Chapter 41
Opening night jitters are totally normal.
But these jitters are different.
If I’m the one acting, there are things I can control. My performance. My breathing. My heart rate.
Kind of.
Here, once the curtain goes up, this show is out of my hands.
And that’s exactly what I tell my cast. It’s like a moment, a ritual, of handing our hard work over to them. Of letting it
rest solely on their shoulders.
It’s their show... and it’s a good one. And not a good show for a bunch of old people.
It’s just solidly good .
I stand in the back, listening and not listening as Dylan calls the show. I look and don’t look as my cast takes the stage.
It’s like peering through my fingers at the part of the scary movie you don’t want to watch.
But you look anyway.
Edgar drops a few lines, and Sal accidentally chokes and spits part of his turkey sandwich straight into Belinda’s corset,
but her ad-libbed reaction—“Sunset Hills cooking, my dear boy?”—gets a laugh.
But it’s Grace’s transformation dress that steals the show.
It seamlessly, perfectly transforms her from peasant to princess, and it goes off without a hitch. I run backstage to celebrate with Ginny and find her in the wings.
“I’m so relieved it worked,” she says, laughing through tears.
All in all, the show is beautiful. The audience is wonderfully loud. The cast is superb, and when it’s all over and I stand
to applaud their hard work, I’m overcome with emotion and the absolute certainty that this will forever go down as one of
the most special memories of my life.
Afterward, while the cast mills around, I hand out “congratulations” and “I’m so proud of yous” like I’m on a parade float
tossing Tootsie Rolls to kids. Everyone is buzzing and chattering about the show, including my friends, who practically tackle
me the second they find me in the crowd.
Screams, hugs, and all of the oh-my-gosh - ing I can stand. It’s overwhelmingly sweet, and I soak up every second.
“Rosie, it was so good!” Maya raves. “I decided I want my wedding dress to be a transformation dress. Can you make that happen?”
“We’re so proud of you, Ro,” Marnie says. “It turned out perfect!”
I’m chatting with them when I spot Bertie down near the front of the space. She’s holding a program and looking around like
she’s waiting for someone.
“I’ll be back,” I say. “I just want to say hi to someone.”
I make my way through the crowd, moving toward Bertie, and my heart squeezes when I see Arthur emerge from backstage, look
at her, and then walk down the stairs to where she’s standing.
I stop moving and watch, wishing I could hear what he says. I assume it’s something kind (hopefully that he’s sorry for being
an idiot) when she smiles shyly and looks away.
There’s something extra sweet about a second chance at love.
Then, from behind me, Dylan’s voice. “Hey, um, Rosie?”
I turn to find Dylan standing with a woman dressed in a simple black pantsuit. She’s striking, sharp, and put together. And she looks like... Dylan.
“This is... um. This is my mom.”
The woman extends a hand. “Miss Waterman.”
I’m utterly shocked. I had filled in Dylan’s backstory with a mom that looked completely different.
I take her hand and grasp it warmly. “Yes! Dylan’s mom.”
“Margaret,” she says. Her curt smile is hard to read.
“Margaret. It’s a pleasure.” I pull my hand back and look at Dylan. “You have an incredible daughter. She’s basically the
glue that held this whole show together.”
I can see the visible shock on her face as she slowly turns to Dylan, who responds by shrinking a bit and looking at the floor.
“She... was?” Margaret doesn’t hide her surprise.
“Yes,” I gush. “I’ve worked with stage managers in New York, and I can safely say that she’s as good, if not better. Detailed,
patient, caring—”
“Caring?” She cuts me off. “Are we sure we’re talking about the same girl?”
I pick up a bit on the dynamic here.
“I’m not sure what she was like before I met her, but we could not have done this show without her. She was utterly amazing.”
Three of the cast members pass by us, wave at me, and give Dylan huge hugs from behind, pulling her close, messing her hair.
She looks uncomfortable—classic Dylan—and she turns bright red. The women leave, waving to others and making their way across
the room.
“I’m...” Margaret clears her throat and straightens her blazer. “Well. We have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”
Dylan, still wearing her embarrassment in the form of red cheeks, says, “Uh... yeah. I think I know what I might want to
do, for my, like, life.”
Margaret looks at me, dumbfounded, and I wink at Dylan.
She rolls her eyes.
“Mom? Is it cool if I talk to a few people before we go?”
Margaret shakes her head, still in disbelief. “Yes. Go.”
Margaret and I watch as Dylan mingles, congratulating and joking with cast members, clearly part of this team.
Her mom looks back at me. “What have you done with my daughter? She’s a completely different person.”
I smile, putting a hand on her arm. “I take no credit. She did it all herself.”
I turn toward the crowd, and my eyes fall on someone I instantly recognize.
My mom.
She’s standing next to John and my friends, all chatting and smiling, and she looks over and catches my eye.
We share a moment across a crowded room, and she gives a tearful slight nod.
