Lincoln waves me on before we go backstage, and I follow Francis alone into the belly of the beast. When we reach the largest of the dressing rooms, he lingers at the door, watching as I venture into the auspicious space and letting me stare giddily at everything. “Lincoln says you’re a performer yourself. Why aren’t you up here?”
I laugh. “Because I was terrible at it.” There’s a signed photo of Patti Lupone on the wall. I want to sneak it out so badly. “I do miss dressing up, though.”
“You don’t need to be onstage for that.”
True.
Makeup litters the counter, and I suddenly see the joyful chaos around me in a new light. Huh. I guess you can take the girl out of the theater, but…
I turn to Francis, who is eyeing me with curiosity. He’s been acting for twice my lifetime. There’s probably not a role around that he hasn’t played, but the man in front of me doesn’t seem confused about who he is when he’s offstage.
It must be nice.
“Is it difficult?” I ask. “Being someone new all the time? Do you ever feel like you’ve lost yourself?”
To his credit, Francis smiles, warm and knowing. Actor to actor. “Constantly. We all play roles in life. Some we choose, others we don’t. The trick is always knowing who you’re performing for and how to return to what is true.”
I think of Lincoln, of Astrid, my mom. All the times I’ve swallowed down how I’m feeling. All the times I’ve thought of my future and felt trapped.
A compassionate lie, a camouflaged truth, a polite smile. Smiling when I want to scream. Or cry.
I’ve caught myself at my most tender, searching for words, attempting to capture them in voice notes I never send. Ramblings I express, then delete before another person might know them.
“You know, for the longest time, I thought maybe I liked pretending to be other people because they were more interesting than I was.” I pick up a lavish green velvet cloak and drape it over my shoulders, swaying it back and forth. It’s divine. I need five. Immediately. “Now I think maybe I gravitated toward interesting people because I recognized myself in them.”
I turn to the mirror.
“No one ever told me I might be lost as an adult. What was the point of all those conversations with career counselors?” I was supposed to have this worked out a decade ago.
What happens if I never find myself? Am I doomed to wander, never satisfied? It’s not fair to tie myself to another person if I don’t have solid footing first. I’ll always have one foot lifted, anxious to plant myself. And without roots, how can anything grow?
Francis takes a long breath. I shouldn’t be boring him with this. The guy’s a renowned thespian. But he doesn’t look put out. No, he’s looking at me the way Nonna used to. The way Astrid did as we shopped. I’m starting to feel like a group project.
“Can I give you a little advice?”
I nod. “Please.”
“Don’t wait for it. Find what makes you happy and grab on with both hands. Don’t wait and pine for it later.”
I almost want to laugh. Patience isn’t really my style. I used to pace in the wings before my cue, lightning zipping through my veins like the Flash, pinballing around my ribs. I miss the adrenaline rush of performing. The split second before I step out from behind the black curtain, where time comes to a standstill.
One last deep breath before launching myself onstage.
“What if I don’t know what makes me happy?”
“You’ll never know the answer towhat if, so you must be happy with what is. And if you aren’t, then you work to change that.”
Shit. Crying in front of Sir Francis was not on my to-do list, but cross it off. He reaches past me and hands me an honest to god handkerchief. It’s embroidered with his initials. “You’re already on your way. Crying in the dressing room is a rite of passage in this theater.”
At the end of the tour, Francis sits on the edge of the stage, and I take a seat beside Lincoln in the front row. His arm goes around my shoulders as soon as I’ve sat down. “How was it?” he asks.
“Incredible,” I say honestly, feeling another piece of my puzzle click into place. I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank him.
“Now, Lincoln,” Francis says, “if you are at all the gentleman you profess to be, you need to make sure this wonderful woman is in that seat on opening night.”
“You know I will,” Lincoln says.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “This is more than enough.” I can’t believe I’m turning down front-row tickets, but Lincoln has already done so much for me when all I’ve done is make him lie to his family and pretend to be my boyfriend.
