The Movie Star and Me

bet you rue the day you kissed a writer in the dark - Lorde

I don’t know how to tell this story. He was a movie star. I was an intern. The musical is my favorite work of art. The producer was my mentor. The president of the theater is my friend. It was a real-life fairytale everyone I knew was entertained by. Yet I couldn’t sleep. I lost weight, my appetite, my self-worth. There’s so much I still don’t understand. I feel ashamed I haven’t moved on. That seeing his name on a billboard or hearing his voice in a trailer can momentarily paralyze me. I tell myself what happened wasn’t that bad, that maybe I’m rewriting history. I remind myself how much I started to want it, him. That I spent a year and a half of my life convinced I was in love with him. This isn’t a story that can be wrapped neatly with a bow, which makes me afraid to tell it. There has never been anything harder for me to write about than my experience on this show with this man: maybe you can make better sense of what happened than I can.

DAY ONE: I arrived elegantly dressed, hoping to look grown-up and professional. I’d been interning for my mentor since I was 19, working on a total of six productions together. She had trusted me to care for Tony winners, promoted me to intern supervisor at my 20th birthday party, and believed in my writing when no one else did. So it was disconcerting when she barely acknowledged me during the meet-and-greet, disappearing without telling me what my work entailed. I was a few hours into feeling acutely useless when I looked up and found the lead actor staring. He smiled at me, and I smiled back: he was the most famous person in the room yet he was the only one looking at me rather than through me.

I was perusing the bulletin board when I heard a voice behind me, an eerily familiar one. He asked what I was doing before introducing himself, as though the whole world didn’t know his name. He seemed interested in me, a recent college graduate with no sign of a future beyond a carefully curated fitness Instagram. When my mentor saw us together she exclaimed, My two favorite people! They started raving about me, the movie star and the celebrity composer, causing my fragile self-esteem to soar. He’d ordered too much food and asked if I would join him for lunch. I declined, but he insisted, Come on. At least a salad?

As I munched on undressed lettuce, the movie star told me I looked familiar. We’d run into each other several times over the years: at my family’s favorite brunch spot when I was a teenager; at a tiny vegan restaurant; and at my boxing studio. I let him in on the boxing coincidence, that I’d crashed one of my mom’s sessions while he was there, and a wolfish grin settled on his face. I remember you. I remember thinking ‘who’s that cute girl boxing with her mom?’ I inhaled, surprised he’d been so direct. I tried to make things lighter by tossing in a joke, My mom’s pretty cute too. His grin widened, I remember thinking ‘who are those hotties boxing?’ I excused myself to use the bathroom, dialing my mother as I locked the door.

Guess who I just had lunch with. Who I’m pretty sure was hitting on me. I could feel her excitement pouring through the phone: did this mean I was going to be in The Daily Mail? Was he going to be my first boyfriend? No. But won’t this be a fun story to break out at parties? That’s what I thought his comments were: fun. It didn’t enter my mind that what he’d said was inappropriate: I thought it was normal, everyone acted like it was normal. That day alone, crazy things happened. And that was one of eight. I’ll share the facts: the most titillating ones, because I don’t have 100,000 words to spare. And if I digress, forgive me: this story is nuanced, and I want to do its complexities justice.

When I sat at my desk, he was lying under it. I was wearing a dress and crossed my legs on instinct. He asked about my brother, were we close? He thinks I’m kind of a loser. The movie star was incredulous: but your older sister can teach you so much! He had one, an almost equally famous one, who had once imparted a valuable lesson: he was bragging to a friend about a girl going down on him, and his sister pulled him aside, demanding to know whether he’d returned the favor. When he confirmed he hadn’t, she lectured him, insisting that you always reciprocate when someone does that for you. See? You can learn a lot from your big sister.

Later he wrapped his arms around me from behind, his grip oppressively tight. Eventually he asked, Are you starting to feel caged in? and I exhaled, A little. As his hands reluctantly left my body, he quizzed me on whether I was a good boxer, thrusting his palms out. Show me your stuff. I punched weakly at first, aware of how unprofessional I must look, but he instructed I punch harder. My jabs were increasing in intensity when my mentor interrupted, declaring the two of us, Hilarious. He told her he was happy he had a new friend and she replied, I mean, look at that face! How can you resist? As they stared at me, I tried to ignore this feeling that was taking over; the feeling of being fetishized. That’s when he said I was, Beautiful.

Work was over for the day, and I was about to leave when he started complaining about the director. My chest began tightening with anxiety: I shouldn’t be a part of this conversation. I could feel my mentor thinking the same thing, but he kept looking at me, involving me with his eyes, and I didn’t know what to do. I jumped at the opportunity to escape as soon as there was a lull in the conversation. I had made it to the door when I noticed him following behind. He leaned his body against mine as we walked, How come we didn’t meet sooner? I feel like I know you. His expression was so earnest, I almost believed him. He was taking the NQR home, but I preferred the 1. You should start taking the NQR. Right now. With me. He waited for me to accept, and I could tell it only intrigued him further when I didn’t.

