This is it. No turning back. I look across the stage to where the eight principal actors are waiting in the wings. Receiving their cue, they fearlessly step out and get into position. Their breathing is heavy but controlled. They’re scared, but they’re going anyways. I watch their bravery with a visceral kind of awe and take it into myself before sending it back to them. Because when it comes down to it, that’s what theater is all about—drawing bravery from fear and revealing the truth with stirring lies.
The curtains rise, and a tangible hush falls over the room, so thick and heavy that you can reach out and drag your fingers across it to make a ripple.
It’s showtime.
Applause. So much applause. I feel it before I hear it—the vibrations under my feet that crawl up my calves and into my chest from the floorboards. It’s like I’m blacking out as the play ends and the curtain closes. Little by little, the sound fills my ears until I’m back in my body and I become overwhelmed by emotion and a life-changing realization—I did it.
I wrote a play and people are clapping and I didn’t crumble into a million pieces. I can breathe. I can think. I can relax my entire body for the first time in hours. I smile to myself, delirious and free in my own relief.
The curtain rises again, and the actors run out one by one, each of them getting their moment to find their light. When they’ve each had their turn, their right arms point to the wing I’m occupying, and I force myself to step out and take a shy bow as I remain to the very far side of the stage. The cast issues one more bow as a group, and the curtain closes for the final time.
The actors hug each other and me, and I thank them relentlessly for their hard work and their unparalleled talent. Half the group is college kids, making up the high-school versions of the characters, and their sheer enthusiasm is contagious. I’m basically levitating from happiness when I eventually head out into the audience.
I meet up with and group-hug my dad and Cassie first, then Roshni and her boyfriend, and end up with my colleagues and group chat friends. A half an hour flies by, and before I know it, it’s time to head off to the after-party that we’re having at a bar down the street. I tell everyone to go ahead, that I’ll be there in a couple of minutes with the cast and that I left my bag backstage.
I’ve just grabbed it and decide to check my phone when I see two texts from a contact I’ve barely heard from in over a month. The steady, thunderous pace of my heart skips a beat as I stare down at the phone, pausing before I slowly unlock it to reveal the message.
I knew you could do it. That was absolutely sensational.
Then:
What’s proper theater etiquette for requesting an encore? I asked the man sitting next to me, but he only looked at me oddly and said I talked weird.
He knew I could do it. It was sensational. He asked the guy sitting next to him.
Liam is here. Like, here, here. I cautiously step onto the now empty stage, looking out into the audience and feeling my heart drop to my ankles when my eyes lock with his. He’s standing there in a side aisle, surrounded by empty seats, and looking at me like it’s the first time he’s ever seen me after waiting a lifetime.
“Hello,” he says. His hair is shorter, and he’s grown a light beard. He’s wearing jeans and the sweater I sent off to Paris for him this Christmas. His voice echoes in my ears and I feel it in my gut and I’m nervous that I might black out all over again.
“Hey,” I answer quietly. I offer nothing else and he seems okay with that, stepping forward towards the stage until he can’t go any further. He lifts a leg to climb up, and stumbles slightly as he does. I barely notice. He could have belly flopped up here for all I care. All that matters is that he’s now standing less than three feet away from me.
“I may have underestimated the height of the stage,” he says, a little out of breath. “And here I was hoping to come off as suave, what with my big surprise entrance and all.”
I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe he’s here and we’re talking and joking in person like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I clear my throat and even out my voice. “Well, that’ll teach you. I thought everyone knew you always bring a small but trusty trampoline when attending a former flame’s opening night.”
“I knew I forgot something. Which is odd, because I’ve done this so many times—attended former flames’ opening nights, that is. You’d think I’d have a better grasp on the situation.”
“Yeah. No, I couldn’t agree more,” I tell him. “I’m highly, highly disappointed. Which I’m sure you can tell, since I’m obviously miserable at seeing you again.”
He takes in my flushed cheeks and nervous smile, and his ears instantaneously turn bright red. Oh, I’ve missed those guys. I’m once again tempted to touch them, but I instead wrap my arms around my own stomach.
“When our texts and calls started to slow down over the past few weeks, I assumed that you... I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought.”
“Yes, I’m sorry about that,” he says. “I wanted to surprise you, so I thought pulling back a bit might make my showing up tonight seem a little grander, but I see now that I was probably sending you mixed messages. Clearly, I’m the worst.”
“Just a bit,” I tell him.
“I suppose I also figured a little mystery wouldn’t hurt since I didn’t exactly play hard to get in London.”
“No, you definitely didn’t. You were exceptionally easy.”
“I thought as much.”
We both smile, and a comfortable silence settles between us. “So how have you been?” I ask after a few beats.
“I’ve been good. Busy with work, if you can believe it. Paris was great, but I’m glad I’ve finished my commitment. Looking back, I never should have put it off as long as I did.”
“And now?” I ask.
