Chapter 11 - Alex
Chapter eleven
Alex
The musty darkness of the prop room pressed against my skin.
I'd wedged myself between racks of costumes and cardboard decorations, knees drawn to my chest, heart slamming against my ribs.
Each beat dragged up another memory from that disastrous Phantom audition—the lights, the silence, and how my voice had stopped working.
"Focus. Just... focus."
My grounding techniques scattered like leaves in a windstorm. My shoulder bumped a rack of prop wreaths, sending them rattling against each other. The metallic jingle shot straight through my nervous system.
"Fifteen minutes until places." Mrs. Brubaker's voice sounded distant, muffled.
I had fifteen minutes to pull myself together before letting down the entire town.
They were counting on me—Charice, Charlie, Marcus, all those kids from the hospital.
I dug my fingers into my thighs, searching for something solid to hold onto.
The door creaked. Ben's sawdust-and-cedar scent reached me before I saw him.
He didn't speak. Didn't try to coax me out of my hiding spot. Instead, he settled onto an overturned milk crate and pulled something from his pocket—a small piece of wood and his ever-present pocketknife. The rasp of the blade against the grain cut through my racing thoughts.
"That's new." My voice came out rough.
"Cherry wood." Another long stroke of the blade. "Found it this morning behind the workshop. I've had it sitting in my pocket all day, asking to become something." Delicate spirals of wood fell to the floor. "Not sure what yet."
I recognized his strategy. Space without abandonment. Presence without pressure. The tight band around my throat loosened slightly.
"The full run-through starts soon."
"Plenty of time." His knife made another pass, releasing the distinctive sweet-sharp scent of cherry. "Since you're here—I've got a theory about that department store window in Act Two. The light keeps catching the trim wrong, throwing shadows where we don't want them."
His casual tone offered me a path back to solid ground without forcing me to take it. He talked about sight lines and reflective surfaces while I focused on breathing. The familiar technical details gave my mind something concrete to hold on to.
When he paused, words I'd been holding back for weeks spilled out.
"When I broke down at the Phantom audition, it wasn't only nerves.
" My fingers twisted in my lap. "I'd gotten the call about Gram's heart attack that morning.
Still, I couldn't miss the audition—it was my shot, maybe my last real chance.
So I went anyway, thinking I could push through. "
Ben's knife stopped. "The same day? That's—"
"I got halfway through 'Music of the Night.
' The lyrics I'd known since I was sixteen turned to ash in my mouth.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move." My voice cracked, but I kept going.
"The accompanist kept playing, but I just stood there under the lights, frozen like some amateur who'd never seen a stage.
I ran off and fell apart in a stairwell.
" I forced myself to look at Ben. "And now I'm about to go out there as Santa, of all things, and I can barely—"
Ben set his carving aside. His gaze locked onto mine, steady and warm. "You're not alone this time. We're all out there—even Jack, though his idea of support probably involves interpretive dance and dramatic readings from A Christmas Carol."
A startled laugh escaped me. "God. He would do that."
"Probably with corporate law metaphors. 'I am the Ghost of Christmas Mergers and Acquisitions...'"
"Stop." I groaned, but the humor had dulled my panic. "You'll give him ideas."
"Too late. I caught him practicing his 'Dance of the Quarterly Earnings Report' yesterday."
The warmth in Ben's voice when he talked about our ragtag theater family wrapped around me like a familiar blanket. He stood and offered his hand. "Ready to show this town what real stage presence looks like?"
I let him pull me up, swaying slightly as our bodies aligned. "Not really, but I'll try anyway."
"That's all anyone's asking." His thumb brushed across my knuckles. "And Alex? Thank you for telling me. About the audition. I know that wasn't easy."
I had to look away from the understanding in his eyes, blinking hard. "We should get out there before Mrs. Brubaker sends a search party."
The run-through could have been better. My "Ho Ho Ho" still needed work, and I fumbled the timing during the Macy's parade scene. Despite my little flubs, the cast rallied in ways I didn't expect.
Charice mouthed "You've got this" from stage left during my entrance.
"That's the spirit!" Mrs. Brubaker called from the house when I screwed up a line and laughed at myself. "Santa needs a sense of humor."