I texted a friend about the day’s events, and she said it was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Another friend was excited I could potentially lose my virginity to this movie star. I googled his age as I walked home: 35, on the cusp of turning 36. But he was aware of my youth, and seemed to be okay with it. I didn’t stop to wonder if I was okay with things. When I got home, my mom probed me for details. I told my brother the movie star said he should be nicer to me and he rolled his eyes. I wasn’t exactly popular with men, it didn’t make sense that the person who’d hit on me the most in my life was this celebrity, a man who could have anyone he wanted. He thought I was making it up, and a part of me did too.

DAY TWO: I was responding to emails when he grabbed me by the chin, Why are you so cute? He turned my face towards my mentor, Is she not the cutest thing? As he walked away, he commanded, Stop being so cute loud enough for everyone to hear. My mentor asked me how old I was and when I said 23 she groaned, Oh God, as though it was the worst answer I could have given. I asked, Why is that a bad thing? I wanted her to address what was happening, to say, Because you’re too young and this is inappropriate, anything that might let me know how she was feeling. She left for a meeting instead.

During the break, he put his head on my shoulder, Is it ok if I sleep on you? I looked around the room: the director was there, cast members, the accompanist, too many people to count. I wondered what they must think of me: the intern with a movie star asleep on her shoulder. My mentor texted: All steady there? I let her know things were good, and she replied: You are our good look charm. Don’t move!!! He flirted with me during lunch, inviting me to Hillary Clinton’s birthday party before stating, So, are you going to take my number or not. As the day wore on, I began to shiver in the air-conditioned room. He was in the middle of a scene when he ran over, placing his sweater on my bare legs. During lunch he confided, I’m glad I met you. Now I have a homie. I smiled, I’m your rehearsal homie and he shot back, Just in rehearsal? At the end of the day, we performed his big Act Two number for the director. Afterwards she looked my way, proclaiming, She’s fantastic. She shook my hand, apologized for not introducing herself earlier. It would be great if you could run lines together whenever I’m not using him.

He was taking my train that night, So lead the way. As we waited on the crowded platform, people stopped and stared, asking for a photo or a handshake, making it impossible to forget who I was with. We discussed our viewing plans for the presidential debate: I had people coming over, and he was attending a friend’s watch party. You should come with me. I shook my head, I don’t think that’s a good idea. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer: his friend was cool, she had assistant directed his Broadway debut, she was someone I should know, industry wise. Come on. Just for an hour. I texted my friend explaining the situation, promised I would meet her in time. She answered: Domenica. I will be so upset if you leave. You need to stay.

His friend opened the door, and as he introduced us, I suddenly felt incredibly young. She assumed I was a composer like my mentor, and I sensed I had messed up by confessing I wasn’t. As her friends arrived, I felt even more out of place. The men were somewhat kind to me, but the women weren’t, which I hate admitting. When they turned on the TV, I ran to the couch, eager to escape the feeling of being unwanted. He accompanied me, making sure we were sitting side by side, his knee pressed against mine. Two hours in, he leaned over to tell me he had an Uber waiting downstairs. I thanked my hostile hostess and bid the group goodbye: it’s an odd feeling, knowing strangers are going to gossip about you the moment the door closes. Once we dropped the movie star off, the driver started grilling me, That man’s famous, isn’t he? He’d used a fake name, what was his real one? I evaded his questions, hoping I hadn’t threatened the movie star’s Uber rating by not being sufficiently polite during my interrogation.

DAY THREE: I woke up at 6, anxiety raging in my chest. At 7:38, he texted: Good morning. The anxiety raged harder. They were rehearsing the song we had worked on the night before, but something was off. The movie star kept messing up his entrance, and began blaming the accompanist. That number involved the entire cast, and tensions were high as they were forced to run the beginning over and over again. When my mentor noticed what was happening, she took over for the accompanist, correctly predicting the switch would calm the movie star. She told me to meet her 11AM appointment in the lobby and invite him to watch while he waited. Her appointment was with a Pulitzer Prize winning playwright, and he sat in that rehearsal room for over an hour. The situation was a potent reminder: if the movie star was feeling insecure, you had to drop everything, and even the most powerful had no choice but to understand.

Once the song had been successfully staged, the movie star took my hand in his, examining each of my fingers, We should get married. I replied, Okay without glancing up from my computer. I’m serious. We should just disappear and get married and have a bunch of kids. I looked up, I’m too old for you. He chuckled, I’m trying really hard not to find you hot so we can be friends. As he worked through his next song, I decided to ask myself if I found him hot. My friends and family and seemingly everyone did, but I wasn’t sure where I stood. I watched him tuck into the black and white cookies he’d asked me to buy him, crumbs falling down the grey t-shirt he’d worn for the past three days. His slouched posture, the slightly unsettling glint in his eyes, the confidence that oozed out of his pores, confidence that occasionally felt like arrogance. There was something about him that mildly repulsed me, but here was this man every woman wanted: what was wrong with me if I wasn’t attracted to him?

