"Like how the third light on the main bar always sticks, or how to tell when the dance floor needs resealing by the way it sounds under your feet." The memories flowed more easily with Ben than with anyone except Jared, my best friend back in New York. "There was this old electrician at the Winter Garden who could diagnose lighting problems by listening to the hum of the dimmers."
Ben's brush paused. "Do you miss it?"
"Parts of it." I caught myself opening up too much and tried to redirect the conversation. "The set is amazing, by the way. Very Macy's 1947."
"Alex, you don't have to deflect with me."
Before I could figure out how to respond, Rachel commandeered center stage, Marcus's script in hand. "Okay, everyone, places! We're doing the Santa scene."
The other kids scrambled into position, dragging chairs from the prop table to create a makeshift department store. Even Marcus, still holding his IV pole, edged closer to the action.
"I'll be Kris Kringle." A boy with a missing front tooth stuffed a throw pillow under his shirt and attempted a belly laugh that came out more like a hiccup.
"That's not how Santa walks," Marcus said, his voice small but clear. "He has to be more..." He demonstrated a gentle sway, incorporating his IV pole with surprising grace.
Rachel's eyes widened. "Show us again!"
Within minutes, Marcus had become the director of the scene. His earlier shyness disappeared as he helped position the others, suggesting ways to move that worked with their various medical equipment rather than fighting against it. The lights followed him as he moved, brightening wherever he gestured, dimming to create shadows where the scene needed them.
"Look familiar?" Ben set his brush down and moved closer to me. "Reminds me of someone else who knows how to create choreography on the fly."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
When the kids launched into an off-key but enthusiastic rendition of "Pine Cones and Holly Berries," my breath snagged. This was why I'd fallen in love with theater in the first place. Not for the spotlight or the perfect technique, but for moments like this—when make-believe and reality wove together to create something transcendent.
"The pole isn't in the way," Marcus told the boy with the oxygen tank. "It's part of the dance now. You have to let it be."
I blinked hard, but Ben had already heard. He reached for my hand, where it rested on the workbench, and squeezed it gently.
"We should probably finish painting," I said. Ben hummed in agreement but didn't step back.
The last rays of winter sunlight slanted through the high windows, turning them into stained glass even though they were clear. As the rest of the cast began to gather for full rehearsal, Ben sorted his tools while I pretended to organize sheet music that was already perfectly arranged.
"Those cabinet doors in the toy shop scene still need touchups. The gold paint is uneven."
Ben glanced at the cabinet. "Could use a professional eye for detail."
"And there's that wobble in the third department store window."
"Very concerning." He moved closer. "You must have better things to do than help with set maintenance."
I focused intently on adjusting the angle of a prop telephone. "Not really. Grandma's house is too quiet, and these things go faster with two people."
"True." His shoulder brushed mine as he reached past me for a paintbrush.
We worked in the pool of light cast by the ghost light, moving around each other in our own private dance. I caught myself leaning into Ben's space more than necessary.
"Hold still. You've got some gold paint there." Ben brushed his thumb across my cheek, the touch impossibly gentle. His hand lingered, cupping my face, and I found myself tilting into his palm.
I swayed closer, drawn by the magnetic pull between us. Ben's other hand came to rest on my hip, steadying me. His eyes darkened, and his gaze dropped to my lips. The air between us shimmered with the same golden quality I'd seen during Jack and Charice's scene.
"Stay," Ben said quietly.
Somewhere in the darkness beyond the ghost light's reach, a door opened.
"Ben? You still here? I've got those hinges you—oh."
Holly's voice was cheerful and utterly unrepentant. We sprang apart like teenagers caught making out, and I slammed my hip into the workbench hard enough to scatter wood curls.
