22. Ami
Chapter twenty-two
Ami
I’m nervous. The kind of nervous where your stomach feels too tight and your pulse won’t slow down, no matter how many deep breaths you take.
Ethan keeps telling me our plan will work, that tonight will be the turning point, but there’s still that persistent knot in my chest.
We’ve transformed the open space beside the beach into something special.
A wide wooden stage, concealed for now behind a billowing white curtain, stands at the center of our setup.
Strings of warm lights crisscross overhead, the salty breeze carrying the faint sound of gulls and the rhythmic hush of waves.
Folding chairs are lined in neat rows, facing the hidden stage.
“Are the actors ready?” Ethan’s voice is low, close to my ear. His breath stirs my hair, and the nearness of him is both distracting and oddly calming.
“Yeah,” I answer. “They’re ready. Don’t worry. What about the invitations? Everyone got theirs?”
He grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Delivered to every doorstep. They think they’re coming for one of my campaign speeches. They’re in for a surprise.”
His confidence makes my lips tug upward. “That’s great. Go greet your guests. I’ll keep things moving back here.”
Before he goes, he gives my shoulder a warm squeeze, his fingers lingering a fraction too long. “We’ve got this,” he murmurs.
My pulse ticks higher, but not from nerves.
We split the work a week ago, the morning after the council posted the official tie.
The special election is set, the clock already ticking.
Ethan handled the invitations and volunteers.
I recruited actors, found costumers, coordinated with artists, and rehearsed like our victory depended on it—because maybe it does.
Backstage, the air hums with quiet chatter and the scent of sawdust and paint. Eight actors mill around in costume—Bohemian skirts, linen shirts, headscarves, and worn leather boots. A harp leans against a chair, a flute gleams under the stage lights, and stretched canvases wait on wooden easels.
They’re ready. I hope I am.
The curtain shields everything from the audience for now; they can’t see the cobblestone set, the painted backdrop of the shoreline, the huge painted trees.
The idea was mine, but Ethan brought it to life.
He convinced local artists to build this with us—each stone, brushstroke, and prop a piece of Seabrook’s soul.
And tonight, I’m the narrator.
I argued against it at first. I’ve never been onstage, never spoken into a mic in front of a crowd. But Ethan had looked at me with that steady conviction of his and said, “You know this story better than anyone. I trust you.”
Now, here I am, clutching the microphone, heart pounding against my ribs. My mind keeps cycling through every possible mistake—tripping over words, forgetting lines, my voice shaking too much to carry.
Through a gap in the curtain, I spot Aunt Maggie. My heart stutters. She’s here? She’s angled toward the empty stage, arms folded, expression unreadable. She hasn’t seen me yet.
Ethan steps up to the front of the hidden stage, smiling out at the audience. Nearly all the chairs are filled; people have shown up in droves. The tie must have made them hungrier for answers, more curious about what each of us stands for.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” Ethan’s voice carries easily over the murmur of the crowd. “Thank you for being here tonight. I promised a speech… but speeches can wait. Tonight, I have something different for you. Something I’ve never seen done in a campaign before.”
He glances at me—quick, almost imperceptible—and the look he gives me sends a flutter through my stomach.
“I’ll save my words for the end. First, let’s tell you a story.”
Laughter ripples through the audience as he steps down to sit in the front row, close enough that when he settles, our eyes meet again for a heartbeat. There’s a warmth there that steadies me more than anything else could.
At exactly five o’clock, I give Noah, our volunteer stage manager, a thumbs-up. My hand trembles. He whisks away the curtain, and the crowd’s reaction is immediate—gasps, shifting in seats, craning for a better view.
The stage is a snapshot of Seabrook’s beginnings: cobblestone paths, a painted shoreline, rough-hewn wooden benches beneath painted trees.
Four actors enter in flowing skirts and linen shirts. Two carry instruments, two carry canvases and sketchbooks.
I lift the mic. My voice feels foreign in my own ears.
“Hundreds of years ago,” I begin, “a community of artists left their homeland, searching for a place where their creativity could flourish without judgment. They found a town rich with resources, beauty, and peace. They named it Seabrook.”
Onstage, one actor dips a brush into paint, her strokes quick and sure. Another plucks at a harp, the notes soft and wistful. The audience leans forward, drawn in.
From the corner of my eye, I see Aunt Maggie’s gaze shift briefly to me, as if realizing I’m the one speaking. Her expression doesn’t change, but she doesn’t look away.
“How is my painting?” the actress calls, eyes bright.
“Wonderful,” says her companion, setting his harp aside. “This place has taught me more than any master. Here, I feel alive.”
I pick up the thread. “And so, a haven was born—a place where art was the heartbeat, and community the canvas.”
The actors bow out, and new ones step in, carrying paper walls to assemble a makeshift factory.
“The town’s purpose shifted,” I narrate. “Factories rose. Commerce flourished. Business replaced art, and wealth replaced music. The legacy began to fade.”
Two more actors enter, a young woman clutching dusty paintings, a young man beside her.
“I can’t believe these were our ancestors’ works,” she says, voice trembling. “Why did we let this vanish, John?”
“We need to remind them,” he answers, taking her hand. “Show them what Seabrook was meant to be.”
“Sally and John revived the town’s story,” I tell the crowd. “Their gallery became a beacon—drawing not only locals, but visitors eager to understand the art that once defined us.”
As the stage fills with volunteers posing as artists, musicians, and writers, I notice Aunt Maggie leaning forward slightly. She’s watching intently now, her arms no longer crossed.
“At last,” I say, “Seabrook remembered. Art and creativity returned to their rightful place—not replacing progress, but enriching it. Past and future, side by side, stronger together.”
For a heartbeat, the crowd is silent. Then applause crashes over us like a wave. People are on their feet, clapping until the sound is almost too much to take in.
I glance at Ethan. He’s not looking at the crowd—he’s looking at me. The pride in his eyes makes my breath hitch.
When the applause finally fades and he steps down from the stage, he doesn’t hesitate—he comes straight to me, weaving through volunteers and congratulatory handshakes until he’s close enough to take my hand.
“You were incredible up there,” he murmurs, low enough for only me to hear. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, sending a warm shiver through me. “I knew you’d nail it.”
“You think this will help the campaign?” I ask, though my voice is softer than I intend.
“It already has. But that’s not why I’m smiling like this.” His gaze dips briefly to my mouth before meeting my eyes again. “I’m smiling because I get to stand here with you.”
The flush that rushes to my cheeks has nothing to do with the lights onstage.
Scanning the audience again, my gaze finds Aunt Maggie. This time, she’s not just watching. She’s meeting my eyes. There’s no smile, but the look she gives me isn’t cold. It’s… considering.
When Ethan delivers his closing line— “Seabrook’s future depends on remembering its heart” —her gaze moves between him and me, as though weighing something she’s not ready to say.
It’s not forgiveness, not yet. But it’s not the wall I’ve been slamming into for weeks, either. There’s a flicker there.
Curiosity.
Consideration.
Maybe even the first crack in the barrier between us.
And as the crowd surges to its feet, cheering for Ethan, his fingers tighten around mine. For a moment, the noise fades, and all I’m aware of is the heat of his hand, the steadiness of his presence, and the quiet hope blooming in my chest.
Maybe tonight planted more than just seeds for the election.
Maybe it planted the seed for something far more personal.