Wishing in the Wings (22 page)

Ryan. It had been so awkward seeing him inside the theater first thing that Saturday morning. At least no one else had figured out what was going on between us. No one could have suspected that he’d almost ended up in my bed the night before. To any casual observer, we were the mature professionals we pretended to be. We were coworkers, diligently intent on creating a small theatrical miracle. We were colleagues, and I was determined to keep my distance, absolutely, completely, religiously. I vowed that I wouldn’t talk to him unless we had someone else with us, a chaperone of sorts.

After nine straight days of work, I’d almost convinced myself that rule was working. (I know. A week should only have five workdays. Normal people rest for two days, recuperate over their weekends. But there was no rest for the weary—not with a production as far behind schedule as However Long. Through no fault of my own, of course. Through no fault of anyone—except, perhaps, an overzealous copyright lawyer named Elaine Harcourt.

I’d kept myself busy for long hours, researching the political history of Burkina Faso, where Ryan had completed his Peace Corps service, the setting of However Long. I’d prepared briefing books for Hal, for Kira, for the actors who would take on the play’s lead roles. I’d read through reams of articles, peering at my computer screen until my eyes teared up with the strain.

Yeah. The strain of looking at endless electronic pixels. That’s why my eyes were tearing. Really. It couldn’t have anything to do with the mess I’d made of my personal life. Nothing to do with Dean or Ryan or anything else. Nothing at all.

Each night, I stumbled home to my apartment, feeling like a marine conducting door-to-door fighting. My muscles were pulled tight, ready at any moment to jump back inside the elevator, to lunge for the emergency stairs. Anything to keep from running into Ryan by accident. Anything to keep from thinking about the heat that had soared between us. About the embarrassment that had crushed whatever fledgling emotions had tried to bloom that night in my apartment.

For good measure, I avoided Dani, too. I’d already seen the way that she could worm her way into my life. She’d enchanted me with her guerilla gardening, but I wasn’t going to succumb to an attack of guerilla mothering. No matter how well she had seemed to understand me the night we planted the cabbage seeds. I wasn’t going to let Dani drag me into a conversation about her son, about the man I’d almost…

That thought made another frustrated tear sketch its way down my cheek.

No. It was better to avoid Dani altogether. Twice, I’d started to open my apartment door, only to find that she was standing across the hall, juggling keys and potting soil, or gardening shears and a giant roll of heavy black plastic. The normal, sane woman who lived inside my body urged me to step out, to offer her a hand, to help like any ordinary neighbor would.

But the coward inside me whispered my door closed and counted to a hundred—twice—before venturing out.

I wasn’t completely insane, though. I didn’t kill the seedlings she’d entrusted to me. I kept them watered, turning the rolling rack every couple of days to maximize the delicate plants’ exposure to sunlight. The green leaves continued to unfold, fragile as lace.

I managed to maintain my anti-Ryan vigilance for an entire week, until the Monday night of our second week of rehearsals. I’d spent most of the day in my office, researching the grim effects of starvation on mental processes. I was trying to create a window for Fanta, a way to help the actress see into her character’s somber life.

I only felt a little guilty as I powered off my computer, as I collected the oversized purse that contained half my life. My life was so easy compared to Fanta’s. Now that I’d received my first post-Dean paycheck, now that I’d broken my lease at the apartment we’d shared, left that part of my life behind forever, I was able to relax, just a little. In fact, I couldn’t wait to get back to the Bentley. Tonight would be the perfect opportunity to shed my Teel wardrobe for my one pair of sweatpants, to pull my hair back into a loose ponytail, to watch the trashiest TV I could find while I used chopsticks to pick out the best tidbits of ordered-in Chinese food.

I was so intent on deciding between mu shu pork and Szechuan chicken that I forgot to keep an eye out for Ryan.

He was waiting right outside the theater’s door, stepping out of the shadows just as I moved onto the sidewalk. He glided up beside me like some benevolent stalker. The collar of his coat was turned up, and he’d shoved his hands deep inside his pockets. “Ryan!” I said. “What are you doing here?”

I should have expected the goofy grin. “I work here. Remember?” He fell into step beside me, matching my stride step for step. “I wanted to wait for you,” he said, then added deferentially, “As long as we’re walking back to the same building.”

