Chapter 10 Noelle
Noelle
ONE YEAR LATER
I’m sitting at my vanity, chewing on the end of a pen, when a knock on my dressing room door sounds.
“Come in.”
My assistant Marissa pops her head in the door. She’s stunning, with big green eyes, deep brown skin, and her curls cropped tight to her head.
“He says you’ve got half an hour.”
“Right.”
In half an hour, she’ll have to start fitting me into my safety gear for our evening performance.
This play involves me sailing across the stage on ropes, and in the third act, jumping off a balcony to place a star on top of a giant Christmas tree on the other side of the stage.
It’s a soft landing, and I’m supported by the gear, but I hate it.
I’m scared of heights, and I love acting for the characters, not the physical feats.
But more and more, I’ve felt like I don’t want to be here. That this dream I chased for so long, now that it’s here, isn’t the one I really wanted.
But I smile anyway, because Marissa’s waiting. “Thanks.”
She hesitates a moment. “You okay? Need some help going over lines?” Her eyes are on the pen in my hand. She knows something’s off. She also knows I’ve been watching every news report there is on the lunar trip. She thinks I’m just caught up in the excitement like everyone else.
She doesn’t know I hold my breath every time Leif comes on the screen.
For years I forced myself not to look him up, but this year, I let myself loose. I’m not seeing him for Christmas, I reasoned.
But it’s messed with me. A lot.
Every time the camera lands on him, I can see that little muscle in his jaw tighten the way it did before we went into that kindergarten classroom last year.
Then he says a few quick, smart words, and retreats, like he doesn’t want to be on screen, and doesn’t want to leave anyone to do any of the work without him, either.
Unlike some of his crew mates, who are clearly there for the glory and attention, and others who are there for the science, I know Leif’s there to ask those questions that have guided him his whole life. He’s right where he should be.
Which is why I’ve been working so hard to squash my own feelings about wanting him here.
Marissa’s looking at me strangely. She’s very type A. She triple checks everything. She cares deeply about everything going well.
I school my expression into one that’s hopefully not concerning for her. “I’m good, really. I’m just writing a letter to an old friend.”
Luckily this seems to satisfy her. She probably loves writing letters. I can suddenly see her as a Victorian governess, penning letters and clapping her hands to get the children in line, and smile. It’s my first smile in a while.
An old friend. Is that what Leif is?
Sweat drips down my temple, beading on the back of my neck. I’ve got under thirty minutes to pour everything in my chest out onto paper.
Dear Leif,
It’s stupid to be writing to you—I can’t send letters to space. I didn’t ask if you could get email, because I was the one who said we shouldn’t contact each other during the year. Do I wish we hadn’t done that right now?
I chew on the end of my pen.
Yes I fucking do. The way I think about you all the time…the way you’re the first person I want to call when something goes right, and when something goes wrong. We’d talk all the time. Would the magic of our annual visits be depleted if we were in constant contact?
I grimace, then rip the page out of the book.
Dear Leif.
It’s Christmas Eve. You’re in space. I’m on earth.
Something crashes outside and two people launch into a yelling match down the hall. While we’ve been getting rave reviews and night after night we’ve been fully sold out, tensions are high. My leading man is a diva, and our director is a tyrant, just as everyone said. Even to me.
“Fine!” Someone yells outside the door. “Merry fucking Christmas, Brad!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers.
And here’s my first confession, Leif: I don’t want to be here.
The words on paper shock me. I stare at them a moment, then take the paper and pen and go to the window overlooking the street.
Down below, a man tosses a fast food bag on an already overflowing garbage can on the corner.
A car splatters through the brown-stained snow, fishtailing as it honks at the pedestrian who’s stepped out into the street.
It’s not because of all the drama backstage, more than up front.
I still love the energy of the theater. It’s just…
I don’t want to be here, in New York, acting on stage.
I want to be with you, in Quince Valley.
I want to be on the roof of the Rolling Hills resort.
Or the balcony at your Grandpa’s house. I want to be at the Mistletoe market, answering your endless questions about the play I’m auditioning for, and trying to convince me to go to the bird sanctuary so I can see how misunderstood those vile creatures really are.
Above the street, past the offices and hotel windows, a thin crescent moon stands out starkly in the inky black sky.
He’s there. My Leif is there, so far away I can’t even see him. My throat goes thick, my eyes welling with tears. I press my fingers against the cold glass. I’ve never felt so far away from anyone in my whole life.
I set the paper down in the windowsill.
