My pulse kicks into overdrive.
This is it.
I edge closer to the curtain, unable to resist one more peek at the audience. The house is packed, every seat filled, but I find them immediately: front row, center stage, exactly where I planned.
Rika sits between Matthew and Belinda, her pale-blue hair gleaming under the house lights like spun silk. She's wearing the sapphire dress that matches her wings perfectly, and she's almost too beautiful to look at. Not that it's because of the dress. The woman could wear a potato sack and still take my breath away.
She leans over to say something to Matthew, who's bouncing in his seat. I notice that he didn't bring Mr. Gears with him and feel a pinch of sadness. The boy is growing up, too.
Belinda sits on Rika's other side, dressed in a flowing tunic covered in enough crystals to blind astronauts. Her silver-and-pastel hair is piled on top of her head in an elaborate arrangement that defies gravity, and she's gesturing animatedly as she speaks.
My family.
"Noah?" Zoe hisses from behind me. "You're staring like a creep. Come away from the curtain."
I let the fabric fall back into place, turning to face her. She's taken her position in the wings with the other dancers, all ofthem stretching and doing last-minute adjustments to costumes and hair.
"You ready for this?" she asks.
"As ready as I'll ever be."
The house lights begin to dim. The audience settles into expectant silence.
The curtain starts to rise, revealing the stage bathed in soft blue light as the opening notes of the music begin.
I watch from the wings as Zoe and the other dancers flow into position, their movements synchronized and graceful. But my eyes keep straying past them, through the gap in the curtain, to Rika in the audience.
She's leaning forward slightly, her hands clasped in her lap, her entire focus on the stage. On Zoe. The love and pride radiating from her expression makes my chest ache in the best possible way.
I love this woman. This fierce, beautiful, complicated woman who tried so hard to push me away because she was terrified of being hurt again. Who crashed her car into my grandfather's planter almost two years ago and told me she loved me in fuzzy donut pajamas and unlaced sneakers.
Who gave me everything I didn't know I was missing.
The group number flows beautifully, each dancer hitting their marks with practiced precision. But Zoe stands out. There's something electric about her performance tonight. A confidence and joy that wasn't there even a few months ago.
As planned, the other dancers begin to flow offstage in graceful waves, leaving Zoe alone in the spotlight for what should be her solo entrance.
She takes her opening position, arms raised, wings spread wide and shimmering. She shoots me one last quick glance, and I nod.
The music cuts abruptly.
The stage plunges into darkness. Confused murmurs ripple through the audience, exactly as planned.
This is it. No turning back now.
A single spotlight snaps on, harsh and bright, illuminating center stage.
My legs feel like they're made of lead as I force them to move, walking out into that circle of light. The microphone in my hand weighs approximately ten thousand pounds. My mouth has gone completely dry.
The theater goes absolutely silent.
Hundreds of eyes lock on me, and for one terrible moment, my mind goes completely blank.
Breathe. Just breathe.
I raise the microphone, and somehow my voice comes out steadier than I feel.
"I apologize for the interruption, folks. I promise we'll get back to the performance in just a moment."
