Chapter 43
When the curtain falls on the final matinee performance of Cinderella , it’s like the emotional floodgates fail, sending torrents of joy and love and sadness spilling over everyone’s banks.
I don’t even try to sandbag the feelings, which means by the time the crowd has dispersed, I’ve cried off my mascara and have
a red nose and an armload of flowers—gifts from people I’m going to be so, so sad to leave.
The cast and crew mill around on the stage, where we’ve decided to meet for a small celebration, my chance to give them all
a proper goodbye.
But it’s Belinda, not me, who gets everyone’s attention. “People! People! I know it’s almost five thirty, so most of you are
out way past your bedtime.” Good-natured groans and hollers and boos ensue. “So let’s get this started.”
There’s a murmur of quiet laughter, and she waits for complete silence before going on.
“As most of you know, I wasn’t thrilled when we found out our beautiful production of Cinderella was going to be directed by”—she slides her stink eye over to me—“A child.”
I give her a playful eye roll.
“But I have to say, Rosie, you changed my mind about that.” Belinda straightens, her shoulders back, her head held high, poised and graceful the way she always is, but she pauses for a long moment, and I wonder if something is wrong.
Her chin lowers, gaze landing on the stage below, and then she steels her jaw, regaining her composure.
“I know how hard it is to direct a show,” she says. “I did it—unsuccessfully—which is why they had to bring you in. To clean
up”—her voice falters slightly—“My mess. To save this wonderful program.” She waves a dramatic hand in front of her, as if
to include everyone and everything on this stage. “I regret that I made things so difficult for you. Especially because you
proved to be more than capable. Creative and encouraging.” Then, as an aside, “Even when dealing with the likes of me.”
More laughter and murmurs, mostly agreeing with her.
She shoots the rest of them a look but manages a smile. “I am nothing if not self-aware.”
A voice from the back. Evelyn. “Does this mean you’ll be nice now?”
“Not on your life,” she shoots back without missing a beat.
More laughter.
“Rosie, we wanted to send you off with a token of our appreciation, so...” She turns and Sadie hands over a large gift,
wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red bow. “We all chipped in to get you this.”
I walk toward her and give Belinda a hug, choked up over this whole thoughtful scene. “Thank you.”
She hugs me back but pulls away quickly, pushing the gift into my arms. I think I’ve gotten about as much emotion from her
as I’m going to.
And I’ll take it. Winning her over is perhaps my greatest accomplishment to date.
I hold the large gift and look around the group. “Do I open it now or...?”
A chorus of “Of course you do!” and “Definitely” rings out. So I set the gift on the floor, kneel down, and pull off the wrapping.
Inside, I find a large shadow box the size of a poster.
Center-mounted inside is a miniature version of the transformation dress. Surrounding it, a program. A ticket stub. A blue piece of...
“Is that a piece of the tarp we fell asleep on?” I shout.
Eruptions of laughter and applause.
There’s the fairy godmother wand and candid photos—ones I had no idea were being taken—of me directing, talking, pointing,
smiling.
There’s one photo that catches my eye, and I have no idea how anyone captured it.
It’s Booker, up on a ladder working on the set, and me staring right at his rear end.
It’s foam-mounted, so it sits higher than the rest, with a big, red sketchy heart drawn around it.
And then it hits me.
“This is just for me.”
“Dylan, you little...” I shoot her a look, and she waggles her eyebrows at me.
More laughter.
At the bottom is a glossy print of the cast photo we took on opening night. And littering the white cardboard backing that
everything is mounted to are signatures. Notes. Hearts. Messages.
“We all signed it,” Sadie says, beaming.
“You can hang it in your new apartment,” Grace adds. “If there’s room.”
“So you don’t forget us,” Evelyn adds.
I pick it up and stand, holding it out in front of me, unable to keep the tears at bay. “I could never forget you.”
I look around, doing my best to carve each face in my memory. “You all have helped me so much. You helped me remember why
I love theatre and why I can’t give up on it yet. This community and the way you all give of your time and your talent—it’s
so special.”
The reactions are quiet, emotional, meaningful, honest, and I let myself feel it all.
“We would’ve loved to keep you here with us, Rosie,” Connie says, “but there are dreams yet to be chased.” She points a finger
toward the ceiling as if to make a point.
I nod, gaining a bit of composure back. “Yes. There are. And I’m going to chase them a little differently this time. I’m going
to chase the joy and leave all the desperation behind.” I scan their faces. “And even though I’m sad to go, I’m excited that
I’m leaving you in the most capable hands.”
