four

I  woke up feeling strangely disoriented. My back was stiff, and I realized that I had fallen asleep in the big chair by the living room fireplace. I stretched, listening to the tendons in my neck crackle and pop, until I noticed that Holly was sitting across from me with a grin like the Cheshire Cat.

“Hey, what’s up?” I asked, snuggling back under the throw I had wrapped up in last night while I was reading.

While I was reading—oh no.

“I told you so. How far did you get?” she asked, looking pointedly at the magazines strewn across the floor next to me.

I held up my hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, I give. It’s brilliant and I’m totally sucked in. I’m in love with Super-Sexy Scientist Guy!” I blushed as I thought of the passages I’d read the night before. Joshua had arrived in nineteenth-century Paris and was engaged in some rather intense “international relations” with a young woman who worked in a millinery. I didn’t know where this story was going to go, but I was totally digging it. I might have also been imagining a certain Mr. Hamilton in the role of Joshua, which made me blush further.

“Oh, boy,” she squealed. “Wait until you get to the part where he picks her up and pushes her up against the—”

“Not fair!” I raised a finger and shook it at her. “Let me read them on my own. At the rate I’m going, I’ll be finished by the end of the week.”

“I won’t tell you anything . . . but promise me you’ll keep me posted on what part you’re on.”

“Agreed,” I muttered as she left the room.

Later that day, I was finishing a run at Griffith Park. I’d spent the rest of the morning trying to work but was unable to stay away from the damn short stories. I was well into the third one by now, losing ground fast to this new addiction. By three P.M. it was obvious that I would get no work done, so I decided to go for a run.

I was lucky that my job allowed me a flexible schedule and I mainly worked from home. I had gone back to school after moving back to the Midwest from L.A. and gotten a second degree in instructional design. I created and designed training programs and materials; it was work I enjoyed and was good at, although it wasn’t satisfying the way performing was.

As I was running, I reflected on how happy I was here now. The first time, I had been focused only on what I thought fame would bring me. I wanted the attention, the money, the lifestyle—instead of concentrating on the work, on the craft. Back then it was all about the validation, looking out instead of in.

I rarely allowed myself to really let go, to truly trust myself or whoever I was sharing a stage with. I had rare moments of honesty onstage, but they were so powerful and exhilarating that I quickly moved on to surer footing. I would transition into a punch line or camp it up, taking myself out of the moment and back into what I knew. Be funny and beautiful but not real.

And I failed for the first time in my life—really failed. I hated that, but not enough to fight it. After moving back home I gained weight, becoming almost unrecognizable to anyone who’d known me in L.A. It happened over several years, so I didn’t notice how unraveled my life and its direction had become. When I went back to school, I was lucky enough to find something that I was good at. Once I was finished with school for the second time, the jobs I was able to get afforded me the luxury of working from home, and I cocooned there.

Holly and I stayed in close contact but rarely saw each other. I had a few friends that I spent time with, and while I went out on dates from time to time, there was no one special. For someone who had partied like a rock star and never lacked male companionship, I had effectively shut down that part of my life. It was as if I was numb down there. I’d had a highly charged sex life and a strong sexual appetite, but once I started to gain weight, I no longer had the desire. Okay, strike that. I had the desire, but I was too reluctant to let anyone touch me. Over time, that part of me just went to sleep. I had become a shell of my former self and didn’t even know it.

Everything changed when my friends took me out for my birthday. I had stayed in contact with several of my girlfriends from high school, getting together with them for dinners and cocktails occasionally. They always made me tell them stories about the exciting life I had led in California, all eighteen months of it, and it was fun. There was still a little crazy left in me, and I let it out sometimes, albeit carefully.

For my birthday, they surprised me with tickets to see Rent. It had been years since I had seen a play or musical of any kind, and I was touched that they’d remembered how much I had loved the Rent soundtrack. I had never seen the show and thought it would be an interesting night. Interesting did not even begin to describe it.

From the moment I walked into the theater, from seeing the stage to finding our seats in the mezzanine, my skin was tingling. My senses were heightened, my breath was coming fast, and I actually felt a little dizzy.

Then the lights went out.

