All an Act

Chapter 49

LACHLAN

I’m fuzzy in English class Friday morning after staying up late to shower and take off my stage makeup. I sag in my seat, bleary-eyed, as everyone discusses the show.

Behind me, Isak chats with the Queen of Darkness. When we leave, I want to reach out and touch him, but that’s not something we do.

Even though it should be.

Vince corners me between classes, pulling me aside near some out-of-the-way lockers no one uses.

“Hey,” I say. “What’s up? Also, thanks for coming last night.”

“So, like, are you dating Isak?” Vince whispers without preamble. “Because I don’t think you’re that good of an actor.”

I do my best to look surprised by his question, but my cheeks heat and my heart races.

How do I play this? I don’t want to lie to my best friend. “Why do you ask?” I press my lips together and raise my palms. “Maybe I am that good of an actor.”

“I don’t know,” Vince says thoughtfully. “You seem really fucking into him onstage … and off.”

“Hmm,” I say. So this is what it feels like to be enigmatic. Good to know.

He shoves my bicep. “You know it’s no big deal if you are. Isak seems like a good guy. I know I said he’s a little weird because of how he dresses, but that’s just his style, and at least he has one. So many people don’t.”

“Yeah.” I keep strong eye contact with Vince and say with emphasis, “And … yeah.”

He does a double take. “Wait, you are dating him?”

I do the tiniest possible shrug. “I like him.” Now my face is flaming hot. Why is it so hard to talk about this?

Because it’s real. And I’m not used to telling people things that are real.

Wow, there’s a truth bomb.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. “That’s so cool! It’s like all the movies where the stars are secretly in love.”

“Don’t tell anyone, okay?” I ask, my mouth suddenly dry.

“I won’t.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I’m a little hurt that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me, but I get it. You have nothing to worry about as far as I’m concerned. I’ll always be your friend.” He laughs. “I’ll just give you crap about your boy instead of your girl.”

I snort. “What are friends for?”

“Exactly.” He fist-bumps me.

And okay, there may be something in my eye. “Thanks, man.”

After three performances last week and two this week, this is it. Our final performance of Browser History. My chest almost bursts.

Tonight is the last time that the cast and crew are all going to be together in this way.

The last time I’m going to sing to Isak onstage. I love singing to him, the alchemy of lyrics and tune somehow conveying more than I can by talking.

We gather in the green room as amped as we were before the first night’s performance, although the determined, energetic vibe now includes a wistful tinge.

While there have been a few missed cues and awkward pauses, it’s been a great run.

The online posts about it have been extremely positive, one even gushing that “Lachlan Doyle is a revelation.” I hope it hasn’t gone to my head, but it’s nice to get some positive reinforcement.

No negative posts from Becky Hansen or, really, anyone else.

A few snide comments here and there about “the gay kiss,” but most people shut them down with some version of “Oh my god, it’s acting.

” Or, better, “Who cares? Don’t be homophobic.

” Daniel, Mike, and Jacob give me a wide berth—the same distance they usually give Isak—but whatever. Those guys are tools.

Isak’s mom came to every performance, even though the first ones conflicted with the tax deadline. And my family hasn’t shown up. That’s a good thing.

I think.

I plant my feet as I stand in front of the audience, my arms spread wide, spine straight, body confident as I sing to my boyfriend on the stage … and in real life. He looks so fucking hot and handsome and mine.

This performance feels like the pinnacle of living, like I’m on top of the world and free.

Even though I’m covered in makeup, wearing a costume I wouldn’t dare to wear anywhere else—even though I would never really break into song to declare my feelings—I feel more aligned than ever, like I’m actually myself.

Up here, each word and note and gesture feels utterly natural.

The audience is focused on my every move. That’s the tension of live theater: Will we mess up? Forget a line, hit a bad note, drop a prop, knock something over?

That tension is also the best part: This particular performance will only ever happen once, even if we do the show for months or years, because every night is different.

We’re singing all the same words and making all the same motions, but there are always variations.

That’s why, despite having rehearsed—and now performed—this musical over and over, I feel ultra-awake.

My heart drums in my chest, and I’m quivering with the effort to control my grin.

I love being onstage. I love singing in front of people. I love kissing Isak in public. I love how it feels to claim him—even in character—and I’m going to miss this. Maybe when I get to college, I can see what show Albrecht is going to put on fall semester and try out.

