“Not the place across the street. Not the place Miles goes, not the place you’ve been going every day. A new place.”

“I can’t,” I whisper.

Her expression shifts from frustrated to gentle. “Why the fuck not?” she asks kindly. She’s always wielded curses differently from other people, using them to soften her words instead of underline them.

“I’m not scared of traveling,” I insist, my parents’ condemnation still rattling around in my brain. “I’m not scared of change.”

“What, then?”

“The subway. It’s the goddamn subway. It reminds me of Indonesia.”

The look she gives me is so pitying that I want to turn away, take the words back. Because unlike my parents, she remembers what that means and how it affects me. “I know how stupid it is,” I go on. “I know it doesn’t make sense that I never had this problem in LA, I know it shouldn’t bother me here, but knowing it and feeling it are two different things—I can’t explain. I’m sorry.” I trail off and force back my tears.

“Different city, same problem,” Mary says to herself. “Aw, kid. Come here.”

She leans forward and gives me a long hug. The sob I’ve been suppressing since I walked in unleashes itself and tumbles out. I press my head into her shoulder and she pats my back and smooths my hair.

“I can’t believe your one-woman show is happening and you didn’t tell me,” I tell her soggily, pulling away.

“I’m telling you now. I’ll be here on and off for the next two months, scouting theaters and rehearsing. Hope that doesn’t cramp your style?”

I wipe the last of my tears away. “Do you have the play with you? Need a pair of fresh eyes for it?”

She frowns. “Ones that haven’t been crying, for example? You don’t need to concern yourself with that.”

“Can I see it?” I crane my neck to look inside her bag.

She retrieves the script but holds it close to her chest. “I don’t think it’s a good use of your time. I don’t want notes, I don’t want feedback. You’re not on the clock.”

“I’ll read it for fun. It’ll be my birthday present.”

“My visit’s not enough of a gift for you?” she teases.

I hold out my hand.

She reluctantly hands over the loosely bound pages.

“Help me decide,” she says, at the door. “Should I spend the night with my first husband or my second one?”

“They’re the same person,” I remind her, an old bit of ours.

“Are you sure? They felt like different people. Or maybe I felt like a different person.”