Quiet chatter filters through the group, and I realize they don’t know yet.
“When I got here, I had no idea you were hiding a true theatrical genius in this theatre, but the more time I spent with Arthur
Silverman, the clearer it became.”
Arthur tries to duck behind the man in front of him, obviously not wanting any part of this unsanctioned announcement.
“He is more capable, more renowned, and more decorated than I could ever hope to be, and he has agreed to take the position,”
I say. “Doing more of what he was born to do.”
The applause is tentative, but when I force Arthur to come stand next to me, the cheers pick up, and soon he’s waving a hand
to make them all stop.
“I run a tight ship,” he says. “But I’ve seen how much talent I have to work with, so I’m not going to go easy on you.”
“But you are going to have fun,” I prod.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Fun too. Maybe.”
I wrap an arm around his shoulder and squeeze. “I can’t wait to come see your shows.”
He doesn’t exactly smile, but his frown loosens the wrinkles in his forehead. “And I can’t wait to come see yours.”
***
After the party, Booker drives me back to my cottage and walks me inside. “I want to show you something.”
I must look suspicious because he smiles and adds, “Trust me.” He reaches for my hand, then leads me through the cottage and
into the backyard—the part that feels secluded and hidden away.
On the grass, there’s a big blanket, and in the center of it, a wooden board under several lit candles flickering in the darkness.
“It’s our last night together,” he says. “I wanted it to be special.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets, looking adorable
and sweet, and I wonder how in the world I’m going to walk away from this man.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d eat after the show, but I picked up sandwiches from this great little deli in town. And there are
chips and fruit.” He leads me over to the blanket and shows me the picnic basket, full of all the things he mentioned. “And
I brought chocolate.” He pulls out brownies. “There’s frosted and unfrosted. I wasn’t sure which kind you like. People have
strong opinions about frosting.”
“I love frosting,” I say as seriously as I can.
He stuffs the unfrosted ones back in the basket. “Frosted it is.”
“Did you make them?” I ask.
“Louie helped,” he says, and then he adds, “I made sure he didn’t accidentally drop anything in them.”
I smile as heat rushes to my cheeks. “Nobody’s ever half made me brownies before. Nobody’s ever half made anything like this for me before.” I sit down across from him, and he hands me a sandwich—chicken salad, my favorite—and then a bag
of chips.
We’re quiet for a few minutes while we set up makeshift place settings, then unwrap and open our food. He pulls a bottle of
champagne from the basket, pops the cork off, and pours us each a glass. Then he holds the glass up in the air and says, “To
the success of this show and the success of the next one.”
I hold my glass up and say, “To you not being Roberto,” and he laughs.
Oh, how I’ll miss that.
There’s a quick pang of sadness at the thought.
He drops his arm slightly, and his gaze catches mine. He sets the glass down on the wood plank. “We haven’t talked about long
distance,” he says. “Chicago isn’t New York.” A beat. “Should we try it?”
I want to say yes. I want to tell him that FaceTime and the occasional in-person dates will be enough, but I know better.
When I don’t respond, he shakes his head. “I know it won’t work.”
“I think we’d try it and it would end badly,” I say. “And I don’t want anything to ruin”—I motion toward him—“This.”
He holds my gaze. “So, what then? We just say goodbye?”
“You’re kind of like a drug for me,” I admit. “I think it’s better to quit cold turkey, don’t you?”
He presses his lips together and looks away.
I set my glass down on the wood plank next to his and crawl toward him. He reaches for me, and I let him hold me, savoring
the way his strong arms draw me close. “I’m not sure how to let you go,” I whisper.
He kisses me then, and I get lost in it, certain if I could bottle up the way it makes me feel and carry it with me, it would
be enough—at least for a little while. When I finally pull back, it’s because there are fresh tears streaming down my cheeks.
He uses his thumbs to gently wipe them dry, then tilts his head slightly. “Friday questions?”
“It’s Sunday.”
A soft shrug. “Oh, right. Maybe let’s pretend.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“Now that you’re heading off to this new life,” he says, “are you going to forget all about me?”
I’m so still I’m not even sure I’m breathing. “There’s no chance I will ever, ever forget you, Booker Hayes.”
And when I kiss him again, I know that this is really it. This is goodbye.
And while I wouldn’t trade my time with him for anything, goodbye really, really hurts.