At intermission, I see Isak looking at his phone, his face drawn.

“What is it?” I ask, coming up behind him.

He winces. “I don’t want to tell you.”

I raise an eyebrow, and he sighs.

“Mom texted. She says your family is in the audience. Your whole family.”

My breath catches in my throat. “Huh.” I rub at my forehead, then quit it so I don’t smear my makeup.

We stare at each other, and I can see all his silent questions: How are you doing? What’s going to happen when Norm sees you kiss me? Will he ignore it, or is this going to blow up in our faces?

“What do you want to do?” Isak finally asks, his tone gentle and quiet.

There’s only one possible answer. I push up my sleeves and nod curtly. “I have a plan, if you’re on board.”

Isak looks at me with concern. “If we need to tell him it’s just an act, I’ll back you up.”

“Yeah. Thank you for that. I appreciate having that option, and if things go badly, that might be the best call. But I think I want to do something else first.”

He gives me a tentative smile, his eyes searching my face. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Do you want me to?”

Isak shakes his head. “I’ll follow your lead.”

I go through the beginning of act two on autopilot, focusing on what I’m going to do. Focusing on the likely fallout.

Deciding that the fallout is worth it, because Isak’s fucking worth it.

Then focusing back on the experience of being onstage, because I love it.

When it’s time for our kiss, I say, “Like this.”

But this time, instead of the chaste, closed-mouth kiss I usually do with my back to the audience, I turn us to the side and French kiss the fuck out of Isak, gripping his jaw tight and holding him close. In full view of everyone.

I’m sick of being scared of my uncle. I’m sick of hiding.

This is me.

Isak lets out a startled little grunt but then gets into it. The audience starts whistling and catcalling, so I pull back after it goes on just slightly too long.

I press my forehead to Isak’s. He says his next line.

And the lights go down.

There’s a disturbance in the theater, and I will myself not to look. I know, my stomach sinking to my toes, that it’s related to me. Someone—almost certainly my uncle—left because I kissed a boy.

Well, fuck him.

“Holy shit, Lach,” Isak whispers after we race offstage in the dark, delayed but enthusiastic applause following us. “You did that.”

“I had to. I’m sick of pretending we’re not together.”

Except … I’m going to get it at home.

Ice fills my veins.

Isak looks at me. “Are you okay?”

I start to nod out of habit and then shake my head. “I’m scared shitless.”

“Like we said earlier, we’ll tell him it was all an act if need be,” he reminds me. “And don’t forget, you can come over …”

I shake my head. “He’s not usually violent. He’s just—”

“Verbally abusive,” Isak mutters.

“Something like that,” I mutter. Then I whistle. “I think we gave everyone a show.”

“We totally did.”

I hug him, careful not to smear his makeup. “Let’s get ready for the last scene.”

We head to wardrobe and change our costumes. As I do, in the rhythm of the backstage hurry, I realize yet again: This is fun. I need to forget my fears and focus on enjoying the rest of the show.

This is my final performance, and it’s a blast.

We get to the end and take our curtain call to raucous applause and a standing ovation. We finish our bows, and once the curtain’s closed, the entire cast gets the zoomies, yelling and jumping onstage. We did it! People are dancing to the music as the audience files out.

I knew participating in this show was a risk. Now all I want is to do it again. And again.

I love performing with Isak—and with the rest of the cast. Whatever happens at Albrecht, for the rest of my life, I can say that I was in a musical—all six performances.

I hold hands with Isak as I walk outside to meet up with my family. I don’t want to give a fuck anymore what they think.

Ivy has a weird expression on her face. Mom and Grandma are both smiling, although it looks forced. Still, they congratulate me and tell me I did a great job and sounded good.

But my uncle … he’s livid, though he’s trying to control himself in public. I’ve seen him filled with rage before, but this feels different. This feels like he’s going to strike.

Oh, shit.

If my stomach sank earlier, when he walked out of the theater, now it drops to the bottom of the sea.

I’m never going to get it back in place again.

Chills spread through my body, and my legs shake.

I clutch my arms to my chest, dropping Isak’s hand.

I paste a smile on my face and encourage him to go talk to well-wishers.

He gives me a look like he’s going to refuse, but I gesture toward some friends with my chin, indicating he needs to go mingle.

