Chapter 37 I’m not sharing you with the hat.
I’m not sharing you with the hat.
Josie
SEAN HASN’T TOLD me much about this Hamilton event we’re going to, and I haven’t asked.
The car ride is all adult alternative music and hand-holding.
No rings, though. They would blow his cover.
Our silence is complicated. This is going to be our one and only real, actual date.
A beginning and an end. Bookends with nothing inside them.
But if it’s with Sean O’Sullivan, I know it’s going to be unforgettable.
He pulls into a poorly lit open parking lot choked with cars. I don’t see any other electric Fiats. There isn’t even a charging station here. Are we still in California?
“What is this place?” I ask as we trickle into the river of Revolutionary War–era costumed patrons headed for a stucco building lit by red and green colored bulbs.
Music from above draws my eye to a rooftop bar adorned with colored paper lanterns and potted palms. Heat lamps cast an orange glow into the night.
I’m pretty confident there are no Michelin stars associated with this venue.
Once inside, we clomp up the sleek mahogany stairs to the second-story rooftop.
It’s bigger than it looked from down below, with two bars, a bandstand, big dance floor, and plenty of low, modern-looking seating.
The clash of eighteenth-century costumes against mid-century modern architecture delights my artist’s eye. I’m having fun already.
“I think the air here is seventy-five percent pot smoke,” I mumble to Sean.
“You get used to it.” He’s got a glass of champagne ready for me. It’s like he conjured it with pure magic. The string lights shine in the dark green pools of his eyes as he holds up his can of LaCroix for a toast. “To Vera’s faulty heart, without which we wouldn’t be here tonight.”
“To cheating a more deserving woman out of a charity date with Sean O’Sullivan. ?Salud!”
We clink drinks and sip. He doesn’t take his eyes off me.
The band riffs in the background, warming up for the show, and I feel like Sean and I are warming up for something, too.
It’s the click of your seat belt on the roller coaster.
The nervous shuffle you do in the wings as you await your cue.
The electricity in the air before a lightning strike.
The mic crackles as someone grabs it. “Welcome! Welcome! You could’ve been anywhere tonight, but you’re here with us for Hamilton on the Roof!”
“The roof! The roof! The roof is on fire!” everyone shouts, including Sean. They follow it up with a double stomp. He’s right on cue.
“You’ve done this before,” I say.
“Once or twice.”
“Do I need a manual?”
“I’ll be your manual. Every time they say Hamilton on the Roof, you do that.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
“You drink every time we sing the word shot.”
I nod. “Makes sense.”
“When ‘Right Hand Man’ comes on, I’m gonna get a little… involved. And I’ll have to share some of this with you.” He sticks his hand in his pocket and pulls out a handful of something.
“Is that birdseed?”
“For the wedding scene. You’re not weirded out, are you?”
I scoff. “Why would I be weirded out? What do you think I am, some rhododendron who can’t pull off a Thomas Jefferson costume?”
He grins so wide it makes me grin, too. The opening song begins to play, and it’s loud.
“There’s more!” Sean shouts over the music. “Try to keep up!”
I pull out my phone and google the lyrics to the musical.
I’ve seen the movie version a couple of times, and I’m familiar with the songs, but I’m no match for these people.
It doesn’t matter, though. We sing along, and Sean cues me in on all the extras.
A couple of champagnes in, and I loosen up.
There’s no sign of paparazzi here, and everyone is in the moment, singing, dancing, stomping, clapping, throwing things, yelling at the band—whatever this motley sideshow calls for.
Whenever we sing the name “Alexander Hamilton,” on cue, we throw our arms in the air in the signature Hamilton salute.
“Get ready,” Sean says, when “Right Hand Man” starts.
I recognize the performer’s twinkle in his eye because I get it, too.
That itch. That spark. That fuse lit and sizzling inside you, reminding you what you were made for.
I gave it up a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten it. Or that I don’t miss it.
Sean’s cue arrives, and everyone sits down—except all the George Washingtons.
They stay on their feet and sing his part.
Act his part. Revel in it. Sean is an insanely good George Washington.
At one point, he elbow cartwheels over an empty stool, hops up on the bar, and shoots up to standing, all the while maintaining a single note.
