"Always. But the good kind." She adjusted her toy department apron. "The kind that means something matters."
Jack materialized on her other side, pale but composed. Whatever Charice had said to him in the dressing room appeared to help. He wasn't vibrating with panic anymore—only the normal tension of an actor about to step onto the stage.
"I counted the house," he said. "Two hundred thirty-seven people. Plus the baby, so two hundred thirty-eight, but I don't think she's going to be a tough critic."
"You counted?" Charice raised an eyebrow.
"I needed something to do with my anxiety."
In the opposite wing, Ben worked on something—a final adjustment to a prop. An excuse to be present. His hands moved with familiar certainty, and even from a distance, I spotted the furrow of concentration between his brows. As if sensing me watching, he looked up. Our eyes met across the dim expanse of the stage.
He nodded once.You've got this.
I nodded back.
Charlie appeared at my elbow, script-free, his small face scrubbed clean and serious. "Toast knows," he said.
"Knows what?"
"That something important is happening. Mom says she's been pacing all afternoon." He looked up at me. "Dogs can tell. And so can theaters."
"Places for the top of the show!" The stage manager's whisper cut through the wings, sharp and efficient. "This is your places call. Top of the show, everyone."
Movement rippled through the backstage shadows—actors finding their marks and crew settling into positions. The houselights began their slow dim, and the audience's murmur faded to expectant silence.
Mrs. Brubaker materialized beside me, clipboard clutched to her chest. Her eyes were bright, sparkling with what might have been tears.
"Twenty-three years I've been doing this," she said quietly. "Twenty-three Christmas shows in this theater. Never has one felt quite like this."
She touched my shoulder.
"Your grandmother would be proud."
Before I could respond, she'd vanished into the wings, off to manage the thousand minor crises that would unspool over the next two hours.
The orchestra settled into silence. The house went fully dark except for the exit signs glowing red at the edges.
The stage manager's voice sounded one final time, barely audible—"Curtain."
The orchestra struck the opening chord—a little ragged at the edges, not quite in tune, and somehow perfect for it. The sound swelled through the theater, filling the darkness.
I pressed my palm flat against the cherry wood one last time, feeling its steady warmth.
The lights rose.
And I stepped into the glow.
Chapter eighteen
Ben
The sold-out house hummed with anticipatory electricity. I'd experienced it before—opening nights when the air itself held its breath—but never quite like this. Two hundred thirty-seven seats. All of them full. The whole town had turned out for the pediatric wing fundraiser.
From my spot in the wings, I watched Alex move through the backstage chaos with an ease that would have been unthinkable two weeks ago. He was calm—checking in with nervous teenagers, adjusting Charlie's collar, and sharing a quiet word with Jack that made the lawyer laugh and visibly relax.
Mrs. Brubaker passed me, clutching her clipboard, her usual pre-show tension softened by a sense of wonder. "I've been doing this for twenty-three years," she murmured. "Never seen a cast this settled before curtain."
Neither had I.
