Rory
April
Excuse me,” I whisper.
I’m awkwardly shuffling in front of people who are comfortably seated, ready to watch their child’s play, because I’m rude and late to see my niece.
But it’s not my fault, I was trying to wade through a lobby that made me feel like I full-on time traveled back two months.
There was a banner that said A Night of Love along with every single possible heart decoration this city had to offer. Someone got a helluva after-holiday discount.
But truth be told it made me think of Oliver, of the night we spent together and the day we met. I laugh to myself, apparently Valentine’s Day is lucky for us.
I wish he was here.
“Sorry,” I blurt out as I step on the foot of a woman who’s already scowling at me.
She smiles back tightly as she says, “Okay.”
Yikes. That felt a lot like go play in traffic.
My sister glares at me, making me shrug, but she’s the one who got seats in the middle of the dang aisle.
The moment I reach her, she grabs my arm, tugging me into my seat and almost ripping the sleeve off my shirt.
“Okay, okay . . .” I hiss.
But she narrows her eyes. “You’re late.”
I motion to the stage just as three little children peek their heads and cherub cheeks out from behind the curtain. “It hasn’t started.”
She rolls her eyes and lets out a sigh. “Whatever, I’m glad you’re here. I would’ve killed you if you’d have made me explain your absence to my child.”
“Listen here, missy. I would walk on hot coals for that kid. I’d never miss this . . . but I can’t lie, I was caught up in la-la land for a minute.”
“By la-la land, do you mean Oliverland?”
I smile. She does too. But I’m the only one that knows la-la land actually means I got caught up sending a very curated pic of my cleavage to encourage a lengthy FaceTime later. And I know it’s lengthy. God bless 4K.
My sister waves her hand. “Only you would have a long-distance boyfriend who was supposed to be a one-night stand.”
I laugh. “True. We’re weird, but it works.”
“Until you fall in love . . .” she snarks, but I don’t look at her.
Because I think I am in love with him. It wasn’t fireworks or explosions, but I do feel rattled all the way down to my bones.
I’m about to admit that to my sister, but the lights begin to dim.
“Oh, it’s time,” she rushes out, shoving a program into my lap. It’s got little Cupid arrows all over it. That makes me smile.
I give her an excited look before turning my attention to the stage. The curtain doesn’t rise, but the spotlight turns on and a man suddenly walks from the side of the stage.
Polite applause rings out as my sister’s shoulder touches mine, and she whispers, “Director of the program.”
I nod, opening the program to try to squint to see his name. But instead of him, I see my niece’s with waitress #1 next to her name. She was so cute telling me in her little six-year-old voice that she was playing a food person.
“Welcome to the San Francisco Children’s Theater—”
An older gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair wearing a navy blazer/T-shirt combination stands looking out from the stage.
“We’re so happy to see so many familiar faces in the audience. It’s always nice to see kids come back, year after year, to hone their craft here at the theater. But I have to be honest, this year is bittersweet.”
I look at my sister because I don’t know what’s going on to make anything bittersweet, but she’s listening intently.
“As you know, this is my last year.”
Sentimental grumbles erupt from the audience, but the director smiles and bows his head once in appreciation before he continues.
“Unbeknownst to you, for a time, I was worried we’d never find a replacement. The search was long. Almost as long as the list of requirements for whomever would be blessed with this position. It takes a real love of the craft and a dedication to children you don’t come across every day.”
There’s a tiny ache in my chest because I wish I’d known about this. I would have given Oliver such a hard sell. He would’ve been perfect. Although what a wack job I’d look like begging him to move across the country because I’ve fallen for him.
I don’t even know if he feels the same . . . I mean, I think he does, but that could just be hope.
The director’s voice grows louder, like the mic gets closer to his face.
“But with great enthusiasm, I would like to introduce you to the new director of the San Francisco Children’s Theater and quite possibly one of my favorite people . . . even though I’ve only known him for about six weeks. Please welcome to the stage Oliver Adams.”
My face swings to my sister before doing a double take. Wait a minute. What? Everyone around me is clapping, but my hands are still suspended in the air and won’t move.
“What is wrong with you?” my sister whispers, looking at me like I’ve lost it, but I feel like I have.
How is he here? Oh my god.
“That’s Oliver . . .” I say to her, but she nods like she’s confirming his name. “No, that’s my Oliver.”
“Wait, what?” she throws back, her eyes swinging back and forth between me and the stage.
But I’m smiling so big that I can’t sit still. I jump to my feet, much to the dismay of the people behind me, but I don’t care.
Familiar piercing-blue eyes lock on me almost immediately. And now I’m so happy that my sister got us seats smack in the middle and only four rows back.
