Premiere: A Love Story (16 page)

“Of course you are,” he said, following her.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing, it’s just so ‘you.’ Remember when you vowed to teach yourself origami? Oh and I’ll never forget the summer of roller blading?”

He laughed and looked around her place like he was walking through some fascinating art exhibit.

“I’ll have you know I am an origami master. I even taught it at the Y last summer, along with photography. The roller blades never really took did they?”

Sam laughed and his heart pulsed at the sound. Christ, he missed her laugh. How had he ever lived without it?

“I’m really not coordinated and I still say the toe break on those things is odd.”

Sam opened one of the cartons sitting on the coffee table. Peter moved to the bookshelves. She was enjoying her Kung Pao chicken, and then she almost choked on her thought. There was no way he wouldn’t notice it. Soon it would be right there in front of him, he’d know. If she jumped up now, it would look like something was wrong, like she had something to hide. Sam quickly decided it was better to stay where she was and make light of it when it came up. Peter looked at her books and joked that she still had some of her college textbooks along with a highly annotated copy of
Anna Karenina.

“I remember this from college. I thought you hated this book.”

He took it off the shelf.

“We studied for days and you barely . . .”

He looked at her.

“I keep it as a reminder of the hell I went through.”

Peter smiled and put the book back and she prayed he would finally sit down.

“I’ve read it since. I don’t like anything getting the best of me. It’s not bad once you sort out all the damn names.”

He smiled. Almost done, she was home free and then Peter saw it. His back was to her, but he lifted his head in the slightest way, and Sam knew he saw it.
Do something
, she begged her mind to engage.
Say something!

“Peter, are you going to eat any of this because . . .”

“That’s a great picture. Is it . . .”

“Bamboo, yeah. Thanks. Did you want an eggroll or . . .”

“When did you take this?”

“Years ago.”

He picked up the small Mason jar of water next to the photograph. He turned toward her, slowly. It was all over his face. He knew what he was looking at. Sam’s visual memory of that day, of him, there was no way it could be anything else. She searched her mind for something witty or an explanation, but she came up blank.

“Is this?”

He could barely get the words out.

“Water? Yeah, it’s rainwater.”

He looked at Sam and damn it all, she actually stammered.

“It, it’s called a visual memory. I’ve had it forever, and I should make time to clear things off those shelves. There are things up there I didn’t even know I still had.”

Peter looked at the shelves and they looked pretty orderly, current, to him. Sam tried to wiggle out of the awkwardness, but there was no escape.

“Sam, that picture is the bamboo at the Huntington.”

“Christ, Peter. Yes, I took it the day I finished my finals. It’s not that good. Let it go.”

“You took it that day.”

“Yes, that day, the infamous day. Happy? The rainwater was from that night. You may recall, it poured all night, and I collected the rainwater after I got home. After we, after . . .”

“You saved the rain? The visual memory? You’ve kept it all this time? Even after . . . you didn’t throw it out?”

“You can’t throw out a visual memory.”

Peter was confused.

“I read it in one of those books my mother gave me to get . . . to get past tough times. You find the pieces of the experience that were good, life affirming, and you put them on display so they become a reminder of the good. It’s silly, but it helped. Can we stop now? I feel foolish, and you should eat. Sit and eat.”

He sat next to her, still holding the jar.

“Sam.”

He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and skin bunched up between the eyes. She could feel the warmth of his thigh and for a instant she thought about shutting her brain off, leaning over, and continuing the kiss from this morning.
Oh, that
’
s a brilliant idea. It was so fun recovering from him the last time, right?
Her headache screamed.

“Sam, this is, it’s incredible.”

Peter set the jar on the coffee table, ran his fingers through his hair and sat back.

“Incredible, that’s a lame word. I’m a writer for God’s sake, and every time I try to talk to you about this I keep tripping up.”

He took a deep breath.

“We should talk about . . .”