The New York Times was scheduled to arrive during lunch, hoping to capture a clip of the movie star for their In Performance series. As we waited, he put his head on my shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. Three of the theatre’s administrative assistants entered the room: I could feel their shock as they took in the sight of the two of us. Once the recording was over, my phone buzzed with a text from the president of the theater: I hear you and the movie star have become friends. As I deliberated over how to respond, he texted: Hi. He was staging a scene that would be viewed by thousands, yet for whatever reason, I was on his mind. I typed back: Hello. We shared a quick look and I felt a thrill, like we were in high school, passing notes back and forth.

The president had me stop by her office, Go for it! I would if I were you. There was a framed picture of the two of them on her desk staring back at me. Have fun. But don’t get too attached. Apparently, the movie star had a bit of a reputation, which was news to me. News I tried to pretend didn’t rattle me. She warned, Don’t do anything until the show’s over, and I let her know he was the one who seemed incapable of waiting. At the end of rehearsal, my mentor asked me to take the movie star to wardrobe for his fitting. He teased, They don’t trust me to get there on my own? I didn’t know how to explain it, why we were always being paired together. When I left, he sent me a broken heart emoji. Later he texted: I like you D, and I almost fell off the treadmill.

DAY FOUR: I woke up at 6 with my heart pounding. He whispered, Hi pretty, when I entered, even though he was in the midst of a run-through. Once it was over, he wiped away my tears, You shouldn’t have worn mascara. As his fingers lingered on my skin, my heart lurched, confirming what I suspected: the president’s warning had come too late. You must get guys hitting on you all the time. I shook my head, and he rolled his eyes, refusing to believe me. Insisting I live up to the image he had projected onto me.

His assistant arrived that day and was with us constantly, irritating me: how were things supposed to advance with her here? And what was the matter with me that I wanted them to advance at all? We were switching locations for the afternoon, and his assistant asked for my number in case she couldn’t get a hold of him. Within a matter of minutes, she had realized that if she wanted to find her boss, all she had to do was locate me.

Would you like me to open the door for you? the movie star joked as we arrived. We had discussed my hatred of chivalry the night of the debate, something he assumed I had learned from my feminist mentor, a theory she dismissed, I think chivalry’s nice in romance. The movie star and I weren’t in a romantic relationship: what was she implying? When we entered the building, the lobby was packed: there was only one elevator, and as I watched everyone cram in, I hesitated. He leaned over and crooned into my ear, It’s better this way. Romantic. My cheeks turned beet red as I got on, our bodies flush against each other.

He grabbed my hand as we entered the studio, I’m stressed. And I like having you near me. He’d been tired lately, and I confessed I had been too. That I would wake up at dawn painfully anxious, incapable of going back to bed. That happens to me every day. I must be rubbing off on you. I was mimicking his sleep patterns unknowingly: the word ‘fate’ teased the corners of my mind, like maybe this connection was larger than both of us. You should give into it. The flirting. It’s fun. Here it was. The acknowledgment I’d been both dreading and anticipating. I could feel the air leave the room as I tried to figure out what to say: that it wasn’t always fun for me? That it was confusing and stressful, but that I was also developing feelings for him? Unless… does it make you uncomfortable? And this is something I still beat myself up for: he gave me the opportunity to say, Yes it does. To say, I don’t like it when you grab my chin like I’m a doll or objectify me to the people we work with. But I hadn’t yet figured out it was natural to feel uncomfortable. I thought the moments where I did were my problem, something I had to overcome. And when he asked me that question, it was just the two of us. Time had gone by, we’d built up a rapport, and I trusted him. If he’d asked me the first day, I might have admitted, Yes, even though that answer carried the risk of being exiled at work. Instead, I said, No, it doesn’t make me uncomfortable. And having spoken those words, I’ve wondered if I have a right to publish this essay.

The president cautioned, You seem stressed as soon as she saw me. I pulled out my phone and typed a note for her: It’s so hard because I do like him. And now I’m confused. And then he was flirting and I always sort of brush it off and he said I should give in to the flirting because it’s fun. But I want to stay professional too! I just feel very out of my element and I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t want to get attached but I’m worried I will. She nodded before passing my phone back to me; I don’t believe we addressed what I wrote again.

He left the cast party early that night: my paranoia that everyone hated me was overwhelming. I hadn’t had to fully deal with those fears because I’d been shielded by him, his adoration softening the blow of any reproachful looks sent my way. My mentor approached, How are you? A pleasantry you’re only supposed to answer one way, but I was too tired to lie, I’ve been feeling kind of anxious lately. Her eyes widened, About? This? My mouth opened to say, I don’t know what’s happening what do you think please help me, but nothing came out. She stared ahead vacantly, like she was already bored. I inhaled, summoning courage: I wanted to ask you — The director interrupted, thanking my mentor for taking a chance on her as I swallowed the words I never got a chance to speak. I heard my mentor proclaim, We’ve got to have each other’s backs. It’s tough being a woman in this industry. Domenica knows, with her writing.