I don’t think she knows what an impact a few words, spoken in a desperate time, had on my entire path. She tried to protect
me from the pain of heartbreak, not realizing it’s not possible. Life has good and bad. And I really do believe the bad makes
the good sweeter, just like Arthur said.
Maybe I was always supposed to learn that lesson this way.
John reaches over and takes my mother’s hand, and I see that her heartbreak is long gone. She moved on. She dared to love
someone again.
She changed. And so have I.
There was a point this summer when I considered talking to her about all of this, but now it seems unnecessary. I understand
why she said what she said back then—but I also understand that my promise to her was never meant to last forever. It was
never meant to hold me hostage.
Sometimes dreams shift and change and grow, and changing along with them isn’t failing. Pivoting isn’t quitting. Happiness isn’t linear, and seeking it isn’t selfish.
Margaret thanks me again, then heads off to find Dylan, and I turn and see Booker standing in the aisle.
Like the scene in the gym in West Side Story , we’re Tony and Maria, and everyone else disappears for a moment as we move toward one another.
I want to run to him, of course, but I’m also hesitant. Because this morning, separate from anything Britta’s email says or
the rush of goodwill I’m feeling tonight, I made my decision.
And it wasn’t easy.
He eyes me for a long moment once we reach each other, and then, as if we’ve communicated telepathically, he says, “You’ve
made up your mind.” A statement, not a question.
“I have.” I take a step toward him. “And it was difficult.”
“Did you—?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know yet about the part. She emailed me, but I wanted to wait to read it. I wanted to give the show
my full attention.” I look away, worried he won’t understand my choice. “I might get that part. I might not. But either way,
I’ve realized I’m not ready to quit. And while I’ve loved directing and want to do more of it in the future, I also want to
perform. I just... need to figure out a way to do that while also having a life.” I look up into his green eyes, afraid
if I stare too long, I’ll change my mind. “Because I’ve also realized I really, really want to have a life. Outside of a floundering
career.”
“Can we...?” He tips his head in the direction of the door that leads outside. I nod, and he reaches for my hand, leading
me out into the warm air.
I look up at the dark sky, marveling at how bright the stars are. “I’ll miss this sky.” A knot forms in my throat, and I hope
he hears what I’m not saying.
“I think this sky will miss you.”
We stand face-to-face. I try to memorize everything I can about him. The way he smells. The way his eyes see straight through
every wall I try to put up. The way his hands rest at my hips, firm yet gentle. And especially the way he always seems to
pay attention to what I need.
I know he’s not perfect—nobody is—but he might be perfect for me.
But he can’t leave.
And I can’t stay.
I step into his embrace and let him hold me, aware of how good it feels to fold myself into him.
“For what it’s worth”—he kisses the top of my head—“I’m glad you’re going.”
I look up. “You are?”
“Oh, I’m not glad you won’t be here anymore,” he says, brushing a stray hair away from my face. “That part is terrible. But
I am glad that you’re going to go for it.”
“It seems foolish to keep pursuing something that hasn’t gone well up until this point,” I say thoughtfully. “Do you think
I’m crazy?”
“Definitely,” he deadpans. “But not for that.”
He leans in and kisses me. When he pulls back, he searches my eyes. “When did you decide?”
“Well.” I think about it. “I did a lot of soul-searching, and the answer finally came to me earlier today. I don’t want to
quit, because I love it too much. I remember now why I want to act. Not because I promised my mom or myself, or because I
want to be rich and famous. I really don’t care about that stuff.”
I really don’t. It feels so good knowing who I am and what I want, and it makes this incredibly clear.
And incredibly difficult.
“I want to create characters. Tell their stories. Make people feel something. Remember what it’s like to be alive.
I want to walk in someone else’s shoes and study the human condition and close the gaps between us and show that we’re not so different.
That all of us humans essentially want the same things.
“I don’t need to be on Broadway to do that. I don’t need to be working with big-name talent to do it. But I do need to be performing. And that’s not what this job here is asking me to do.”
He tucks my hair behind my ears, taking a slow breath and letting it out. “So, what now?”
I shrug. “Now, I finish out the show, and I start looking for jobs in Chicago.”
“Acting jobs,” he says.
“And other jobs,” I say. “Acting adjacent. I think working in the theatre would be good for me even if I’m not the one on
the stage.” I toss a quick glance back toward the theatre. “Who knows what a job will lead to? Who I’ll meet... what I’ll
learn...”
A rush of memories whirls through my mind, like a montage in a movie.
Booker. Arthur. Dylan. The flood. The community. My friends. Bertie. The sound of the crowd. Performing. Connecting. Being
alive.
I never would’ve expected any of that to happen here, but it did, proving that there’s life worth living out there if you’re
willing to let go of what you think it’s supposed to look like.
“Well, look at you, growing up.”
“I’m a late bloomer.”
His smile is bright as he leans in to kiss me.
I memorize that too.