“Is everything okay in here?” I hear him ask.
“We’re fine, honey,” Cassie answers. “We’re just making up for lost time, is all.”
“I can see that.”
Now, my dad isn’t classically what’s known as a hugger, but I still turn my head to glance over at him, keeping one arm draped around Cassie as I lift the other for him. A little smile crosses his face as he hesitantly steps forward, wrapping his arms around the two of us.
Hours later, I’m still smiling on the train ride back into the city. It may have taken our unconventional family a long time to get where we needed to be, but I guess, as in so many other cases, it’s better late than never.
26
A year and a half later
Standing in the wings, I struggle to inhale calming breaths as I hear the audience filing in, taking their seats and getting acclimated to their surroundings. The last time a play of mine was being staged, I was so sure, so excited, so ready for the next step. Now I’m all but paralyzed in ice-cold terror, doing everything I can to appear collected so I don’t spook the actors. I tell myself that no matter what, I’ll survive. I’d like to think it couldn’t be any worse than the last time.
I peek out into the crowd then, looking for a familiar face. I find two—my dad and Cassie. My dad is holding his usual two dozen white roses, and Cassie is looking down at the tickets, trying to find their seats. Seeing them gives me a temporary moment of peace. They’ve been gone for almost a year and a half now, happily settled in Arizona. I’ve visited them more often than I ever anticipated, maybe every other month or so. My weekends in Phoenix have been a major highlight of my year, especially during this particularly harsh winter.
The five-minute warning announcement rings out backstage, and I immediately step back further, feeling another round of bone-chilling nerves gripping me. I’m just closing my eyes and trying to convince myself that my heart is racing due to excitement instead of fear when I suddenly hear an entirely welcome voice.
“Oh boy, is it my turn to give you a pep talk now?”
I open my eyes and whip around to find Roshni, looking gorgeous as always. I may be biased since I’m slightly obsessed with her, but I also think it’s a common fact.
“Yes,” I say, trying and failing to shake off the nerves. “By all means, pep-talk the hell out of me. I’m seriously considering pulling the fire alarm and squeezing myself out the bathroom window.”
“Just relax. Remember when I was about to go on forThe Lights of Trafalgar? I nearly went into anaphylactic shock.”
“Which was strange, especially since you have no known allergies.”
“The stage can do crazy things to a person,” she says. “Anyways, you’re way more prepared for this than I was then, and I did fine.”
“Pardon me, but you did more than fine. Why you’re not currently the main cast member in a modern-day reimagining ofHelen of Troyis totally beyond me.”
“Um, maybe because as fun as acting is, there’s no way I could handle that stress on a consistent basis. Community theater exists for a reason, and I’m very happy with my traditional workweek and my weekend thespian lifestyle.”
“So instead of living a high-anxiety life in a state of constant flux, you’re choosing to live a successful and lovely life? How obnoxiously well-balanced of you.”
“I try my best. Now, let me pass your own words of wisdom back to you.” She places her hands on my shoulders, just as I did to her in London. “You can do this. Everything is going to be amazing, and you are going to be so elated come curtain call.”
“Lies,” I reply, my voice shaky. “The world is ending, my play is a disaster, and you’ve clearly been sent here to build me up before my non-survivable fall. Go spread your treachery elsewhere.”
“Right, your play is such a disaster that it won the Twenty-Fifth Annual Arthur Brady Playwriting Contest and is now being staged in New York City.”
“Did I forget to tell you? I sold my soul to the devil. At the stroke of twelve, I’m riding off with the four horsemen into a fiery oblivion.”
“Eternal damnation can wait,” she counters. “Last year in London you weren’t ready, but this year you are. You worked on your play, you submitted it, and you won. You deserved to win, and I refuse to hear anything different.”
I choose not to argue, and a smile spreads across her face as she releases her hold on my shoulders. “In other news, I’m sitting next to your West Lane crew. Professor Jack and the rest of your coworkers seem super nice.”
“They’re so awesome. I know I’ve only worked with them for a year and change, but it feels like I’ve known them forever. They’re absolute nutcases, but the best people I’ve ever met.”
“Aw,” she says sweetly. “Our little weirdo found her niche.”
“So I have.”
Thinking back on my past sixteen months at West Lane Theater Company, it still seems like a dream that I somehow willed into reality. Naturally, I was overwhelmed at first. Handling all the responsibility of being an artistic director was no joke, and while I did stumble here and there, I also grew as a woman and an artist more than I ever could have imagined.
“I meant to ask you,” Roshni then goes on. “Did you...and I’m sorry if this is a completely inappropriate question, but did you tell Juliette aboutDeath of a Prom Kingwinning the contest and getting staged? I mean, a fair amount of time has passed.”