He texted: Thank you for being there for me this afternoon and I typed underneath the table. My mentor disappeared, leaving me with the director. She asked if she could read my play, an empty promise I dared get excited about. You’re very smart. I’ve been raving about you. I didn’t understand how she could tell I was smart, what there was to rave about. You’ve been crucial. Between you, me and your mentor, we’re getting this performance out of him. I said the only thing I could think of, the only response that seemed appropriate. He just needs to see me there, nodding and smiling. Telling him how great he is. She beamed, Exactly. A lot of young women in your position wouldn’t see things quite so clearly. Was this how she knew I was smart? Because I could play the muse without getting attached? What if she discovered I liked him? That I was lost and desperate for guidance? That to not see things clearly was human, and I would spend years punishing myself for not being the unaffected intern they wanted me to be. For hearing that sentence and not asking, What do you mean? Are there other young women? Because I’m not sure that’s okay it doesn’t feel okay. He texted: We should hang out — just you and me and I left before she could realize I wasn’t as smart as she thought.

DAY FIVE: 6AM on the dot. But this time I smiled, because he was awake too. He texted: Miss you and my smile grew. I showered quickly, agonized over which dress was the right dress, work now a place where my looks were constantly being evaluated. When it was time for his nap, he lay his head on my lap in full view of everyone. Stayed there for ten minutes, murmuring, You’re soft when his skull made contact with my thighs. I didn’t know where to put my hands: should I place them on my legs, my knuckles grazing his hair? Or should I fold them over my chest so everyone can see that I did not ask for this? I let them hang limply at my sides, afraid to accidentally touch anything that did not belong to me.

Rehearsal ended early. I packed my belongings slowly, hoping we might leave together. He caught me in the doorway, Are you going downtown? I nodded. I wish I could too. I just have this interview. Another nod, an understanding one. So I’m not gonna see you? He seemed disappointed, and I felt responsible, like I was somehow abandoning him. Where’s your interview? I can wait. His face fell, I don’t want you to do that. Shit. Was I not supposed to say that? When we got upstairs, there was a reporter in an empty room waiting. I pulled my laptop out, pretending to write, acting like I was an important person too.

Once I was alone, I opened a carton of Brussels sprouts and began devouring them. Shoving down one after another until my mouth was crammed and my fork was still digging. I couldn’t stop, even though the taste of oil was beginning to sicken me. I was angry at myself for volunteering to wait around for some guy. For putting myself in this position where I felt so pitiful. I wanted punishment, deserved punishment, for my idiocy. But he looked wounded in that moment: being there for him had become my job. Nodding and smiling were the supposedly critical ingredients I was adding, and I had to keep providing them until the show was over. But there were moments where my body fought back and this was one, my sprout shoveling hand desperate to suppress the thoughts of dumb pathetic unprofessional crazy slut.

A friend called, distracting me until the interview was over. He asked if he should get us a cab, and she squealed into my ear after hearing his voice. When we got to his apartment, he asked if I wanted to come up so casually I accepted before I could process what that meant. As he unlocked his door, his best friend approached, It’s so nice to finally meet you! He told her, Domenica made sure to look extra pretty for you and I tried not to let my mortification show. When I walked home, I felt empty. I knew I should be grateful for the time we had gotten to spend together, but I was overcome with exhaustion and dread.

DAY SIX: Tech had begun, which meant we’d officially relocated to the theatre. When he spotted me from onstage he smiled weakly: that was the only time he acknowledged me all day. I went from crucial to expendable in less than 24 hours. There were moments when my mentor called me over and I stood right next to him. My heart caught in my throat, hoping he would say something, anything, but it was like I had become invisible. I was running errands when his best friend beckoned me from his dressing room. She began making small talk: each second was agony. I was terrified he would find me there and think I had come looking for him. Being ignored was humiliating enough, I couldn’t bear to lose my dignity too. Let him think it didn’t affect me, that I hadn’t spent the entire day trying to figure out what I had done wrong. When I returned to the theatre, he was gone. My mentor was asking the stage manager for extra rehearsal hours. She emphasized how well the cast had been taken care of, Domenica has gone above and beyond! Did above and beyond mean placing each actress’ flowered hat safely in her hands? Or did it mean letting her star sleep on my soft legs without complaint?

My mentor invited me to a mutual friend’s party. As we walked, I kept waiting for her to address the elephant in the room. We could laugh about it or fight about it or whatever about it but at least I could finally stop holding my breath around her. When we first met, she called me out for being too perfect. She had promised to knock that perfectionism out of me, but the good girl inside me still craved her approval, was desperate to know what she was thinking. But the closest we got in 30 blocks was when she told me she’d refused to let The Times clip run. She knew the movie star would be an insecure wreck if he watched it, which was the last thing anyone needed. I keep telling him how great he is! Her mouth pursed, Maybe if you say it he’ll listen.

I kept replaying the day over in my head. I checked my phone constantly: it was the first day since we’d exchanged numbers that he hadn’t texted me. My mentor’s boyfriend came up to me, You look stressed. I instantly felt ashamed: had I looked like this at work? Could everyone tell I was crawling inside of my own skin? I hear the movie star just loves you. My blood ran cold. She was telling people. Of course she was telling people. What did I expect? We were hot gossip: the movie star and the intern. My life a source of entertainment.

