“You’re right,” I agree. “This isveryserious business.”
We carry this very serious, very sophisticated conversation into the diner with us. Rapunzel is straight. Goldilocks is straight. Little Miss Muffet is a certified bisexual. After our waitress comes around to top off our coffees for a second time, I’m caffeinated and courageous enough to ask, “What about you?”
“Me?” Confusion darts through Renee’s eyes, but she blinks it away. “Oh. Me.”
“You don’t have to answer,” I rush to say. “I was just wondering since me and Gin are…but then Chrissy is…”
“The straightest person alive,” Renee supplies.
Her laugh bounces off mine, a crackling whir against my one loudha. The sound is perfectly percussive and surprisingly well balanced. After another sip of coffee, Renee shrugs.
“I’m bi,” she says. “I thought you already knew.”
“Why would I know that?”
“My resemblance to Little Miss Muffet.”
A small laugh catches in my throat. “I guess I could’ve assumed,” I admit. “Can’t say I know any actor living in Chicago who’s completely straight.”
At this, the playful energy between us simmers away. Renee’seyes sweep the table, voice shrinking down to almost nothing when she says, “Well, I’m not an actor anymore.”
“What?”
I lean in, certain I misheard. When her gaze lifts to mine, she looks a little less like herself.
“I’m not an actor anymore,” she repeats.
“I mean, I know you manage events at the Blomquist, but on the side…”
Renee shakes her head. “Not anymore.”
“Why?”
“I just don’t have the time. Between auditions and self-tapes and the late-night rehearsals…it was too much.”
My chest tightens around a bundle of memories from my Cold Sweat days, the relentless gigging, how fried I was by the constantgo go go. “I think I get that. From being in a band. It’s a lot of hustle.”
“Exactly. And I can’t be at rehearsals until eleven at night, get home after midnight, and be up for work the next day. It’s not sustainable.” Renee’s delivery is a bit rehearsed; it’s clear she’s had this conversation many times before, possibly with herself in the mirror, but no amount of reasoning can erase the hint of regret that clings to her voice.
So I have to ask. “Don’t you miss being up onstage?”
“Don’tyoumiss being up onstage?” Renee parries. She folds her arms and leans back against the vinyl booth cushions. “There comes a point when you have to ask yourself: Am I willing to let this kill me? Am I willing to push and struggle and starve if that’s what it takes to do what I love to do? Or do I want to live a comfortable, normal life with a normal job that still gets me through the front door of a theater every single day?” Somethingquick and painful darts through her eyes, and she squeezes them shut. “Sorry,” she whispers. “I don’t mean to assume, but I’m guessing that’s what you did, too.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I admit.
Renee opens her eyes again, arching a brow. “You quit performing in favor of something more practical, right?”
“I quit performing because I needed help,” I correct her. “Cold Sweat used to cancel a show a month because I was too drunk to play. Then Dad’s esophagus ruptured, and I blacked out for, like, a week straight. We had to cancel the rest of that tour, and then Dad got his diagnosis and…I didn’t want to end up like that. I couldn’t get sober on the road. And I had to get sober, or I’d end up like my dad.”
I dip my gaze into my coffee, feeling a little like I’ve split open a vein. And in front of Renee, of all people. When I drag my eyes back up to hers, there’s not a drop of judgment waiting there. Just compassion. Curiosity. I keep going.
“I needed to try something new, meet new people. My only network in Chicago was through The Handful or Cold Sweat, which was tough. I didn’t want to be Ricky Pierce Jr., but I had a pretty rough reputation from my Cold Sweat days. I knew a little about recording and audio engineering just from being around the Outpost since I was a kid, watching the band write and record albums every summer. So I taught myself a lot, then started hitting people up, meeting and shadowing engineers. And yeah.” I shrug. “Now I’m assisting at the best recording studio in the city. Pretty cool.”
“And it pays better than touring, I assume,” Renee says.
I rub a knot from my neck. “The assistant job is unpaid, actually.”
It’s silent between us, just the clatter of stacked plates and theburble of coffee warming up a mug. Diner noise, until Renee finally lets out an “Oh.”
