Wishing in the Wings Read Online Free PDF

“Thirty-two cents.”
    I collapsed back in my chair.
    Three and a half million dollars.
    Dean was good with money. Careful. Precise. When he picked up the check for our dinners out, he tipped an exact fifteen percent, pre-tax, to the penny, because that was the proper thing to do. That was the rule.
    I thought back to the Valentine’s Day we’d just celebrated. I’d really splurged. Dean had been working so hard; he’d been so stressed. I’d bought him the cell phone that he coveted, the latest model with more bells and whistles than I could even begin to understand. He had been as excited as a little boy when he opened the package—he’d oohed and aahed and made a big ceremony out of opening the box, extracting the phone as if it were some precious religious artifact.
    Then, he’d handed me a little envelope. He’d printed my name on the outside in red ink, a color that might have been romantic if he hadn’t used it every day. His tight scrawl had set out the letters of my name, more precise than a typewriter. Inside, I’d found a gift card to Victoria’s Secret. Twenty-five bucks. Enough to buy one of the slinky lingerie sets that he’d been drooling over in the store window the week before. On sale.
    I’d bought the Godiva chocolates on my own, telling myself that Dean would have gotten them for me, if he’d had time. Note to self: Insert long, boring story about all the other skimpy gifts he’d ever given me the entire time we’d dated—Christmas, birthdays. Insert longer, more boring story about the complete absence of presents for silly dating anniversaries. Dean was conservative when it came to money.
    But three point five million dollars—that wasn’t even in the same world as Christmas presents, as eating out, as worrying about some overworked waitress left with a too-small tip. Three and a half million dollars.
    And I finally understood why I was sitting at this table, why I was staring at the Mercer Project’s lawyer. I understood why Hal had made me come into the room, why he hadn’t let me leave when he’d made it clear that he wasn’t going to listen to my concerns about Crystal Dreams.
    I was such an idiot.
    Ten months ago, when I’d started interviewing with the Mercer, I’d worried about working in the same theater that employed my boyfriend. I hadn’t wanted anyone to think that I was some nepotistic little slut, dependent on my boyfriend to get me my job. But I’d let Dean convince me that the Mercer was one of the finest theaters in the country, the finest theater for me.
    Eight months ago, when the Mercer offered me a job, I’d been pretty sure it was a bad idea to move in with Dean, once we were both in the city. We’d never lived together before. When he was still up in New Haven, his apartment had resembled a cleaner and neater version of the Crate and Barrel catalog. Mine had resembled Filene’s Basement. On a sale day. In the middle of the holiday shopping season. When half the staff was too hungover to come in to work. But I’d let Dean convince me again, believed him when he said that we needed to share an apartment to meet the high cost of living in New York.
    Six months ago, I’d been absolutely certain that we shouldn’t share a bank account—not while Dean was still nickel-and-diming every waiter we encountered. Not while I was still awed by the generosity of my grandfather, who had written a four-figure check to congratulate me on pursuing my dreams and achieving my master’s degree. But Dean had argued that we would be functioning as one household—paying utilities, writing out checks for first and last month’s rent, settling into our lives together, forever. Dean was the one who understood money, understood finance. I’d let him convince me again.
    I was such an incredibly stupid, naive, idiotic…fool.
    I was going to be sick. I was going to cry. I was going to scream.
    Instead, I realized that Bill Rodriguez had asked me a question, and everyone in