DAY SEVEN: My mother had been preparing for this day since that first frantic phone call, striving to ensure her daughter looked perfect at the gala for the movie star. I had found Prince Charming, now it was a matter of keeping him. Which dress are you wearing? No. Too young. Too boring. The short, skintight one. Hair and makeup? You don’t have time, make time. This is a black-tie event where you will both be in attendance, a gift from the gods, an opportunity to look irresistible. Don’t waste it. As my hair was carefully curled, my lips lightly glossed, I tried to mentally prepare myself: he’s done with you. Any hopes and expectations you’ve formed must be killed. Tonight’s about him: do your job, and let this finally end.

As I prepped backstage, my inner narrative began to shift. What was it the director had said? That I was one of three people getting this performance from him. The show needed me. I could mope and stay out of sight, or I could choose to believe I was important to him, and that if he was nervous, I was the person he trusted to reassure him. I walked to his dressing room and raised my fist to knock. I was debating whether this was a terrible idea when the door swung open, Hi. He smiled, providing all the encouragement I needed. I just wanted to say, you’re going to be amazing. He hugged me, You look beautiful. Let me look at you. I indulged him when he asked me to twirl, his assistant entering the room without batting an eye.

After the musical was over, I ran backstage to help the actors get ready for the gala. As I poured wine for patiently waiting spouses, his manager approached. I escorted him to the movie star’s dressing room, where his friends stood sipping champagne, his crowd of a different ilk than I was used to. Before I could leave, my mentor called me over. She was with an older woman who was wiping away tears, evidently moved by the performance. The crying woman locked eyes with me, Thank you. For everything you’ve done for him. He’s talked so much about you. As I left, I whispered to my mentor, Who was that? The movie star’s mother.

Once I had attended to my duties, I joined my family at the gala. My father thanked my mentor for taking such good care of me. Your daughter’s a born producer, she announced as my parents beamed with pride. I was in the middle of telling a story when I caught the movie star staring at me. He slowly smiled, and I slowly smiled back, stunned by my real-life movie moment. Our eyes had met across a crowded room. Me, the ordinary girl turned Cinderella. Him, the famous movie star everyone wanted but couldn’t have. The two of us, somehow finding each other.

He walked over, pulling me into his arms in front of everybody. I lauded, You were incredible! I’m so proud of you. He tightened his grip, his hands circling the bottom of my waist. Our noses were practically touching when his sister approached to let him know she was leaving. He introduced me, leaving us alone when a flock of A-Listers came to find him. After a minute of small talk, her face pained throughout, she said she had to go home to her daughters. I told her the movie star had showed me pictures, that he adored his nieces. Her non-smile tightened, Do you have any… siblings? Her tone dripped with condescension. A younger brother, I admitted. Still in high school, I kept to myself. That’s nice. She seemed eager for our forced encounter to end. To be fair, she had probably met dozens of me. But to be fairer, shouldn’t she ask her brother to stop romancing interns rather than treating them with poorly hidden contempt? The movie star asked if I wanted a ride home, and I gladly accepted.

Fans jumped into action as soon as they saw him, hungrily snapping photos and thrusting Playbills his way. He signed one before climbing into the car, instructing me to sit in the back next to him. As we drove through the empty city, he started inching closer to me. I followed his lead until we met in the middle, his hand finding mine, lightly tracing each of my fingers. My heart was beating faster than it ever had, and I was certain this was the most romantic night of anyone’s life. When we arrived at his apartment, we stood in the street, lingering like teenagers. Will I see you tomorrow? I smiled, I’ll be there. Him, Ok. Me, Ok. Him, Ok. It was the you hang up no you hang up moment I’d never had growing up, and it was exhilarating. When I got home, I collapsed onto my bed, heels dangling in the air. My phone lit up, the movie star: You looked very sexy tonight. Thank you for being there for me. I typed back: And you looked very handsome. Another text: We really need to spend time. Just you and me.

DAY EIGHT: The Times review was a rave. Ben Brantley tripped over his feet with praise, and I expected the movie star to be euphoric at rehearsal. But he kept his eyes downcast, refusing to look at me. I punished myself for being too needy, hated that I cared. As I waited backstage, he stormed past me, and I willed the floor to swallow me whole. My mentor sat down, her mouth set in a firm line, He really needs to focus right now. The look on her face told me everything I needed to know: I had become an unnecessary distraction, a puppy in the corner begging for a scratch behind the ears, and my transformation wasn’t subtle. I felt like I disgusted her with my longing. It was over: she had her review, and now when she saw me, I was a living reminder of the compromise she’d made.

