Chapter 13 #2
Nate nodded, and they moved to the rehearsal room with its exposed brick walls, old posters, and folding chairs arranged in a loose semicircle. Nate moved slowly to where the twenty-eight faces looked at him expectantly. He felt his throat tighten.
Then he saw Maya in the third row, grinning at him. Jordan gave him a thumbs-up.
He drew in a deep breath.
“So,” he said. “Playwriting. Let me start by telling you the truth: it’s terrifying.”
A few kids laughed.
“I’m serious,” Nate continued. “Every time I sit down to write, there’s this voice in my head saying, ‘Who are you to think you have something worth saying?’ And that voice never goes away. Even after you’ve been produced. Even after people say nice things about your work.”
He paused, looking around the room. “But here’s the thing I’ve learned: that voice is lying. You do have something worthwhile to say. All of you. Because your perspective, your experiences, your way of seeing the world—that’s unique. Nobody else has that. And theater needs your voice.”
A girl near the front raised her hand. “How do you know if an idea is good enough to be a play?”
“You don’t,” Nate said honestly. “Not at first. The only way to know is to write it. I’ve started dozens of plays that went nowhere. But I had to write them to figure out they weren’t working. That’s part of the process.”
“What if people don’t like it?” someone asked.
“Some people won’t,” Nate said. “That’s guaranteed. But some people will. And the people who connect with your work—really connect—they’ll carry it with them. That’s what makes it worth doing.”
The questions kept coming. About structure, about dialogue, about how to create characters that feel real.
Nate answered each one, and as he talked, something shifted.
The panic faded. This was what he loved—not the accolades or the productions, but this: sharing what he knew with people who wanted to learn.
“Can I tell you about my last play?” Nate asked. “The one that just played at the Culbreth?”
Heads nodded.
“It was about a gay man trying to reconcile with his religious family. And I was terrified to write it because it was so personal. I kept thinking, ‘This is too specific. Nobody’s going to care about this story.’”
He paused. “But then it got produced. And after the first performance, a kid about your age came up to me. He said, ‘That’s my story. I didn’t know anyone else felt like that.
’ And I realized—that’s why we write. Not to tell universal stories, but to tell specific ones.
Because somewhere out there, someone needs to hear exactly the story only you can tell. ”
The room was silent.
Then Caleb raised his hand. “How do you start?”
Nate smiled. “You sit down. You write one page. It’ll probably be terrible. That’s okay. You write another page. And another. And eventually, you have something. It might not be what you thought you were writing. But it’s something. And that’s always better than nothing.”
Diane checked her watch. “We’re out of time, but Nate’s agreed to come back next month for a full workshop. Anyone interested?”
Every hand went up.
The kids applauded, and Nate felt his chest tighten with emotion. Then, from the wings stage left, he heard another set of hands clapping—slower, more deliberate.
He turned.
David stood there, leaning against the brick wall, a proud smile on his face.
Nate’s breath caught. “David?”
David pushed off the wall and walked into the light. “Surprise.”
“What are you—” Nate couldn’t finish the sentence. He crossed the space between them in three strides and threw his arms around David’s neck.
David held him tight. “I finished my last committee meeting this morning and thought, ‘Screw it. I’m going to Abingdon.’” He pulled back just enough to look at Nate’s face. “And I’m glad I did. That was beautiful, love. Truly, deeply beautiful.”
“You heard all of it?”
“Every word.” David kissed his forehead. “You’re a natural teacher, you know that? Those kids were hanging on every word.”
Nate felt tears prick his eyes. “I was terrified.”
“I know. But you did it anyway. That’s courage. And I am extraordinarily proud of you.”
Diane approached, smiling. “This must be your husband.”
“David Gardener–Reese,” David said, shaking her hand. “Sorry for crashing.”
“Are you kidding? We’re honored.” She turned to Nate. “Seriously, come back next month. These kids need what you have to offer.”
As the room emptied, the eight kids from their group swarmed Nate with questions. Maya showed him something she’d written in her journal. Jordan asked about playwriting programs. Caleb thanked him for making theater “sound less scary.”
When the last kid left, Nate sagged against David. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Where else would I be?” David said simply. “My husband’s doing important work. I wanted to see it.”
Trent appeared in the doorway with Colin and Joshua. “We heard there was a surprise visitor.”
David grinned. “Couldn’t miss Nate’s big moment.”
Colin clapped him on the shoulder. “Good timing. We could use you in Wise.”
David’s expression sobered. “That’s the other reason I came. I cleared my schedule through next week. I’m with you for Wise and whatever comes after.”
“You’re sure?” Joshua asked. “That Title IX task force—”
“Can wait,” David said firmly. “This matters more. You matter more.” He looked at Nate. “And frankly, after what happened in Farmville, I want to be there. Extra hands, extra eyes.”
Colin nodded slowly. “We’ll take all the help we can get.”
“Then it’s settled,” David said. He wrapped an arm around Nate’s shoulders. “Now, I believe you promised me a tour of this allegedly haunted hotel.”
Back at the Martha Washington Inn that evening, they sprawled across the suite with the food they had ordered from room service. David had booked a suite for him and Nate, and he now claimed the armchair with Nate curled against his side.
“Abingdon was perfect,” Nate said. “Like, genuinely perfect.”
“The kids were great,” Trent agreed. “Engaged, curious, open.”
“And no drama,” Joshua added. “No crises, no emergencies. Just good, solid work.”
“Thanks to your playbook,” Colin murmured, linking his arm with Joshua’s.
For the next few minutes, they ate in comfortable silence, then Nate spoke up again. “But tomorrow… we head to Wise.”
The mood shifted, and Colin drew in an audible breath.
“Yeah,” he said. “Tomorrow we head to Wise.”
“Are we ready?” David asked.
Colin met Nate’s eyes, then David’s. “I can only answer that question so many times,” he said. “We’re as ready as we can be. None of these towns are a known commodity, least of all Wise.”
“We’ll handle it,” Trent interjected. “I’m not worried.”
“Five of us now,” David said. “Better odds.”
In bed that night, Colin and Joshua curled together in the dark.
“Two stops down,” Joshua murmured. “Four to go.”
“David showing up—that’s really good,” Colin said. “I’m glad he’ll be there.”
“Me too.”
“But you’re still worried.”
“Always,” Colin admitted with a shrug. “But we’ll handle it.”
“Together,” Joshua said.
“Together,” Colin echoed.
They fell asleep wrapped around each other, storing up strength for whatever came next.