CHAPTER ONE #3
Nathan let the words wash over him. He wasn’t ready to believe in hope, but the image of a place where people did art for the joy of it cracked something in him.
“Can you send me her number?”
“Already did. Give her a call. And don’t overthink it. Just go.”
Nathan ended the call and sat still, letting the silence expand. Then, almost without realizing it, he dialed the number Greg had forwarded. It rang three times before a woman answered, voice bright and full of energy.
“Hello? This is Dani.”
“Hi. Dani. This is Nathan Carter. Greg Whitmore gave me your number.”
“Oh! I know who you are. You’re the big-time Broadway guy who used to date my sister, right?”
A flush crept up his neck. “That would be me.”
Dani laughed, not unkindly. “Well, what can I do for you, Nathan?”
Nathan explained the offer that Greg had made him. “I understand that plans might have changed, but I wanted to let you know that I would be interested in serving as artist-in-residence for your summer theater festival.”
“Jonathon Island could use a dose of big-city talent. The festival needs a boost to draw folks out. That’s our whole goal—to increase tourism and make Jonathon Island the place to be in the summer.
Our grant covers lodging, and there’s a small stipend, but honestly?
We just need someone who loves theater and is willing to roll up their sleeves. ”
Nathan closed his eyes, imagining it. Trees instead of traffic. A lake breeze instead of subway wind. Purpose instead of performance.
“I’m in.” He almost surprised himself with the quick answer.
“Great! I can’t wait to tell Ashley!”
Nathan’s heart crept up to his throat. “I thought Ashley lived in Los Angeles these days.”
“She does, but I’ve asked her to serve as the festival director in Greg’s place,” Dani explained. “You two will be working together again.”
“Oh.” Nathan breathed out as his pulse picked up.
Working with Ashley? They hadn’t spoken in eleven years—not since she’d shown up in New York, heartbroken after her parents’ split, and stayed just long enough to remind him what they’d once had.
A week. Maybe two. Then came his big break, and she was gone. No note. No goodbye. Nothing.
“That won’t be a problem, will it?”
“No, no. I’m sure we’ll be fine.” Nathan rolled his eyes at his own sugar-coating of the situation.
They spoke for a few more minutes, Dani outlining basic logistics and promising to email a detailed schedule. When they hung up, Nathan let out a slow, shaky breath.
He needed to be on Jonathon Island in two weeks. Could he leave the city behind? And if he did, what would he find?
Ashley Sullivan, for one thing.
Nathan headed to his bedroom. He stood on the step stool in his bedroom closet, tugging down a weathered shoebox he hadn’t touched in years. The lid was warped from time and humidity, its corners softened and frayed. He set the box on the bed and lifted the lid.
Inside were snapshots from another life—an old playbill from his first directing gig, a scribbled thank-you note from a student actor, a Polaroid of him and Ashley at a cast party, mid-laugh, plastic cups in hand.
Her eyeliner had smudged in the summer heat, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.
They’d both been twenty-two and trying too hard to pretend they weren’t terrified of what came next.
The photo from that cast party had outlasted the relationship—and the reunion that’d come years later, unplanned and unforgettable. She’d come to New York looking for a lifeline. For a little while, he’d thought they’d found one in each other. But he’d blinked, and she was gone.
He thumbed through the contents slowly, each piece tugging loose something in his chest. This wasn’t about Ashley. Not entirely. It was about the version of himself that still believed in things without having to explain why.
Nathan set the shoebox aside and crossed back to the window.
Towers rose in sharp silhouette, their lights flickering on one by one as dusk surrendered to night.
He’d paid for this view with years of relentless work—directing jobs that bled him dry, prestige projects that came with little more than a polite nod and a paycheck.
And those paychecks had stacked into savings and investments, enough to buy this apartment, enough for him to take a career pause and still be able to afford a pretty luxurious life.
His gaze drifted to the bookshelf by his bed, where his mother’s Bible sat, her name etched in gold script across the cover.
She’d been gone since his senior year in high school.
She’d never seen the success he’d become.
He still remembered the way her art studio had smelled of turpentine and tea, the way she’d told him art was holy because it pointed to the Truth… with a capital T.
He carried the Bible to the chair by the window, the city stretching wide and golden below.
Somewhere across the river, a saxophone warbled into the night.
Jazz and laughter drifted upward, echoing off brick and glass.
He used to find comfort in that sound. Now it made him feel like a bystander to his own life.
He opened the Bible at random and landed on Psalm 77.
Has his steadfast love forever ceased? Are his promises at an end for all time?
His thumb paused on the verse. It wasn’t the kind of line that made it onto a coffee mug or Instagram graphic, but it felt honest. Like a journal entry written by someone unraveling.
Was God still in this? In him? In art? In the quiet unraveling of everything he’d built?
Ashley’s name surfaced, uninvited. Her laugh. Her stubborn brilliance. The way she spoke about the island like it was sacred ground. He hadn’t let himself think of her in years. But tonight, her memory had weight. Shape.
Maybe this festival wasn’t just a break from the noise. Maybe it was the doorway back to faith, to purpose, to the kind of art that didn’t need algorithms to matter. Maybe this was the final nudge.
Maybe it was time to go.