He seemed happy to see me by intermission, You are so sexy. When do we get to be alone? During the second act, desire spread through my body for the first time. Everyone in that theatre had paid to see him, but he wanted me. It was an intoxicating realization for a girl with no self-esteem, and it gave me the illusion that I was powerful. After the show, he teased me for not telling him my parents had been at the gala, Why didn’t you introduce me to my in-laws? I laughed even though the joke had stopped being funny. Once we were headed downtown, he unloaded: his performance hadn’t been as good, and the review I thought would make him happy had done the opposite. He now had to live up to the impossible standards Brantley had set for him. Audiences were expecting to experience something unforgettable: how could he deliver on that promise? When we got to his apartment, he chided his best friend for not coming that night, I was all alone. I wanted to remind him that I had been there, that I had enjoyed his performance, but I knew it was pointless. His dog was hiding under the table and I joined him, grateful for the refuge this beautiful animal provided.

The movie star lay on the floor next to me, his hand finding mine in a mountain of black fur. He told me he was leaving for a month and my heart sank, When are we going to hang out? His eyes bore into mine as I murmured, You tell me. I would do anything he asked, pretending otherwise was insulting to us both. Tomorrow was closing, what about after the show? I like your outfit. But the problem with a shirt like that is all you want to do is take it off. As we waited for the elevator, he held me in his arms. I could feel his heart pounding against my chest. When I walked home that night, I dared to get excited about tomorrow. To imagine what it would be like, this private time he had been asking for. I knew the odds of me seeing him again were slim: should I have sex with him? Everyone in my life was so excited by what was happening, demanding updates, wanting to hear every detail of this whirlwind romance. I couldn’t waste this opportunity, couldn’t risk messing up and disappointing everybody. I was living their fantasy. So why couldn’t I sleep?

DAY NINE: I spent the after party nervously waiting for him to arrive. Almost an hour passed before he stomped up the stairs. He rolled his eyes theatrically, letting me know his day had been exhausting. A pit grew in my stomach: we weren’t hanging out that night. He would ignore me again, and I would pretend it didn’t hurt. His mother was there and seemed intent on getting him to leave: after watching her son embrace me in a room filled with the industry’s finest, her feelings towards me had cooled considerably. I spotted him about to make his exit, and something in me snapped: if he was going to disappear, I might as well beat him to it. I flew past him, running as fast as my feet could manage. You’re just going to leave without saying goodbye? I bit my tongue and kept walking. Can I give you a ride? I stubbornly shook my head, angry that I had fallen for another empty promise. Don’t be ridiculous. Let me take you home. My pace slowed. Resisting him had proven challenging, so I caved like we knew I would.

We stood outside his apartment, his eyes avoiding mine. I’m sorry about tonight. I’m just so tired. I dug my nails into my palms and assured him I understood. I’ll see you when I’m back? I shrugged, We’ll see. His eyes narrowed, What’s that supposed to mean. I folded my arms across my chest, It means we’ll see. I got back in the car, alone with his mother. We sat in silence until I couldn’t bear it, Thanks for the ride. I appreciate it. Her eyes were glued to her phone, It’s not my ride, is it? I swallowed, absorbing her disdain, I agree with what you were saying about Act Two. I’ve seen many productions, and this was the first time it made sense to me. I could feel her eyebrows raise, You’re awfully young to have seen many productions of this show. Another swallow, I saw the 2008 revival three times… She interrupted, You must have been very young in 2008. An admission, I was fifteen. She scoffed, That’s very young. When we arrived at her apartment, I managed to choke out, Have a good night! before she slammed the door in my face.

DAY TEN: I woke up to my mother knocking on my door, asking if maintenance could fix the AC unit in my room. I groaned like the grumpy teenager I had reverted to, checking my phone as I rubbed my eyes. A text. Sent an hour ago. Wanna come over for coffee? I typed: I can come now? Sorry I was asleep. The typing bubbled appeared instantly: Yeah. Come over. His best friend buzzed me in, his mother swiftly moving into another room when she saw me. His hair was still wet from the shower, Hi. I smiled, grateful for this miracle meeting. If my air conditioner hadn’t been broken, I wouldn’t have woken up in time. Fate. It had to be.

His mother was marveling over the production, impressed by how much they had accomplished in such a short amount of time. Domenica was really helpful. She frowned, Oh really? How was she helpful? A part of me admired her for how skillfully she could insult me. She was loving and supportive and she believed in me even when I didn’t. She left shortly after, and I grinned into my teacup. For the first time, we were alone, and it was both liberating and terrifying. He looked me in the eye, the cerulean blue never ceasing to take my breath away, I’m glad I got to see you. I kept my smile shy, looked down at the floor, Thanks for having me over. I was buttoning my coat when he suddenly strode across the room, took my face in his hands, and kissed me. He leaned his forehead against mine, I just… I had to kiss you. His lips found mine again, hungry, and what had been soft and gentle became aggressive. I tried to keep up, scared my inexperience would show. His hands palmed my breasts through my coat and I hoped he wouldn’t unbutton it while knowing that if he did I wouldn’t have stopped him. I was relieved when he pulled away, breathing, I have to go against my lips.

We got in the elevator and he kissed me again, pressing me up against the wall so fast I didn’t have time to second guess a thing. We hugged goodbye, a smile so big I didn’t know what to do with it settling on my face. He texted, That was nice and my smile somehow managed to grow. My mother and friends sat around me in a circle that night, eager to hear my storybook romance from start to finish.