I told myself that my breath caught in my throat because of our efficient, block-devouring Manhattan pace. At the same time, I racked my brain for something to say, for something meaningful to share with him. Okay, meaningful wasn’t mandatory. I’d settle for something entertaining. All right, entertaining was a pretty high order for the day. I’d go with just about anything in English.

“Ryan—” I finally began, just as he said my name at the same time. “You go first,” I said, grateful that I didn’t have to improvise further.

He became unnaturally fascinated by the cornice on a building across the street. Directing his words to that marble molding instead of to me, he said, “Becca, I owe you an apology.”

“You—” I started, but he cut me off.

“This is hard enough. Let me finish. I’ve been trying to figure out what to say all day.” He stopped speed walking, pulling me to a halt with a gentle hand on my sleeve. “I’m sorry that I left that night.”

“I threw you out!” I exclaimed, before I could think of something more demure to say.

He shook his head. “You told me to stop. You were right. We’re working together. I shouldn’t have confused things. I shouldn’t have mixed our personal and professional lives. But when I did, when you stopped me, I should have stuck around. I mean, it didn’t have to be—doesn’t have to be just about the physical.”

“It’s okay,” I said, because I needed to say something.

“No, it isn’t. I thought it would be okay, because we got through auditions. But you’ve avoided me for the past week. I mean, I like Jenn well enough, but I can’t spend the rest of the rehearsal process sending messages to you through your assistant.”

“I am mentoring Jenn! I’m trying to give her more authority!”

His voice was very gentle, even though he continued to talk to the building across the street. “You’re trying to avoid me. You shouldn’t have to do that.” He shrugged. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have run away that night.”

As difficult as this conversation was, I was touched by the effort he was making. I was surprised by his willingness to put his feelings into words. I realized, though, that his eloquence shouldn’t have surprised me. He was a playwright, after all. The words of However Long were what had drawn me in to the play, well before I knew anything about the man behind them. “You didn’t run away,” I said. “You only did what I asked you to do.”

He sighed ruefully. “Well then, I shouldn’t have spent the past week poking my head around corners, making sure the path was clear before I ventured out of my own home.”

I stifled a laugh. “Oh, come on! I can’t imagine anyone doing that.” I was relieved to see him grin in sudden understanding. Making a split-second decision to forge ahead with our New and Improved Work-Based Relationship, I cast off my dreams of a quiet evening alone, with only the Szechuan Gate for company. “Do you want to grab a drink at the Pharm? Half the Mercer will be there.”

“I’d like that,” he said. Even as he spoke, though, he stepped away from me. “But I can’t. I promised my mother I’d help out with a project.”

Without permission, my memory ducked back to the night we’d stood over Dani’s workbench. I could feel Ryan’s hands on mine, expertly guiding my trowel over the waiting peat cups. My cheeks flushed red, and I hoped the evening light was dim enough that he couldn’t see. “What sort of project?” I asked.

“Seed bombs.”

“What?” I don’t know what I’d expected him to say, but “seed” and “bomb” were two words I’d never expected to find crouching in the same sentence.

He looked around before he repeated himself, as if he were a little embarrassed by the words. “Seed bombs. We mix flower seeds in soil, prepare ‘bombs’ that can be planted anywhere. It’s warm enough now. The seed bombs are always the first major offensive of the year.”

“‘Major offensive’? I thought this ‘guerilla’ stuff was just a joke.”

“It is, and it isn’t. I mean, my mother isn’t actually going to chain herself to a bus shelter so she can plant a few sunflowers, and she’s not planning on blowing up any government buildings to make a point. But she’s absolutely serious about our need to take back the streets. She’s sworn to find beauty in New York, wherever it can be found. Just wait. Every year, once the vegetables are in the ground, she goes a bit crazy, protecting the seedlings until food can actually be harvested.”

“I can’t picture her actually going to war over a few plants.”

“Some of the Gray Guerillas have been arrested, multiple times. But not Mom. Not yet anyway.” I tried to picture the gentle Dani, shuffling into a courtroom wearing a prison jumpsuit, with chains looped around her hands and feet. I’d already seen the citation that policeman had issued, just because she was turning over the dirt outside our building.