There is a feeling, an electricity that happens in live theater. There is a connection between the actors and the audience that is palpable. When the lights came back up, I saw the band onstage and felt the music begin to move across me—I was overwhelmed. When I recognized the opening song, tears formed in my eyes. Before one note was sung, before one word was spoken, I was lost in the moment. And I began to cry.

It was as though everything I had been missing in my life came into focus, and I couldn’t hide from it anymore. As silent sobs wracked my body, I was filled with such a sense of joy, of rapture, of belonging. I couldn’t stop the smile that was stretching from ear to ear. It was magic. It was the closest to a religious experience that I had ever come. At one point, my friend to my left tried to ask me something, but I just shook my head. I couldn’t take my eyes off the stage. I knew that this was what I was supposed to be doing with my life, and I couldn’t wait to start living again.

After that night, it was like there was a hand pushing against my back, constantly keeping me moving forward. I went home, looked in the mirror, and cried at what I saw. Not so much about the weight, but because the woman looking back at me had none of the spark, none of the crazy, that I used to love about myself. I cried for the time that I had lost. I cried for letting things go on like this for too long. I cried for the living I had deprived myself of. Then, once I was done crying, I went to work.

I hired a personal trainer the next day and set about changing the outside. I also started speaking to a counselor to change the inside. I took an acting class at the local theater and was insanely happy. I was thrilled to be back in the company of creative people again and threw myself into every scene, every critique, and every exercise as if it were my job.

Then, one evening, I went alone to a club that was sponsoring an open-mike night. I climbed onto the tiny stage with my sheet music, which I gave to the accompanist. I sang my song, hearing my voice ring out strong and clear through the club, and felt whole. I felt like I had come home.

I began to open up and have fun again. As the weight came off, my confidence returned and I became reacquainted with the power that kind of confidence can bring a woman. I went out on dates, and the first time that I invited a man back to my house . . . well, let’s just say it was another religious experience. Why the hell did I deprive myself for so long? I rejoiced in my reawakened sexuality, and while I was careful, I certainly enjoyed myself. I was definitely more aggressive than I had been back in the day, and I was pleased to realize that I was still quite good at the sexing.

After almost two years of self-discovery and work, I was ready to make another big change. I visited Holly in L.A., and before the end of the first day, she invited me to move in with her. I thought about her offer for about seven seconds and then agreed. We were both thrilled to be spending time together again. I knew that living with her would be as fun as it was the first time. She was truly my best friend, my sister, and I would do anything for her. She also saw through all my bullshit and never let me get away with it. I had to love her for that.

I stopped reminiscing when I got back to my car and stretched out from my run. After climbing in I put the top down, then took a long pull on my water bottle while I glanced at my cell. I had a few messages, the first of these from Holly, asking me to pick up Mr. Chow for dinner on my way home.

The second was from Nick, asking me if I wanted to go out dancing the following night. His favorite club in West Hollywood played all eighties music on certain nights, and it was the best for shaking your ass.

The third was a text from a number I didn’t recognize:

Sheridan, The Lost Boys is on TNT tonight. I know how much you desire Haim.

I laughed when I read it; there was only one unknown number who could have sent me this text. I quickly texted him back:

Hamilton, I already have my DVR set to record it so I can “desire” myself whenever the mood strikes.

I plugged in my iPod and was selecting some driving music when my phone buzzed, alerting me to a new text:

Sheridan, now I am concerned for you . . . I think you need a new celebrity to crush on, someone a little younger, perhaps. More charm, less heroin.

My heart fluttered a little. He was cute and funny. And twenty-four, Grace, twenty-four!

I thought about his hair then, those gorgeous curls, and his green eyes. I thought about the way he looked when he was biting on his lower lip. Ah, fuck it.

Hamilton, I’ve been thinking about upgrading to someone new for my “daydreaming.” Any thoughts?

I chose my music, and right before I pulled out of the parking lot, I got another text:

Sheridan, I’m having several thoughts . . . One question, though. Still on for the tryst?

I laughed aloud and sent him one more text:

Hamilton, hell yes, although I’ll need to be swept off my feet.

He responded in less than a minute:

Here’s to getting you off your feet, Grace . . .

Damn it—he’d first-named me.