"Instead?"
"Instead, I found you, something entirely new. And you make me want to stop performing and start living." His fingers wove tightly with mine. "Even if it means risking everything I thought I wanted."
"Alex, I need you to know—all those hints Holly drops about my family, about our connection to Christmas magic..."
"Are they true?" He stared into my eyes.
I thought about generations of Blitzens, about craftsmen's marks shaped like hoofprints, and about sleigh bells that rang on windless nights. "Yes. And someday, when you're ready, I'll tell you everything. But right now..." I drew him closer. "Right now, I just want to be here, building this with you."
"Layer by layer?"
"Like your grandmother's lasagna."
He laughed. "That's quite a commitment, Ben. Four generations have worked to perfect that recipe."
"I'm good with long-term projects, especially ones worth waiting for."
Chapter eleven
Alex
The musty darkness of the prop room pressed against my skin. I'd wedged myself between racks of costumes and cardboard decorations, knees drawn to my chest, heart slamming against my ribs. Each beat dragged up another memory from that disastrousPhantomaudition—the lights, the silence, and how my voice had stopped working.
"Focus. Just... focus."
My grounding techniques scattered like leaves in a windstorm. My shoulder bumped a rack of prop wreaths, sending them rattling against each other. The metallic jingle shot straight through my nervous system.
"Fifteen minutes until places." Mrs. Brubaker's voice sounded distant, muffled. I had fifteen minutes to pull myself together before letting down the entire town. They were counting on me—Charice, Charlie, Marcus, all those kids from the hospital. I dug my fingers into my thighs, searching for something solid to hold onto.
The door creaked. Ben's sawdust-and-cedar scent reached me before I saw him.
He didn't speak. Didn't try to coax me out of my hiding spot. Instead, he settled onto an overturned milk crate and pulled something from his pocket—a small piece of wood and his ever-present pocketknife. The rasp of the blade against the grain cut through my racing thoughts.
"That's new." My voice came out rough.
"Cherry wood." Another long stroke of the blade. "Found it this morning behind the workshop. I've had it sitting in my pocket all day, asking to become something." Delicate spirals of wood fell to the floor. "Not sure what yet."
I recognized his strategy. Space without abandonment. Presence without pressure. The tight band around my throat loosened slightly.
"The full run-through starts soon."
"Plenty of time." His knife made another pass, releasing the distinctive sweet-sharp scent of cherry. "Since you're here—I've got a theory about that department store window in Act Two. The light keeps catching the trim wrong, throwing shadows where we don't want them."
His casual tone offered me a path back to solid ground without forcing me to take it. He talked about sight lines and reflective surfaces while I focused on breathing. The familiar technical details gave my mind something concrete to hold on to.
When he paused, words I'd been holding back for weeks spilled out. "When I broke down at thePhantomaudition, it wasn't only nerves." My fingers twisted in my lap. "I'd gotten the call about Gram's heart attack that morning. Still, I couldn't miss the audition—it was my shot, maybe my last real chance. So I went anyway, thinking I could push through."
Ben's knife stopped. "The same day? That's—"
"I got halfway through 'Music of the Night.' The lyrics I'd known since I was sixteen turned to ash in my mouth. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move." My voice cracked, but I kept going."The accompanist kept playing, but I just stood there under the lights, frozen like some amateur who'd never seen a stage. I ran off and fell apart in a stairwell." I forced myself to look at Ben. "And now I'm about to go out there as Santa, of all things, and I can barely—"
Ben set his carving aside. His gaze locked onto mine, steady and warm. "You're not alone this time. We're all out there—even Jack, though his idea of support probably involves interpretive dance and dramatic readings fromA Christmas Carol."
A startled laugh escaped me. "God. He would do that."
"Probably with corporate law metaphors. 'I am the Ghost of Christmas Mergers and Acquisitions...'"
"Stop." I groaned, but the humor had dulled my panic. "You'll give him ideas."