Every year, when the holidays are over and we hug goodbye, at first I feel like I’m saying goodbye to a piece of my heart.
Then I remind myself that the countdown is already on to next year, so instead I lock my heart in a little box.
An old-fashioned suitcase used only for Christmas vacations maybe, which I tuck away on a shelf, ready to pull out with breathless anticipation the following year.
But it’s Christmas, and you’re not here.
This year, you’re up in the sky. You took off yesterday, and as I write this, you’re careening toward that little sliver of light in the sky.
You said it’s a three-day journey to get there—ten days in all. But for us it’s two years apart
I read fifteen books this summer. None of them were mysteries—all of them were novels about the moon. (Did you know there are hundreds of them?). I watched a documentary on NASA and cried the whole way through.
But it’s Christmas, and you’re not here. I told myself I’d survive this holiday without you. I’ve already made a life out of missing you.
But I’m looking at the moon right now and I hate it. I despise the moon for getting you when I can’t.
Stupid, isn’t it? To hate the moon?
I only hate it because I love you.
But Leif, that’s not even my biggest confession. Isn’t that crazy? My biggest confession is—
A sharp bang on the door startles me and I drop my pen.
“Noelle?”
It’s Marissa. It can’t have been half an hour, can it?
The door creaks open, and Marissa steps in, looking slightly anxious. Then she looks behind her, and I see why.
“Mom!”
My mom slips into the room, her eyes wide and shiny. “Hi honey!”
I leave the letter where it is and run to the door, throwing my arms around her. “I thought you weren’t going to make it?”
“We only said that to surprise you, sweetheart,” Dad says, coming in behind Mom. He looks older, his hair a little thinner.
“And of course you fell for it,” Dan chimes in. He looks the same.
“You all came.” I feel like bursting into tears.
“Oh honey, don’t ruin your makeup!” Mom thrusts a paper bag at me. “These are for you. To wish you luck.”
“Break a leg, honey,” Dad says.
Mom looks at me with an expression so deep my heart twists.
“This should have been you,” I blurt.
Everyone goes still. Even Marissa, looking up from her clipboard.
“What?” Mom asks.
“I did this because I wanted you to be proud of me, but I don’t want…” I hesitate, seeing Marissa. I don’t finish the thought; it’ll crush her.
Mom and Dad exchange a look.
“Oh sweetheart,” Mom says. “It’s just jitters. You’re going to do great.”
My stomach churns. She’s proud of me because she’s my mom. I came all this way for her. But now…
“Break both legs!” Dan says.
I smile, but the thought I almost spoke out loud echoes across my brain, like everything’s come to a standstill.
Even though I’ve gotten everything I strived for, this feels wrong.
I’ve been worried since I started rehearsals for this play that someone’s going to break something.
All that swinging and leaping and yelling.
I wanted to be on the ground, overseeing the safety plan.
Getting us out of the air and on the goddamned ground.
“Maybe you need a snack?” Mom asks, hopeful.
Inside the bag, there are three Christmas cookies.
“Dan ate a few of them on the way over,” Mom says, throwing a look at Dan. But Dan’s busy eyeing Marissa as she returns to her clipboard, her bottom lip in her teeth as she concentrates.
“Dan!” I say.
He snaps his eyes to mine. “What?”
“Quit ogling my assistant,” I hiss.
He grins.
“You ate Noelle’s present, Daniel,” Mom says. “Her good luck present!”
“Dad had some too!”
Dad grins sheepishly. “You know how much I like the sparkly ones.”
Mom rolls her eyes, but smiles indulgently. “Well, this was just a sample. I’ve got a whole tin for you back at the hotel.”
They really do look happy. My stomach churns.
“I’m really sorry,” Marissa says, her eye on her watch, “but there’s a lot of prep we have to do still…”
“Oh!” Mom says. “Right. Well, break a leg, honey.”
“What about the photo?” Dad asks.
“Oh!” Mom says, reaching into her purse. “Thank you, I almost forgot.”
She pulls out a black and white photograph of two women with pale skin and coiffed wartime hair, standing in front of a curved window. They look like best friends; they’re clinging to each other, laughing. “That’s Grandma Betty,” she says, pointing to the dark-haired woman on the left.
“Grandma?” I ask, confused.
“Your great great grandma,” she clarifies. “She lived to be 101. She died when I was twenty.”
“Wow.” I’m confused why she’s showing me this. “Who’s the other woman?”
“That’s her best friend,” Dad says.