Page 65 of In What World

“None of what I’ve accomplished is real,” she says, downplaying it in that way she loves to do. “But it doesn’t matter anyway, because my mom thinks it is, and that’s exactly why I don’t trust that she wants to make amends with me now. I think she wants to be around me because she believes I’mfinally someone worth knowing, and she wants some of that attention for herself. Little does she know she’s late to the party. My time as someone worth knowing has expired, and I’m just another face in the crowd again.”

“You’ve always been worth knowing,” I insist. “And what you’ve accomplisheddoesmatter. Sure, an award isn’t everything, but it’s at least proof that you have gotten so much further into your career than you give yourself credit for. Not only did you up and leave Garden Meadows at eighteen, but you also managed to build an entire life for yourself, from scratch, all the way on the other side of the country in a business that’s nearly impossible to break into.”

She regards me for a long while. “How come you don’t act anymore?”

It’s a question I’ve balked at for years. It’s so easy to avoid. Most people don’t want the actual answer.Those who can’t do, teach!Cilla’s truth makes me brave enough to offer my own. And there’s something about the size of this room and the dim lights. It’s like we’re in a cocoon together, protected from the outside world.

“I couldn’t figure out how to make myself good enough to get other people to believe in me the way I used to believe in myself,” I admit. “Back in high school, I used to trust myself completely. I naively thought that the work I put in would be enough, because I gave everything I had to it. And Dallas always validated that. So did my parents. They told me that if I worked hard for something, it would become mine. Once I got into auditioning, I learned very quickly that the world did not care how hard I worked. And it definitely didn’t care how much I loved acting or how seriously I took it.”

I pause, suddenly panicked. I’m so far past all of my usual barricades that I can’t see any of my known stopping points.

Cilla reaches across the bed and squeezes my hand.

“I gave it as many years as I could, but at a certain point, it became embarrassing for me to keep trying tomake it,” I continue, her gesture urging me forward. “I had no money left to my name and no way to make enough to support myself as a creative. I knew if I came back here, Dallas would take me under his wing, and the rent for an apartment in Garden Meadows would be cheap enough for me to actually afford. I convinced myself that teaching theater was basically what I set out to do anyway. I made myself believe it was enough.”

“Is it?” she questions.

“No,” I whisper. “The truth is, I think about auditioning again all the time. I’m just scared…”

“Of what?”

“All the ways it could go wrong. How ridiculous I might look. Learning that I’m still not good enough. I don’t want to be so cynical, but to be optimistic would be to ignore every piece of proof I’ve gathered over the last sixteen years.” I stare at the celestial tapestry. “But then I keep thinking of what Teddy said to Dallas about going back to New York. Dallas never made it there. He never got to live his real dream. We think we have so much time, and even when we bend it and climb into pockets we didn’t know existed, there still isn’t enough…”

I let my words trail off, prepared to have this conversation drift away, lost to the promise of sleep.

Except Cilla whispers back. She walks with me down this path the same way she’s walked with me across all of space and time. “You’re the reason I am where I am,” she says. “You were always so sure of what you wanted in high school, and I never felt very sure of anything. When we graduated, I thought, why can’t that be me, too? Why can’t I be sure? What do I reallyhave to lose? So I left Garden Meadows. But I just went and made myself into someone else. To be myself has always scared me.”

“Why?”

“It’s hard to face constant disappointment,” she says. “There’s no good thing that happens in my career that doesn’t come with three immediate downsides right behind it. For years, I was so good at not letting it bother me. I kept telling myself I thrived on uncertainty. It was all I’d ever known. But I’m staring down the barrel of thirty-five, and I’m realizing I have no role in my own life. I’ve been letting everyone else decide things on my behalf, because then I don’t have to take ownership of how much I want any of it. That would mean accepting I care. And to care is to be so, so vulnerable. And to be vulnerable is to hurt, over and over again. It’s too hard. It makes me want to be done with acting forever. I just want to feel settled in something for once in my life.”

“You will,” I tell her, thinking once again of the psychic reading. How they told her she needs to release her past.

Release me.

“Good night,” I say, rising up to go. At the door, I turn. “You shouldn’t give up acting. You’re way too good, and your instincts are always spot-on. Even with everything happening with us. You’re always the one to understand it long before I do. You just get it.”

“Thank you,” she says softly.

“And your vulnerability doesn’t make you weak; it makes you brave,” I say, because I’m not quite done yet. “And youarebrave. You dazzle everyone you meet. That’s not a performance. That’s you.”

“Wait,” Cilla says. “Stay.”

22

Priscilla

Marlowe Jenkins climbsbeneath the comforter with the precision of a surgeon, each movement choreographed to be smooth enough to not disturb me, even though I’m fully awake, under her grandmother’s quilt, and not at all precious about my space.

Once she’s settled, I jerk my leg out to force a collision.

“Sorry,” she whispers, shifting farther away.

“How dare you!” I say in mock indignation, scooching even closer.

She cracks a half smile. “I’m sorry,” she says again with new meaning. “I’m not practiced in the art of sharing a bed with Cilla Cove.”

“Not many are,” I tell her.