The crowd cheers their heads off. So do I.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so joyful. It’s ironic… He plays roles all the time, but it’s only now, when he gets to choose it, that he seems most like himself. Deep down inside, fancy pants Sean O’Sullivan is just a big theater kid.
“That was amazing!” I gush when he finally staggers, sweaty and smiling, into my arms.
“You liked it? You really liked it?”
“I have this, like, really intense George Washington fetish I’ve never told anyone about. It’s the wig. And the wainscot.”
“Waistcoat?”
“That’s what I said.”
He grins. “Well, your song is coming up, no pressure.”
When Thomas Jefferson’s song comes on, I’m ready for it. Because here’s the thing I’ve really never told anyone—not Emmy, not Peyton, and definitely not Sean.
I can tap dance.
It was my big number in Club Bilingüe. My shoes aren’t the right shoes, but the soles are stiff enough that when I part the Potomac River of people, take my place on the dance floor, and start stomping, it works.
Wherever I fall short on the lyrics, my fellow Thomas Jeffersons pick up the slack.
Besides, I’m too busy with my steps, stamps, and stomps.
My shuffles and buffalo turns. I even throw an Alexander clunk in there because—well, you know, his name is Alexander Hamilton, after all. I’m sure nobody gets the joke but me.
Everyone does a chef’s kiss when the words “France” or “Paris” come up, and even though I have no idea how this rooftop performance is normally done and, as a result, miss all the cues, no one seems to care.
My dancing is met with wild applause, but the best part is seeing Sean’s amazed face as he watches me perform.
Oh yeah, and the very end, when he hikes me up on his shoulder and carries me off the stage for a muy theatrical exit during the very last line.
They do an actual break in the middle of the “Take a Break” song, and I’m still a little breathless from doing moves I haven’t done in over a decade.
But I feel alive and wild and like something is missing at the same time.
The worry I’ve been carrying around seems absent for once. The bitterness, too. The regret.
I’ve missed this. And I’m going to miss him.
It’s so unfair. I feel like I’ve just woken up from a coma, but the doctors are about to put me back under.
“I have a confession to make,” Sean says as we retreat to a high top. “I was afraid you would think this was too weird. This place. These costumes.” He looks down at himself. “How into all this I am.”
I almost make a sarcastic remark but stop myself. Sean O’Sullivan is being vulnerable. That doesn’t happen very often. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”
“It’s not a side of me I show to the world very often. Or ever.”
I scoot forward so I can trail a finger down his cheek and jawline, all the way to his superhero chin. “I love this side of Sean O’Sullivan because this is the one that’s happiest.”
“Oh yeah?” His expression shifts to something shy and boyish, not captainly at all, and it feels like Christmas.
“You know what I love about you?” he asks.
“My rock-solid decision-making skills?”
He chuckles. “That, yes, absolutely. And the fact that you showed up to our date dressed as a Zentharian. That was bloody fearless. And you didn’t hesitate to come here with me tonight.
” He pauses. “It makes me feel like I can tell you anything, and it won’t scare you off.
For example…” His eyes go wild, and his voice drops to a whisper.
“This is the real, actual hat worn by Christopher Jackson on Broadway.”
He can’t be serious. “I thought that was stolen.”
“It was,” he whispers.
“You stole it?”
“No!” He shushes me, looking around for eavesdroppers, but no one is paying attention to us. “I bought it off the black market.” He waits for my reaction. “Are you appalled?”
I’m a little concerned, but it’ll take more than that to ruin this night.
I throw back the last of my drink and slam the plastic cup down on the high-top table.
“Actually, it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.
After this, you’re going to take me back to your place, and I’m going to tear that ill-gotten George Washington costume off your sublime body, and I’m going to ravage you. ”
He nods, maintaining a straight face. “Can I keep the hat on?”
“No.” I squeeze between his knees until his mouth is right there, just within reach, an instrument of tempting, teasing, tantalizing torture. “I’m not sharing you with the hat.”
His muscles tighten in all the places our bodies touch. His fingers caress my ribcage. His inner thighs press against my hips, and I can’t help but imagine all of these things happening again, somewhere else, with far fewer layers of clothing between us.
“Do you want to leave now?” His voice is hoarse.
“Yes,” I say truthfully, and feel him shift to get up. “But we’re not going to.”
He stops. “We’re not?”