Wish Upon a Star by Mindy Klasky Page A

that you’ve told me exactly what you think about my acting prospects. Let’s take it for granted that I cried. You felt bad. We both promised we’d change, and we tried for another week, or a month, or even two. But let’s just cut to the end, okay?”
    He stared at me, surprise making his eyes go wide. I knew those eyes so well. I’d seen them glint with amusement, at least when we’d first met. I’d seen them laugh as he tugged me into bed. I’d seen them go hard with anger. I’d seen them narrow with shrewd appraisal.
    And yet, despite how well I knew his eyes, I realized that I’d never really known Sam. Or at least the Sam I’d known was not the Sam I could stand being with. Not for the rest of my life.
    He pushed back from the table. Glancing around the quirky dining room, he let a quizzical look blur his handsome features. He shook his head, started to say something, stopped. He finally settled on, “Do you have anything else you need to get out of my place?”
    His place. He’d already accepted the change. He was already moving on. I shook my head. “No.”
    Of course, I didn’t need to tell him that there wasn’t any paperwork. He’d never put me on the lease; instead, I’d just paid rent over to him month after wasted month. I guess I should have seen that as a warning sign, his reluctance to make anything between us official. Now, I realized there were lots of things I should have seen as warning signs.
    He nodded once. “Goodbye, then. See you around.”
    Not likely. Not unless he started hanging around the Equity offices. Or I lost my mind and started haunting law firm lobbies. “Goodbye.”
    As I watched him collect his coat and briefcase, I tried to parse my emotions. I should be feeling anger. Embarrassment. Frustration. A long line of other negative emotions, difficult, dark feelings that I should examine, that I should store away, that I should harvest for future roles onstage. Forget about future roles—I had just enacted some strange liberation scene for Menagerie! ’s Laura Wingfield, freeing myself from a fantasy version of romance, from a dream that could never exist.
    I don’t know what Laura would have felt, if she’d ever figured out how to talk to a man. All I knew was that I felt relief.
    The door closed behind Sam. I realized that I was holding my breath. When I exhaled, I felt an iron rod of tension melt along my spine. Suddenly, I was ready to stretch out on the broad flagstones in front of the fire. I longed for nothing more than Becca’s comfortable couch and a warm blanket, maybe a feather pillow to cradle my head.
    “Some soup?” I turned away from the door to see Timothy settle a large bowl in front of me. Steam curled off the surface, carrying the fragrance of fresh garlic sprouts and an elusive hint of hot roasted chicken. I caught a breath of sherry, as well. I blinked and tried to pull myself back to the present. “You look hungry,” Timothy said, by way of explanation. He barely acknowledged Sam’s absence, taking just a moment to flick his eyes toward the now-empty chair that had held the Brooks Brothers coat.
    “I am,” I said. Timothy nodded toward the bowl, indicating that I should take a taste. Bright spring garlic melted across my tongue, flavorful without being overwhelming. “This is perfect.”
    “I’ve got scallops tonight. And brisket.”
    I shook my head. “You know? I think I’ll just stick with the soup.”
    He nodded. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
    “I will,” I said.
    Timothy turned toward the kitchen, and I started to think about the magazines that he’d had the other night. I wondered whether he’d received the new issue of the New Yorker . But before I could ask, everything disappeared.
    For just a second, I thought that I must be having some sort of delayed reaction to Sam’s departure. I certainly didn’t feel like my heart was breaking. I didn’t think that I’d suffer a stroke or an aneurysm or some