Page 144 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

She laughs. “You wish.” She hangs up.

A small spattering of rain starts to fall, so I pop into a drugstore and pick up a funny clear smiley-face umbrella. Between me and Kelsey, we lose approximately five umbrellas a week. I’ve stopped buying expensive ones.

As I walk up, I spot her in the window facing the street, and I love the way she bursts into laughter at my umbrella. I do a quick Fred Astaire spin on the light pole before closing it and stepping into the warm crush of the overfilled pie shop.

She’s already bought my favorite lemon meringue as well as her chocolate mousse, plus two plain coffees.

I sit on a stool next to her. “Hey! You took a bite of mine.”

She reaches over with her fork and steals another. “And I’ll take what I want from you anytime I want.”

I kiss her for her impertinence, savoring the moment. I love New York in the summer. It’s almost worth surviving the winter.

The energy here is different. And live-show casting feels right. There’s less pretense. Everyone is talented. Just as many divas, that’s for sure, but they’re usually worth it.

We’ve started small, calling in my old playwright friend and then his friends. We didn’t need to make money right away. I was able to cover the startup, get Jester moved here, and find a place, about a tenth of the size of my LA house but in the center of everything.

It’s been good.

Kelsey jumped right in, and she’s been the one to spot the talent who put us on the map. We stick to the scrappy startups, the new productions barely getting by on a shoestring. And we build careers from nothing.

It’s glorious.

When I finally release her, I snatch up a fork and attack her chocolate mousse. She easily parries me and pins my fork to the plate. “Women steal men’s pie; men don’t steal women’s. I don’t make the rules.”

“Fine,” I grumble and attack my lemon meringue. “So, what came across your desk?”

She opens a folder and slides a casting call toward me.Monday by Moonlight. I scan the call.

“A musical? Okay. They need a male lead. Late thirties, early forties. Baritone. Who are you thinking? Brassworth? That guy who did the revival ofThe Music Man?”

She shakes her head. “I’m thinking ofyou.”

Her eyes never leave mine.

My throat tightens. “I haven’t seen a singing coach in years. I’m out of practice. I—”

“You can.” She lays a card on the printout. It’s the vocal coach we’ve sent some of our roster to, the ones who can afford it. “He has a spot. He’s ready to prep your audition material.”

I stare at the piano keys on the card. My mouth is dry.

I can’t possibly audition for something at this stage. I’m not an off-Broadway singer. I’m a joke who does terrible things in bad movies. I’m an expensively dressed arm for the real talent to walk in on.

“Get out of your head, Zachery,” Kelsey says. “Not all thoughts are worth listening to. Listen to me.”

She sets down her fork and holds both sides of my head so I can’t look away. “Repeat after me.”

“After me.”

She laughs. “Oh, Zach. Seriously. Say, ‘I am the son of a great talent.’”

That’s easy. “I am the son of a great talent.”

“I am worthy of this role.”

That one sticks in my throat.

“Say it!”

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