“No! Please drop it, okay? We’ve had enough discussion for one day, and I honestly can’t take any more embarrassment. God, my head is pounding.”

She got up too quickly and fell back into his lap. He held her and looked down at her face. For the second time, Sam could feel his breath on her face, warmth and Life Savers.

“You still eat them?”

“Still eat what?”

“Life Savers, your breath still smells like Life Savers.”

Their eyes swam together, and Sam forced herself to sit up.

“You put it in your play. You shared that with everyone else too.”

“Sam, come on, I had to put that in the play. You know most of our story is made up of great Life Savers moments. It was never bad until I took it to far.”

Peter again cursed his choice of words.

“I didn’t mean being with you was bad, it just made things more difficult. Shit.”

“Peter, thank you for coming by. I’m not going to apologize to you for my insane rant today because you certainly had it coming, but I will make my apologies tomorrow to the cast and crew. Now, please get out. I’m falling asleep on my feet here.”

Peter stood, put the jar back on her bookshelf, and then walked to face her by the door. He didn’t move. He brushed the hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. A gesture he’d done all her life, even when they were younger, and it didn’t mean what it meant now. Her heart started to cry.
Damn weak heart.

“Peter?”

He continued to play with her hair.

“Peter, look at me.”

“Oh, I am.”

It was as if Sam was a fragile sculpture he desperately wanted, but was afraid to break. He barely touched her and she struggled to stay standing.

“Peter, I don’t think we should . . .”

“You kept the water. Why did you keep that rainwater? I should have never gone there with you that day, made this difficult, but I did. I had to be with you, still do.”

Sam shrugged to get him to drop his hands.

“Peter, what is this?”

She didn’t know what to say. It certainly wasn’t going to be, “I loved you, and when you left it broke my heart.” That sounded pathetic. Peter was still staring as if all she needed to do was spill her heart to him and that would fix everything. Sam knew better.

“Look, I’m not sure what you want me to say, but . . .”

“The truth, I want the truth. Why did you keep the rainwater?”

His voice grew tense.

“Peter, be careful,” she said steady as if her life depended on it.

“Please be careful with me. I can’t . . .”

He wanted to hold her, protect her from, well from himself. His hands trailed up her arms, and he was overwhelmed.

“You kept the rainwater because that day was magic. We were magic. You wanted to hold on to it. You said it yourself, that was the best part, the visual memory. That’s what we need to hang onto, right?”

“We can’t.”

He saw the raw pain in her eyes.

“I’ve moved on, and now what, you’ve changed your mind? I’m worth the effort now, Peter? I should simply throw myself, my life, back into your arms. No. I won’t do it, and stop looking at me with those ‘don’t let go’ eyes. You let go first, remember? The magic left.”

She stepped back.

“It’s only a jar, Peter. Just a picture. I don’t believe in the magic anymore. I can’t, it hurts too much.”

“I shouldn’t have left you. I should have found a way.”

Peter stepped into her and she held up his jacket.

“But you didn’t and it’s the past, it’s over. Please go, get back to your play.”

Chapter Sixteen

I
t’s not that he didn’t like people, they were fine. It was that he hated trying to be himself. It felt like an act to be himself in Pasadena. Actually, he wasn’t even sure who he was in this town, with these people, but this was his play, and it was nothing without an audience. Peter covered up that he was a nervous, insecure mess with his best successful playwright face and walked out to meet the tour.

Sam was standing at the side door of the theater with her group when Peter walked from backstage and down the steps. She took a deep breath. She had been avoiding Peter for the past two days. She felt like she was trapped in a huge spider web. No matter how hard she tried to stay focused and keep a safe distance, things kept getting messier. She had already apologized to the cast and crew for her emotional meltdown. Even though Candice was generous with her, Sam felt stupid and ridiculous as she assured her boss nothing like that would ever happen again. She put on her best professional face.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to the playwright, Mr. Peter Everoad.”

