Every Vow You Break(3)

Zachary Mason had come up from New York—all the actors came up from New York—to play Clifford Anderson. Abigail, despite many crushes on television stars and film actors, hadn’t realized just how much she had a specific physical type until the moment she first saw Zachary. He was tall and thin, with high cheekbones and mussed hair. He reminded Abigail of Alain Delon in Purple Noon, her current movie obsession, and when she first saw him, as she was getting the room ready for the table read, her stomach flip-flopped like she was a heroine in a cheesy romance. It must have shown on her face, because Zachary looked at her and actually laughed, then introduced himself while helping her set up the room. A little bit of the sudden infatuation immediately went away when she realized just how much he was like all the other aspiring actors that came here for the summer. He wore skinny jeans and had a tasseled scarf wrapped twice around his neck even though it was July, and Abigail could make out a tattoo on the inside of his forearm that looked, without her being able to read all of the words, to be some Shakespearean text.

“Ah, the daughter,” he said.

“They haven’t thought of me as their daughter for a long time.

I’m their unpaid intern.”

“Well, you look just like your dad.” It was the first time Abigail had heard this, since most people told her she looked like her mom, maybe because her mom, like Abigail, was tall and had dark hair. But Abigail did feel she looked just like her father. She had his large forehead, his downturned eyes, his short upper lip.

“Is that a good thing?” Abigail asked.

“Are you fishing for a real compliment?”

“Of course I am.”

There was activity in the hallway outside the conference room, a bustling of bodies and a few conversations starting up, and Zachary leaned in quickly to Abigail and said, “You are very pretty, but you’re probably only sixteen and I’m twenty-two, and I’m going to leave it at that.”

“I’m seventeen,” Abigail said as the room began to fill.

Deathtrap ran two weeks. It turned out to be one of the better productions of the summer; Abigail saw it twice, and was relieved that Zachary was not only good, but almost great. It didn’t hurt that he was playing opposite Martin Pilkingham, the soap actor who performed at least one role for Boxgrove every summer. Zachary and Martin had great chemistry. A critic from the city actually came up in order to review the play; “A Revival in the Berkshires Warrants the Drive” was the headline.

Halfway through the production Abigail was sitting on her front porch, in the swinging chair, rereading Red Dragon, when Zachary wandered by along the sidewalk. She checked her phone, realizing it was later than she thought, and shouted out a hello that made him turn in obvious surprise. At least he wasn’t purposefully walking by my house in hopes of seeing me, she thought, as she came down the front porch steps. Although why that would make a difference, she didn’t know. They walked together at least two miles that night, the night getting cooler, Zachary talking about all the parts he’d almost gotten in TV shows and commercials. When he dropped her off, Abigail swung quickly into his arms and kissed him. He kissed back, and with his arms lifted her almost entirely off her feet.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“I do,” Abigail said, and half ran to her front door, not wanting to give him a chance to talk them out of what was happening.

The wrap party, like all of Boxgrove’s wrap parties, was held in the basement tavern at the Boxgrove Inn. Abigail got there early to help Marie, the bartender, set up the platters of snacks, and in return, Marie poured Abigail what looked like just a Sprite, but with vodka in it. The night before, after the second-to-last performance, Zachary and Abigail had fooled around once again, in his dressing room. At one point, Abigail thought they were going to have sex, and she broached the topic of condoms.

“You want to do this right here, right now, in my dressing room?” he’d asked. He already knew Abigail was a virgin because they’d discussed it.

“I don’t care where we do it, I just want it to be with you,” Abigail said.

“Let’s talk just a little bit more about this, okay?” Zachary said.

“Are you a hundred percent sure? I’m going back to New York in three days, and you and I—”

“You want written consent?” Abigail said, and laughed. Sexual harassment was all over the news, and she appreciated Zachary wanting to make sure, but she was ready.

“I’m considering it,” he said, but laughed as well.

After the wrap party Abigail had been planning on going home with her parents, then doubling back to meet Zachary in his room at the inn, but both her parents had left the party on the early side.

“I’m exhausted, honestly, Abigail,” her mother had said. “But you stay here. You’re young.” Abigail, who didn’t want to get too close to her parents in case they smelled the vodka on her breath, waved goodbye as they climbed the stairs to the street level. Then she returned to the booth where Martin Pilkingham was holding court and drinking scotch. She’d known him her whole life, and he felt more like an uncle to her than her actual uncles.

Toward closing time, the bar mostly empty, Zachary, gripping a pint of Guinness, pulled Abigail into a dark corner of the pub. She could smell the alcohol on his breath as he touched her face. “It feels so wrong, but it feels so right,” he said.