He narrows his eyes but does what I want.

I take a few photos with friends and sign programs. Everyone congratulates me, and I do my best to maintain my smile.

Eventually the crowd thins out, and my uncle grips me by the elbow and takes me around the side of the building.

“You embarrassed me in front of the whole town,” he grits out. “How could you do such a thing?” He draws back his fist, and there’s an instant when I think he’s going to do it, no matter that dozens of people are still only a few yards away.

Feet patter behind us. “Hey,” Isak says, his voice extra cheery.

“Good job tonight, Lach.” He looks at Uncle Norm.

“You know it was just pretend. Lach and I needed to get completely into our roles.” Isak gives me a tight smile.

“We’re very good actors. But the show is over now. We don’t need to pretend anymore.”

“Yeah,” I whisper.

I know he’s executing our plan, but my stomach aches at hearing him say those things.

Because I’m in love with him, and it’s never been an act.

I brave a glance at Uncle Norm. “Isak’s right. We were putting on a show. Now I need to return my costume, and the cast party will be starting. I’ll see you at home—”

“Lachlan!” Without waiting to be invited, Sophia gives me a big hug.

I smile big. “Sophia!” For once in my life, I’m grateful for her forwardness. I kiss the top of her head, looking at Isak apologetically. He shrugs, but I can tell it hurts, and he walks away to join his mom.

I feel like an absolute phony. And a jerk. I’m giving Sophia the wrong impression about being interested in her—which isn’t nice—just to distract my uncle, and I’m hurting Isak, who means more to me than anyone.

I need to tell him how I feel about him.

I disentangle myself from Sophia and chat briefly with her before she drifts away to talk with friends.

“Good job,” Ivy says, squeezing my shoulder.

“Thanks. How’s Q doing?”

Ivy smiles and pulls out her phone to show me a million photos of Q. He’s smiling in them, which is great.

“I’d like to see him sometime soon,” I say.

“Yeah, come visit.”

I look at her and Grandma. I can’t think of anything else to say to them. Besides adoring Q, we have nothing in common but blood.

“It’s nice to see you doing something creative,” Mom says. She glances over at Rochelle, who’s standing with Isak, looking very concerned.

“Yeah. Thanks.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, and Isak heads back into the theater. After telling my mom my plans and saying goodbye to everyone, I follow Isak inside.

In a quiet area backstage, Isak corners me. “Are you okay?”

I swallow hard. “Yeah. I guess.”

“You don’t have to fake it with me,” he insists.

“Okay,” I whisper. “The truth is, it hurt hearing you say that it, us, was an act. Because even though I know it’s what we agreed, I couldn’t help thinking what if it wasn’t real for you? What if you were really faking the whole thing?”

He gives me a watery smile, his makeup running. “Never. There’s nothing fake about my feelings for you.”

“Me, either,” I murmur. My heart is hammering, and I jolt when his pinkie catches mine.

“Oh?” His warm, brown eyes look at me with so much affection. Damn, I’m gone for this guy. “And how do you feel?”

Say it. “I love you, Isak.”

He leans in and kisses me, and it’s the sweetest kiss ever. We smile at each other, foreheads pressed together. “That’s good, because I love you, too,” he says against my lips.

I’m soaring. I know I need to brace myself for the explosion that’s surely waiting when I get home, but for now, I want to fucking enjoy a moment.

I’m in love. We’re in love. And this feels—no, it is—so damn real.

“I’m coming out,” I say. “To everyone. I know we just lied to my uncle, but I’m not doing that anymore. I’m going to tell him that I’m gay and I’m with you and deal with the fallout.”

Isak watches me a long moment. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” My voice is unwavering. I’m kidding myself if I think that we’re not going to get a lot of attention at school. Between the two of us, we stand out a ton.

But I’m determined.

He smiles. “I’m proud of you. I’ll support you however you need.”

I kiss him and take his hand. “So, we’re doing this?” I glance down pointedly at our joined fingers.

“I’m in if you are.”

“I’m all in.”

“How do you want to do this?”

“I think we can just hold hands, and they’ll figure it out,” I say.

Isak raises his eyebrows. “That simple?”

“Why not?”

“Okay. Sure.”

“Let’s go.”

Hand in hand, we take off for the cast party.