The small grouped clapped and a few people who remembered Peter growing up, extended their hands to greet him.

The Playhouse held this kind of event for every show as a perk to season ticket holders. They were invited to a preview, a rough performance, oftentimes with scenes still in progress, during rehearsals before opening night. The performance was the full production minus the ending. It was sort of a behind-the-scenes look or a teaser. The ticket holders would have to come back to see the ending. Meanwhile they would hopefully spread the word to as many of their friends as possible. It was not necessary for this production, because it was sold out for the entire run, but it worked well for some lesser-known works.

The group had finished a meet and greet with the cast and crew and it was now time for a brief question-and-answer session with either the playwright or the director. Peter and his play were such a draw that the Playhouse had asked, and he had agreed to do the Q&A.

“It’s wonderful to meet all of you and see some familiar faces. Thank you for your continued support of the Playhouse,” Peter greeted them.

For all of his initial success, he was gracious and very approachable. Sam realized that people now saw what she had known all along: Peter was confident, charming, and gorgeous in his element.

“Shall we have a seat and get started?” Sam gestured to the group and directed them to the front rows of the theater.

She moved up the aisle and sat toward the back of the house to leave Peter alone with his fans. Peter looked up at her as she backed away and then took a seat on the edge of the stage facing the group. Peter seemed softer, warmer, which made everything swimming in Sam’s head worse.

“So . . .”

He took a deep breath.

“Where shall we start? Did you enjoy the performance?”

A woman in the front row perked up and said: “Mr. Everoad, it was thrilling. The scenery and the dialogue are so vivid, really wonderful. When did you write this play?”

“Thank you, and you can call me Peter.”

Looking at her nametag, he continued, “Evelyn, I wrote this play about two years ago. Once the characters were developed, they wrote a lot of the dialogue themselves, in my head, of course. The scenery I owe to the director, Spencer, and lighting designer, Gordy, who came with me from New York, as well as all of the local crew. They’re masters of their craft and it has been a joy to see my words come to life.”

Hands went up.

“Yes, red shirt.”

“Enjoyed the play, Peter,” a balding man in the second row began.

“You mentioned that the characters wrote most of the dialogue once you created them. Did you base any of these characters off of actual people? People you knew as a kid? You know, is this autobiographical?”

Peter felt the question coming; Sam could see it in his face even twenty rows away. He looked up into the light, but could not see her in the darkness. Peter ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. He wondered when the hometown questions would stop.
Probably when he left his damn hometown
, he thought.

“John . . . sorry, I was thinking about that for a minute. Yes, this story is very personal and many of the characters are based on people I grew up with. I think every writer draws characteristics from those around him. Or her, don’t want to offend.”

He smiled and the group laughed.

“I was recently told that playwrights stand on the sidelines and observe. I suppose I’ve been doing that my whole life.”

Peter looked up again and, even safely hidden in the darkness, Sam looked away.

“Are you Phillip?” a young woman with braids and long shell earrings asked, as if she were a gossip reporter.

“Ah, well, there are pieces of me in Phillip. Yes, I see some of myself in him, but he’s wiser than I was at that age. The beauty of writing is your characters can be exactly as you want them. They have the benefit of your hindsight, knowledge. Phillip’s better than Peter, if that makes sense.”

He smiled at the young woman.

She persisted.

“Since we didn’t get to see the end of the play, can you give us a hint? Do they end up together? Does Phillip ever . . . um, does he fight for her?”

Sam’s heart accelerated now, and she was uncomfortable for Peter. Knowing how private he was, she was sure this was unbearable. But he knew these types of questions would come up.

“Are you sure you’re not a critic?” Peter asked, and the group laughed.

“No, seriously, Cathy is it?”

She nodded.

“Well, you’ll have to come back for the full performance to see how it ends. I can’t give too much away, but I can tell you that people will leave the theater satisfied. Everyone ends up where they belong, and there’s a happy ending.”

“So he does fight for her? I knew it.”