DAY FORTY-ONE: Somehow, the romance continued. Just when I thought he’d forgotten me, he would text: Hey you. My friends marveled as my phone lit up with his name: More time together please. I was excited for him to come back, couldn’t help but count the days. I played the game well, rarely initiating a conversation, prompting him to type: How come I don’t hear from you? A shooting star sent as he landed in Oklahoma, pictures of the set: You miss me? And I did. Thirty-one days since our first kiss, thirty-one days that would be neatly summed up in a movie montage. We agreed to get together the Friday after Thanksgiving. I came back from Long Island early, asked what time we should meet. Hours later he replied that he was still in Vermont. As I sat alone in my apartment, humiliation raged in my chest. When he texted the next day asking to meet up, I didn’t hesitate. My hair was straightened, my eyebrows plucked, my make-up delicately applied, my heart thumping as I rang the doorbell.

Seeing him after a month of longing was painfully anti-climactic. He looked different, dark and brooding in a way I had previously only caught glimpses of. Conversation had always flowed in the busy rehearsal room, but now it felt forced. He didn’t waste much time, kissing me before I could sip my tea, maneuvering my body like we were performing a dance I was supposed to know the steps to. He backed me up against the fridge within seconds, swiftly moving us towards his bedroom, my top flung off before I could figure out how he’d done it. Things were moving too fast and my brain was trying to keep up. His hands were about to remove my bra and I felt scared by the ferocity of his desire but I didn’t know how to express any of it so I just stood there. Eventually my lips stopped kissing and he asked if everything was okay. This is totally embarrassing but I’m really hungry. I ran to my purse, pulling out a bag of dried edamame. I put my shirt on in between bites as he watched me with a bemused expression. He announced, You’re so different, and all I could think was: from who?

We sat at his dining table as I finished my fistfuls of green and in those minutes that could have been hours, I felt calm. I was beginning to enjoy myself when he sighed, Maybe we should do this when I’m less tired. I shot up like I’d been scalded, ashamed for having overstayed my welcome. What’s on your mind? I was thinking a million thoughts, the loudest being: don’t fuck this up. We were kissing earlier and then we stopped and… did you not want to be kissing? I could hear the same insecurities that had wracked him during rehearsal, and knew it was my job to make them evaporate. Of course I do. A half-truth. I wanted to kiss but not like that, not like I was an object for consumption. So would you want to keep kissing? I paused: my options were to say yes or go home, and I wasn’t ready to do the latter, so I walked over, sat on his lap, and kissed him. He carried me to his room, and I knew this time we would not leave.

I had never had sex, had only given one blow job, and was hoping this 35-year-old movie star would not notice. He pulled down my tights, his hands already working inside my panties. His jeans were unbuttoned, his boxers pulled down, and as he maneuvered my body on top of his I realized that if he were to thrust upwards, we’d be doing something I wasn’t ready for. I blurted, I can’t have sex tonight. I could hear the irritation in his voice, Any particular reason? My cheeks were hot with shame, No. I just… His tone changed, Of course. That’s totally ok and I was so grateful I took his penis into my mouth, cleaning his come off my body within minutes.

My breasts were still exposed when he turned to me, You know what’s on my mind? That you’re 23. And we met on the show and… did I somehow take advantage of things? Forty-one days and an orgasm later and now there were things on his mind that he’d known from the moment we met. What year were you born in? 1993. He winced, That’s a big age difference. We’d gone back to when he’d slammed me into the fridge: him with a fixed destination in mind, me struggling to keep up. What was your longest relationship? My hands were searching desperately for my bra as I admitted, Nonexistent. There was quiet, followed by the question I had spent my entire adult life dreading, But you’ve had sex, right? I stayed silent, avoiding his eyes. I mean…. I could lie. When I looked at his face, I knew it was over. It’s not because I have romantic ideals or anything, it’s just never been right. I’m sorry. He asked why I was apologizing, Because I feel like I just watched my stock plummet. He made me shake his hand and promise I wouldn’t waste any more time before telling me he was glad we didn’t have sex that night. He stood abruptly: his flight was leaving early and he had to pack. I stumbled into the bathroom: my make-up was smeared, my hair damp with semen, my eyes brimming with tears I refused to let fall. I was furious with myself: for being young, for being a virgin, for apologizing for any of it. I couldn’t bear the thought of going home, of having to tell anyone about this. My mother had cried when he’d texted confirming our date: everyone who heard the whirlwind tale thought we were meant to be. And now I’d ruined everything.

I’m sorry for unloading all of that. I shook my head, Thanks for being honest. I didn’t recognize my words as I spoke them, had become a stranger to myself. His eyes slowly traced my frame, You’re trouble. I pleaded, I’m really not though is the thing. He told me he’d feel better in the morning before kissing me at the door, and I swore I could taste something ending. It took him a few weeks to ghost me, and the occasional texts, the illusion of false hope they provided, was crushing. But my intuition had been right. I suppose it had been all along.