Even the teenage stagehands, usually absorbed in their phones between cues, watched with encouraging smiles. Every time I felt myself slipping, I found Ben's eyes in the wings. His quiet presence steadied me in a way no Broadway director ever had.
In the front row, Noel sat with his crutches propped against the seat beside him, watching his replacement with an expression I couldn't quite read.
Marcus had come too—I spotted his IV pole near the aisle, his small face intent on the stage.
Three nights until the real performance. Three nights to get this right for him.
During the department store scene, one of the child actors dropped her prop teddy bear. Instead of breaking character, I knelt and turned it into a moment—Santa ensuring all toys were cared for. The other children's natural reaction made the scene feel real.
"Now that's the Santa we need," Holly whispered to Noel.
Charlie's scene nearly broke me—in the best way.
When he stepped into the pool of light at center stage, the usual rustling and whispers from the house fell silent. All our practice sessions crystallized in that moment. His unmistakable voice carried across the theater, full of wonder as he asked Santa about Christmas wishes.
"But how do you know what's in people's hearts?"
It wasn't a line from a script anymore. There was genuine curiosity in his voice, the kind that made Santa feel like more than a role.
My response came from somewhere deep inside. "Sometimes we just have to believe in the magic of being seen for who we really are."
Charlie's face lit up with understanding that went beyond his years. We weren't actors anymore. We were two people sharing a moment of pure belief.
After the scene, he threw his arms around my waist. I knelt to his level, my Santa beard tickling his cheek. "That was amazing, Charlie. You nailed it."
He beamed. "I pretended I was telling Toast, like you said. And then..." He paused, searching for words. "Then it didn't feel like pretending anymore."
"Yeah. That's the whole secret, isn't it? When it stops being pretend." I squeezed his shoulder. "Toast would be very proud, and so am I."
From the front row, Marcus watched with wide eyes. He gave me a slight wave—the same gesture I'd taught him when we'd created choreography around his IV pole. I waved back, and his entire face transformed.
When the final scene wrapped, the cast's applause was genuine rather than polite. Jack launched into an absurdly dramatic bow while Charice tried to wrestle him offstage.
The crowd thinned slowly—cast members gathering their coats, saying goodbye, and making plans for tomorrow's rehearsal.
I helped Mrs. Brubaker stack scripts and then moved toward the workshop without consciously deciding to.
Ben was already there, door propped open, lamp casting warm light into the hallway.
He glanced up when I appeared in the doorway. "Thought you might end up here."
"Thought I might too."
The familiar scents of wood shavings and beeswax settled around me as I stepped inside. He puttered at his workbench, putting tools away and sharpening a chisel with methodical strokes. The rhythmic scrape of metal against stone filled the comfortable silence.
I watched him move—the economy of motion and the quiet competence.
He kept sneaking glances at me when he thought I wasn't looking, his eyes soft in the lamplight.
The half-finished toys he'd been restoring for the hospital lined the shelves: wooden trains with hand-painted details, a rocking horse awaiting new runners, and a miniature sleigh that made me think of Holly's hints about the Blitzen family.
Each piece waited patiently for his attention, the way the town itself seemed to wait for Christmas morning.
"Ready to wrap it up?" A small smile tugged at my lips.
Ben set his chisel down and crossed to where I sat on the worn leather couch. His steps were slow and deliberate until he stood right in front of me. He reached out and cupped my cheek. "Just appreciating the view. You were incredible today."
Heat crept up my neck. "I was adequate."
"You were real. That's better than perfect."
When he kissed me, there was none of our earlier urgency.
It was slow, exploratory, and weighted with new understanding.
I pulled him down onto the couch beside me, fingers working at the buttons of his flannel shirt.
I worked them free one by one, revealing his firm, muscular chest, the light dusting of hair, and the warmth of his skin.
The contrast between his work-roughened hands and his gentle touch sent heat curling through me as he returned the favor. Cool workshop air brushed my skin as my shirt fell open, heightening every sensation.
"Is this okay?" His words pressed against my neck.
"Absolutely." I arched into his touch as his fingers traced patterns down my ribs.
He made me feel treasured—like one of his restoration projects that deserved careful attention. When his hands wandered lower, the slight catch of his rough skin against mine made my breath hitch. His quiet groan when I reciprocated vibrated through both our bodies.