Page 19 of Broken Romeo
With my eyes still closed, I register the sound of footsteps trailing away from me.
I peek to find him hunched over his expensive looking leather messenger bag, rooting around inside it. He tugs free a weathered composition notebook. The black and white kind found at Walgreens… probably right beside that cheap peppermint Chapstick he buys.
“What’s that?” I ask.
He holds it up and closes the distance between us with slow strides. “Your homework.”
He hands me the notebook, and my spine goes rigid. I recognize the scribbles on the cover: cartoons and small designs drawn with blue BIC pens.
I clench my thighs to keep my knees from knocking together and whisper, “Your journal from college?”
He nods, his eyes searing into the side of my face. “That’s right. My journal from my senior year.”
In other words, his innermost thoughts from the year he met me. From the year he broke me.
“Why the fuck do you think I want this?” My words crack with bitterness.
He snorts a laugh that’s anything but humorous. “Oh, I know you don’t want it. But this is part of the process. You need help getting into the head of Skyler—into the head of a woman who would betray someone she loves.” He taps his fingers to the journal. “This will help.”
My eyes tingle with unshed tears. Some people cry when they’re sad… I cry when I’m pissed. I trail my glare up his face to find a complacent, dull sheen to his eyes.
Does this mean nothing to him? He’s handing me his thoughts and feelings on a platter, and he’s just standing there casually with one hand tucked into the pocket of his obscenely sexy jeans.
“I want you to read it,” he says. “Every word.”
My throat burns.
I don’t know how the hell I’m going to make it through the next two weeks, let alone an entire show and rehearsal process with this man. I don’t want his apology anymore. I don’t want his bullshit excuses. His reasons. And I certainly don’t want to read his private thoughts on the worst year of my life.
I take the journal from him. It’s heavy in my hands, weighed down by feelings and answers rather than physical size.
It’s like I’m being forced onto a roller coaster against my will, while someone is also pulling my hands off the safety bar and making me keep my eyes open the whole freefall ride.
If I don’t find a balance—a way to bear just enough of my soul within my acting to keep Holden happy and get this part after these two weeks—I’m screwed.
Convincing Holden James that I’ve opened up, that I’m letting him into my heart and life, will be my greatest performance yet.
I flip the cover open to the first page and instead of an actual Dear Diary entry, there are more sketches. Intricate, but messy cross-hatchings of faces that look vaguely familiar, scratching at the recesses of my memory.
His palm falls heavily to the page, covering it with a smack. “Not now. Don’t read it here at the theater. It’s homework. Emphasis on the home.”
A smirk flickers on my face. It’s not reading it here in the theater that bothers him. It’s reading it here in front of him that’s the problem. And that can only mean one thing: there’s still a shred of humility beneath that overly confident exterior.
The back door to the rehearsal space opens, and Maggie slinks in. “Nolan Brooks is here to begin rehearsal.”
Tingles course through my body. “Nolan Brooks? That’s who I have to act with?”
He’s one of the biggest Broadway actors of our time. Bigger than Holden. Bigger than Missy Howl. He’s on his way to becoming the next Hugh Jackman, crossing back and forth from Broadway to Hollywood.
Holden ignores me. “Thank you, Maggie. Give us two minutes, and we’ll get started on scene five.”
He spins back to face me and gives me a patronizing sigh. “He’s your co-star. Within these walls, he’s not your favorite celebrity. You’re not a fan—you’re an equal. Got it?”
Logically, I know this is true. He’s just another human, another actor. Another guy. But inside, my brain is screaming, Like hell Nolan Brooks and I are equals!
I ignore the sweaty, screaming superfan jumping up and down inside me and instead, respond with, “Of course. I’m just surprised, that’s all. You said Reid Bradley had casted a Broadway name, but I didn’t know he casted the Broadway name.”
“Well, he did.” Holden’s response lashes out, resonating in the room with a cutting snap.