I smiled at the notion of elderly saboteur gardeners gathering in the shadows. “And I thought the Bentley was such a prestigious address.”

“You’d be surprised by what goes on there. The Grays are a particularly organized cell. Have you met Lorraine Feingold? In 3F? Let’s just say you want her on your side in a battle.” He shook his head with a laugh. “She’s the Grays’ webmaster. She keeps the whole Web site up, coordinating all the attacks, and she manages the e-mail list, the blog, all of it. Has an absolutely black thumb, kills every plant she comes near, but she doesn’t want to be left out of the excitement, out of the subversive action. Besides, her son is a lawyer. He can bail her out if she ever gets dragged down to the police station.” He caught my disbelieving stare. “What? You don’t believe me?”

I laughed. “I just can’t believe I never heard about all this before I moved in. Power to the gardeners!” I pumped my fist in a fake gesture of rebellion. “So, will you show me how to build a bomb?”

I expected an immediate answer, but I should have known better. Ryan thought things through, even if that meant he didn’t come off like a smooth action hero. He was introspective. He contemplated the meaning of his actions, the impact that they’d have on others. He measured cause and effect before he did anything. “Sure,” he said, meeting my eyes for the first time since our disastrous encounter on my couch. I hadn’t realized how much I’d wanted that contact, that sign of trust. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed talking to him. He held my gaze as he said, “If that’s what you want.”

I remembered the way that Ryan had settled into his body when we had stood at Dani’s workbench, the way he had relaxed into a calm, confident teacher, as he showed me how to plant cabbage seeds. I thought about how much fun I’d had, planting the seeds. I remembered the satisfaction I’d felt as the first delicate plants unfurled in my living room. I imagined the flowers I’d see if I distributed a few seed bombs, or at least contributed toward making them.

I wondered what my mother would think, if I told her I was involved with an underground gardening group. She’d never understand, not in a million years. But Pop-pop might.

“That’s what I want,” I said.

I tried to tell myself that the guerilla gardening would help me as a dramaturg, that I would understand more about Ryan. I’d better comprehend the jagged-edged world he’d depicted in However Long. I could hardly pass up such an opportunity to discover more about my playwright, more about his work—my job practically required me to spend time with him. “That’s what I want,” I repeated.

We spent the last few blocks sharing our thoughts about the cast. Ryan raved about Teel, saying over and over again that she was exactly what he had imagined, that she was a dead ringer for the elderly women he had known in Africa. She was Anana, he said more than once, come to life.

I wanted to warn him. I wanted to tell him that she was the same bubble-headed bimbo who had sabotaged our meeting with the Union. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t trust her, couldn’t be certain that she wasn’t going to find some new way to turn our entire production upside down.

But how could I explain that Teel had changed her shape? I could still remember how my throat had closed up when I tried to tell Jenn about the magic in my life.

Teel had been cast—she was the best Anana we’d seen. There wasn’t anything I could do about that now, nothing I could change. If I even wanted to change it. I just wasn’t sure.

Besides, I was going to keep an eye on my genie. Kira was too. We wouldn’t let anything get out of hand. Everything would work out fine.

Yeah, I didn’t totally believe that, either. But I couldn’t share any more of my apprehensions with Ryan. Not without sounding like a raving lunatic.

Arriving home, I ducked into my apartment, taking the time to shed my Teel-wardrobe outfit, in favor of more comfortable jeans and a T-shirt. I stared at myself in my bathroom mirror, wondering what sort of idiotic mistake I was about to make. Why was I going across the hall? What exactly did I think I was going to gain by spending more time with Ryan?

I wasn’t an idiot. I knew that I was inviting some sort of reaction, some sort of interaction by returning to the scene of our earlier crime, by volunteering to stand next to the workbench with him.

I was just going to have fun, though. I was going to do a bit of subversive gardening. Ryan was off limits, and I was going to keep things that way. The success of However Long required me to keep things that way.

Anyway, it would be easy to keep my hands to myself. I’d seen what happened when I let myself get carried away. I’d just lived an entire week with the consequences of forgetting myself. I’d suffered the awkwardness of the wrong thing said, the improper things done. In fact, it was sort of a good thing that we’d let ourselves get a little carried away a week before. I’d recognize the danger signs now. I’d stop such contact well before anything else could develop.