He smiles that boyish smile as we both stand staring at each other for a moment before he takes the mic and begins addressing the room.
I have to get out of here . . . to the lobby. Jesus Christ, I don’t know what I’m doing. My thoughts are all over the place because it’s Oliver.
He’s here.
He’s staying.
My hands touch the arms of the seats as I begin stumbling over everyone’s feet, stepping on toes and even almost sitting on someone’s lap as I lose my balance.
“Sorry . . . sorry . . .”
I look over my shoulder, seeing him smiling as he pledges to give his all and ensure the kids always have a safe, inclusive space to grow their talents.
He’s talking about how enthusiastic he is about bringing his experience from Broadway here to San Francisco, and I’m listening but fully stepping over the last person seated so I can make it to the aisle.
This feels like one of those wildly romantic movie moments in a rom-com where both the characters know that this moment is the beginning of their happily ever after.
I brush my hair from my face as I stand in the aisle, straightening my shirt, trying to remember if I wore the jeans that make my butt look good. He starts introducing the play as I take slow steps backward up the stairs.
Mainly because I want to see his face longer.
But I’m glad I’m watching because the curtains slowly open and Oliver says, “This is our modern-day Romeo and Juliet. Which is why, from the lobby to the stage, we’re taking it back to Valentine’s Day, because what’s more romantic than an entire day dedicated to love.
This particular story’s about improbable meet-cutes and second chances with a little nudge from Cupid.
It transcends the tragedy previously written.
Because our Romeo and Juliet are star-crossed, or should I say, comet-crossed. They’re meant to be.”
My heart is beating a mile a minute as the smile remains in place, because as the stage comes into view, there’s a familiar balloon arch and a ceiling that looks like a starry night.
He’s walking off the stage as a tiny little Cupid, holding a bow and arrow and wearing gold lamé shorts, lowers from the ceiling. My hand shoots to my mouth to stop the laugh from escaping.
I don’t even need to ask because I’m positive this play is about us.
Two teens walk from opposite sides of the stage, staring at each other.
“Hi,” the Juliet says.
“Hey,” her Romeo responds. “Worst class ever, wouldn’t you agree? I mean, who gives a college midterm where strangers kiss?”
“It’s not the worst idea,” Juliet blurts out.
The way the girl looks out at the audience makes everyone laugh, but then Cupid draws back his bow and hits her with an arrow, and a mob of little angels run out singing Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot.”
I turn, taking the steps two at a time until I’m busting straight through the doors and into the lobby.
I’m breathless, looking all around and turning in circles.
Where is he? I know he’s coming. I just know.
I reach for my back pocket, but I left my phone inside. Crap. Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone by the door, so I start that way to ask them if they can send someone backstage.
Maybe I just thought he saw me . . . or maybe he can’t come out.
But the moment I open my mouth to speak, I hear a door opening in the distance. My breath catches because Oliver’s barreling toward me. His skin is flushed, eyes shining like he sprinted to get here. And his smile’s radiating the same kind of joy I’m feeling.
My feet move quickly to meet him too, closing the distance before we freeze, just standing and staring at each other. This doesn’t feel real.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I breathe out, still in shock.
“Can’t believe it like you’re so happy? Or can’t believe it like you’re leaving to file a restraining order?”
I look up into his eyes, my heart beating so fast. “The happy one . . .”
He mouths, Phew, wiping his forehead as I rush out the rest of what I want to say: “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted you to find your groove at work. You said it would be crazy until about now, and I didn’t want to be a distraction. Plus, I fell for the girl who’s a hopeless romantic, so I wanted to give her fireworks and explosions.”
He pulls out his phone and turns it around to show me a text exchange. It’s with Benny.
Benny: So . . . How was the all day date?
Oliver: I think I met the girl I’m gonna marry.
I gasp and look up at him.
“Don’t worry”—he chuckles—“I’m not proposing today, but I figured you should know I was all in the minute we met in that shitty little theater, with you wearing pajamas and me out forty bucks because I paid Professor Tate to give us that Romeo and Juliet scene.”
My mouth falls open as I stare back at him.
He grins, reaching for my waist, pulling my body flush to his, just as we hear, “Cut,” from inside the theater.
I laugh, remembering that exact moment, but this time Romeo doesn’t have to kiss me because I wrap my arms around his neck and do it first.
Oliver Adams is everything I’ve ever hoped for. He’s Cupid’s arrow and a saint’s prayer, Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte. He’s fingertips brushing over my collarbone and the feel of sun on your skin.
But most importantly, he’s my happily ever after.