his every move. I manage a pageant grin of my own and slowly rise from my seat. Chris motions to Angelica and the others that I'm coming, chattering excitedly, no doubt eager to introduce them to his mythical muse. I'm nearing the group now and Chris gives me one more wave over, untangling himself from Angelica to extend the warmth of his embrace to me. At the last second, I veer right, to the glowing red exit sign.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch his smile falter for the briefest second.