Page 105 of Claim to Fame

“No one ever accused you of failing to capitalize on press interest,” Howard said. “Ah, there you are, darling, at last.” He took the latte from the waitress and set it on the table, not bothering to take a sip.

“So, the revival. I’ve heardChicagois in the mix?” Micah asked, trying valiantly to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand.

“Why are you droning on about the revival?” Howard asked, his brows furrowing in an approximation of confusion. “We’re not here to discuss Lincoln Center.”

“We’re not?”

Howard laughed. “Oh, I’ve missed your sense of humor. No, we’re here to talk about Boston. The fall musical in concert at Symphony Hall, of course.”

The mere mention of Boston had Hannah itching to check her phone again. How long had it been now? Eighteen hours and twenty-three minutes?

“We’re doingLittle Women,” Howard continued. “Those New Englanders are so sentimental about the source material, though if you ask me, it’s a complete waste of paper.”

Micah glanced at Hannah. He knew Jo March was one of her dream roles—challenging and triumphant, a full range vocally and emotionally. Hell, to play Jo March she might even be willing to put up with Howard again and brave another visit to Boston.

Or at least she might have been before. Now, when she tried to picture taking the stage in Boston, all she could think about was the person who wouldn’t be meeting her at the hotel after.

Eighteen hours and twenty-four minutes.

“We could be interested inLittle Women,” Micah answered for her.

The long rehearsals, the costume fittings where she was never quite small enough, the backhanded compliments from the choreographers about her “stamina”—was all that worth it? Her mind wandered to Amelia and the other kids at St. Anthony’s High. Their rehearsal would be starting right about then. She wondered if Amelia had tried the new blocking they’d gone over before she left, and felt a pang of regret at missing their rehearsal that was far greater than her fear of missing out on any role.

“Of course you are! I don’t see any other directors fighting for my seat at this table.” Howard chortled as he lifted his latte. Before the drink had even passed his lips, he scoffed and set it back down. “That is not the right temperature at all. Where is our waitress?”

“Howard,” Micah said, drawing Howard’s gaze back to the table. “Little Women?”

The director turned to Hannah in a flutter of hands. “Yes, right. You, my darling, will make a perfect Marmee.”

“Marmee?” Hannah asked, an incredulous laugh bursting forth.

“Hannah’s too young to play Marmee,” Micah protested.

“The wonders of stage makeup. And you’ll need to drop at least ten pounds, of course.”

Everything in Hannah’s body tightened, readying itself for the inevitable internal spiral those words would usually set off…but she felt nothing. No panic at the idea of trying—and failing—to lose weight again, no sudden urge to purge all the carbs from her apartment and subsist on carrots and non-fat yogurt for the next week, no mental shopping list of every type of sour gummy candy compiling itself in her brain. Only the smallest flicker of embarrassment, a recoiling from this awful man and his casual cruelty as, for perhaps the first time, she realized his issues with her body said so much more about him than they ever had about her.

Howard took a sip of his latte, then grimaced, as though he’d forgotten about the unacceptable temperature at the same time as he’d discarded his sense of common decency. “The usual terms. Though, of course, we’ll need to add a behavior clause to ensure there’s no more unpleasantness with the press. Rehearsals begin in September.” He stood with a flourish.

“That’s it?” Hannah sputtered.

“Darling, I’ve done you a tremendous favor,” he said, pressing his hand to his chest, his face twisted to show how affronted he was by her displeasure. “There’s no need to formally audition for the part. It’s yours. A few signatures and we’ll be off to the races.”

“Marmee,” Hannah repeated. “The mother.”

“Mothers and best friends are exactly in your wheelhouse,” Howard said, as though it were some kind of grand compliment. “I’ll have the paperwork sent over, but really, I must have your answer quickly. We have at least three other actresses interested in the part.”

Doubtful.

This time, when Howard leaned in for his cheek kisses, Hannah didn’t bother getting to her feet. She half listened as Micah said goodbye, discussed the timeline for making a decision and assured Howard they would give his offer its due consideration, but she didn’t need to consider anything. If she’d needed confirmation it was time to move on, she’d just received it in the form of one of Broadway’s most legendary assholes. She was no longer willing to make herself smaller—literally or figuratively—to fit someone else’s ideal, not now that she knew what it was like to have people love her exactly the way she was.

“What do you think?” Micah asked when they were alone.

“I think I’m done.” The words hung between them, but the longer she sat with it, the more she knew it was true.

“We’ll tell Howard ‘thanks, but no thanks,’ and get you back on the audition circuit,” Micah said, typing something into his phone. “I hear there are some interesting things slated for Papermill this year and I know you were hesitant about playing another witch, but there’s a rumorInto the Woodsis—”

“No, Micah. I’m done,” she repeated. He looked up from his phone, confusion pressing his lips into a thin line. “Not only with Howard. With all of it.”

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