THE AFTERMATH: The show moved to Broadway, and my mentor did not ask me to join her. I spent months trying to figure out what I’d done; when I ran into cast members and they asked me why I wasn’t working on the show, I didn’t have an answer. The movie star was one of the producers: my father warned me there was a possibility he had asked for me not to be involved, but I refused to believe him. The first week of rehearsal I sent him a gift: I had accidentally broken a vase when I’d first visited his apartment. He’d teased me about it often, so I purchased a replacement, tucked his favorite cookies inside, and placed a note on top: From: A 23 year old. When he texted to say thank you, I asked if we could meet up. He never replied, and I was so angry at myself for my misstep that I violently forced my fingers down my throat for the first time in years.

Three months later, he texted: How are you? Hope all is well with you. I pinched myself until my skin was raw, certain I was dreaming. I told him I was well: he had ignored me for over three months and I had caved in under an hour. You haven’t seen the show! When I didn’t respond, he followed up with Have you? I admitted I had. Why didn’t you come say hi!! I burst into the hysterical laughter of a woman who has justifiably gone insane. Another text: I wish I could have said hi to you. It was arranged that I would come see the show and that we would see each other when I did. I had lost weight since he’d disappeared and as I waited in the lobby of the fancy theatre, my jutting hipbones provided a temporary shield.

When his eyes locked on mine, I felt nothing. Was this really the man everyone told me I belonged with? He seemed nervous as he hugged me, his eyes darting around the room. He was headed to Paris to do press for his upcoming film; I scolded myself for picking such an inconvenient performance. Gone were my fantasies of drinking whiskey in his apartment, of having sex because he had taken so much from me, he might as well take my virginity too. He paused his shuffling to briefly make eye contact, We should see each other when I’m back. If I had played my hand correctly I would have said, We’ll see and he would have asked me to come over for coffee before his flight. But I was unaware that this was a game, that I was a mouse being chased by a wolf who was skilled at accumulating prey. So I decided to be honest, admitting, I would like that. He observed me before stating, You seem good. Very chill. It felt like a criticism: why was I so calm in his presence? And given that I had spent months obsessing over him, I wasn’t sure. I felt certain I could never see him again and be fine but I was also certain that him remembering me after all this time had to mean something. When he promised, So we’ll see each other, I believed he meant it.

I waited for his text, but it never came. After a month I caved, typing: I didn’t get a chance to say — the performance I saw was really something. He never responded. Weeks later I was having tea with an acquaintance when she brought up the movie star without knowing our history. Her friend was his publicist and was constantly putting out fires on his behalf. Apparently, he falls in love with these young interns and PAs on sight, pursues them obsessively, and then has some sort of freak out a month in and disappears. I felt like I was falling into an abyss, hearing about my life from someone else’s mouth. My first thought wasn’t, He’s a predator who targets women who work for him. It was, How could you be so stupid? I became sick overnight. My appetite shut down: most days I couldn’t eat until 9pm. I went to closing with my parents: when I congratulated my mentor she glanced at me coolly, seemingly forgetting I had once been a part of this. She made it clear I was not invited to the after party and as I left, I was flooded with shame.

I started writing a film about my experience: everyone told me it was a love story. Some friends held out that we were still meant to be, that one day we would run into each other and he would no longer be able to hide from his feelings. And there were aspects of the story that felt like they were copied and pasted out of a rom-com: the things he’d said, all the times we’d almost met that he couldn’t remember but maybe he could because didn’t he feel like he knew me? I told myself I was in love with him: that had to be why this was so painful. Why I couldn’t move on, why I could no longer listen to my favorite musical, why I spent years depressed over a man I had barely known. And my dwindling relationship with my mentor? She was angry at me for being unprofessional, and I was happy to do my penance until she forgave me.

Then Me Too happened. I read about what Dustin Hoffman said to interns and was horrified before remembering the movie star telling me he always reciprocates oral sex on day one. I reread my screenplay, verbatim quotes from the people involved stunning me: I was a commodity offered up by my mentor to make the process easier. I still haven’t confronted her because I’m terrified she’ll scoff, We both know you wanted it. And she’s right: a part of me did. But that part was never consenting. Consent became impossible the moment he commented on my appearance at work. I can never know what my true feelings were because he crossed boundaries that didn’t exist for him, boundaries I didn’t know I had to protect. I’m worried nobody will care when I share this, that people will think I’m reading too much into things. It’s hard living in the grey area that isn’t actually grey, to be the one telling yourself what happened was unacceptable when everyone acted like you’d won the lottery the moment he hit on you. I’ve debated whether I put this out into the world because I don’t want to hurt anyone, including myself. But I don’t think I’m the only woman this actor has done this dance with. It was too well choreographed. And as much as my brain likes to tell me otherwise, I’m not an idiot for falling for it: I’m human. I was young, naïve, insecure and all those things made me the perfect target. I believed I was living a fairy tale, and society upheld that narrative. But it was a nightmare, one I’m still scarred from. And this man was enabled in his behavior at every step, which makes it hard for me to believe he’s an anomaly. And people like my mentor probably tell themselves these young women are lucky, but I’m here to vehemently disagree. Because the aftermath that never ends? It isn’t worth the fairytale.