Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91285 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91285 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Maybe more.
Some are stretching near the wall as they quietly run lines. Others sit with their heads down, headphones in, eyes closed, as if trying to shut out the rest of the world. A couple are marking choreography in the corner, counting to themselves as their feet slide over the scuffed floor.
No one looks like they wandered in on a whim.
They look as though they belong here.
Like professionals.
My stomach twists at that thought.
Okay. This is fine.
Totally fine.
I can do this.
If it goes well, everything changes. If it doesn’t, I already know what’s waiting for me. LA and the show. A version of my life I’m desperate to outrun.
Unable to concentrate, I shift and scan the room again. The more I look, the sicker I start to feel. I recognize a few faces. Not from TV but the stage. From actual productions in New York, Chicago, and London.
One of the women by the sign-in table was in the last Broadway revival I saw with my sister. Another guy was part of a touring company last year. They’re discussing callbacks and directors like this is just another Tuesday for them.
Meanwhile, my palms are sweating like I’m about to take a final I didn’t study for.
Do I really belong here?
The thought slips in before I can stop it, and my chest tightens painfully.
What the hell had I been thinking?
No, seriously.
These people have training. Credits to their name. Real experiences. While I have a reality show and a couple of concerts. My fingers curl tighter around the strap of my bag. There’s no doubt about it. This was a mistake. I should have stayed in LA and stuck with what I know. What I do best. I should have—
“Cheyenne?”
My head jerks up, and I immediately regret it.
Lisa Grant.
We did a workshop together a couple years ago, back before the show took over my life. She’s standing near the table with an audition packet in hand, her brows lifted as if confused by my presence.
“Oh,” she says in surprise. “Wow. Hi. It is you.”
I force a smile as everything inside me nosedives. “Hey.”
She steps closer, giving me that quick, assessing once-over performers do without realizing it. “I had no idea you were auditioning for this production.”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I thought I’d give it a shot.”
Judgment flickers across her face. It’s not mean, exactly. But it’s more than enough to sting.
“Oh,” she says again. “I didn’t realize they were seeing, um, outside people for this.”
Outside people.
The words are like a slap. I feel it everywhere all at once as heat rushes to my face. My spine stiffens as my grip tightens around my purse until my fingers ache.
“I mean,” she adds quickly when I remain silent, “it’s just… this is a pretty serious production. You know?”
My smile tightens. “Yeah, I do.”
That’s the worst part. I realize exactly how serious this is. And I understand what it would mean if I got the part.
She nods, still looking thrown by my presence. “Well. Good luck.” There’s an awkward pause. “Break a leg.”
“You too.”
As soon as she walks away, turning toward the other actors, my confidence crumbles.
Outside people.
Reality star.
The words stack in my head until my chest feels too tight to pull in air.
Maybe she’s right and I don’t belong here. Maybe this entire thing is me pretending I’m still the girl who used to spend hours in rehearsal rooms before cameras, contracts, and publicists turned my life into a circus for public consumption.
For a second, I’m seventeen again, standing in a dance studio with my hair in a knot, sweaty and breathless and happy, dreaming about a future that looked nothing like the one I ended up with.
The memory punches the air right out of me. I look down at my hands and flex my fingers, trying to stop the mental spiral before it sucks me under completely.
No.
You want this.
You came here for this.
You don’t get to run because one person looked at you and saw the version of Cheyenne Benson the world thinks they know.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then another. My heartbeat is still racing, but at least I can breathe again. I picture Knox this morning with his hand pressed against my cheek, his eyes fastened to mine, his voice low and certain.
You’re going to nail it.
A shaky half-laugh catches in my throat. He says things like that as if they’re facts. As if failure doesn’t exist where I’m concerned. As if he sees something in me no one else does.
The people in this room see a reality star. A headline. A woman who doesn’t belong.
Knox sees me.
That thought quiets the insecurities trying to eat me alive. I roll my shoulders back and force my fingers to loosen from the strap of my purse.
You don’t have to be the best in the room.