Chapter 15 Alex #2
When we pulled apart, Ben's eyes were dark with everything he didn't say. "You need to warm up. Focus."
"I know. I'm terrified."
"Of Harrison?"
"Of singing that song and failing again. Of singing that song and succeeding, and realizing I still want what I used to want." My voice cracked. "Of hurting you."
His thumb traced my cheekbone. "You won't hurt me by being honest about what you need. You'd hurt me by pretending."
The truth of his statement landed.
"After I call Claire," I said, "after I set up—stay close? Not in the theater. I need to do this alone. But nearby. In case I fall apart."
"Where else would I be?"
Finding privacy meant ducking into the prop storage room: mothballs and aged fabric. Racks of costumes crowded the dim space. Angel wings cast strange shadows on the wall, their wire frames creating patterns that reminded me of craftsman's marks.
My hands shook as I dialed.
"Finally!" Claire answered before the first ring finished. "You're set up?"
"Almost. Claire, listen—I need to tell you something."
"Whatever crisis of confidence you're having, save it. You have exactly one hour and forty-three minutes to warm up, hydrate, and remember that you are Alex Garland, who once brought an entire Broadway audience to tears with a single sustained note."
"That's not—"
"Harrison Kent is giving you a gift, darling. The chance to prove that your disaster was an aberration. Now call me when you're ready to go live."
She hung up.
I stared at my phone, memories of my last attempt at "Music of the Night" threatening to surface. I heard the crushing silence after my voice died. Fifty industry professionals watching me crumble. The stairwell where I'd sobbed until I couldn't breathe.
Other memories pushed back. Charlie's face when he finally trusted his voice. Marcus learning to dance with his IV pole. Sophie asking Santa to help her mother remember how to smile.
Underneath all of it was the warm weight of cherry wood in my pocket, carved with marks for hope and belonging.
On the empty stage, Ben helped me position my phone on a makeshift tripod and adjust the lights until they hit the right angles. His hands trembled slightly as he clipped a microphone to my collar.
"The theater knows you now." His voice was barely above a whisper. "It'll help if it can."
As if in response, the ghost light flickered once before steadying into a warmer glow.
Ben kissed my forehead—brief, fierce—and retreated. I heard the workshop door close.
Claire answered on the first ring. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
The camera went live. Harrison Kent's face filled my screen, unchanged from that disastrous Phantom audition—same steel-gray hair and same piercing gaze.
"Hello, Alex." I heard the familiar mix of authority and artistic pretension. "I have to say, your journey from failed Phantom to small-town Santa has intrigued me. Shall we see what you've learned?"
A pianist appeared in a small window at the corner of my screen, fingers poised over keys.
"'Music of the Night,'" Harrison continued. "From the top. Whenever you're ready."
The accompanist played the introduction. Those first notes filled the dark theater, and for a terrible moment, I was back in that New York audition room. Grief closing my throat. My grandmother dying while I chased a dream that suddenly meant nothing.
My mouth opened, but no sound came out.
The accompanist continued, vamping, giving me space to find my entrance. Harrison's expression flickered—recognition, maybe disappointment.
And then Charlie's voice echoed in my memory: What if magic is real? Even when grown-ups say it isn't?
"Stop."
Harrison's eyebrows shot up. The accompanist's hands froze.
"I'd like to try something different."
"This audition was specifically designed to—"
"I know. To see if I can face my worst moment and come out the other side." I stepped closer to the phone, letting Harrison see my face clearly. "But I've learned something these past two weeks. Performance isn't about conquering demons. It's about sharing something true."
I thought of my grandmother at her Steinway, sheet music open to her favorite show. Anything Goes on the music stand, worn soft from years of playing.
"There's a song from Anything Goes—'All Through the Night.' Do you know it?"
Harrison's expression shifted from surprise to something more challenging to read. "Cole Porter. Not typically an audition piece."
"It was my grandmother's favorite. She said it captured everything difficult about loving someone—the vulnerability, the choice to stay open even when it's terrifying. I want to sing it for you. Not to show off technique. To show you who I've become."
The silence stretched. I watched Harrison's face, waiting for dismissal, for the professional mask to snap back into place.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair. "Very well. David, do you know it?"
The accompanist nodded.
The first notes floated through my phone's speaker—that simple, devastating melody.
I closed my eyes and let myself remember.
Grandma's hands on the keys. Her voice, not trained but warm, singing about loving someone too much, in spite of yourself.
How she'd catch my grandfather's eye during the bridge and smile like they were the only two people in the world.
When I opened my mouth, I didn't perform. I remembered.
I sang about wanting someone so profoundly that it made you vulnerable. The melody required no vocal pyrotechnics—only honesty. It was the truth of what it meant to let someone in, knowing they could hurt you, and choosing them anyway.
I thought about Ben in the workshop, carrying that cherry wood for days. The mark his hands had carved without knowing—belonging, home, wherever you're meant to be.
The final phrase arrived, and I let it float into the darkness without pushing or reaching for effect. It was a simple declaration of someone who'd finally understood what they wanted.
Silence.
Harrison leaned close enough to his camera that I could see flecks of gold in his gray eyes.
"Well." He cleared his throat. "That was unexpected."
"Sir?"
"You understand that wasn't what I asked for." His voice was strange—rougher than his usual polish. "You've essentially failed this audition by any technical measure."
My heart clenched, but I held my ground. "I know."
"And yet." Harrison shook his head slowly. "That was something I don't often see. You weren't singing to impress me. You were singing to someone specific. Someone who matters."
I didn't deny it.
"The touring company would be lucky to have you," Harrison continued, "but I don't think that's what you need anymore. Is it?"
The question hung in the air. A sharp chime cut through the theater—not my phone, but actual sleigh bells, clear and pure in the winter night. Through the high windows, I spotted a flash of movement against the stars.
"What was that?" Harrison asked.
I barely heard him. I knew that sound now.
"I'm sorry," I said, turning back to the screen. "You're right. I've found something here that Broadway can't match."
"The small-town Santa role?" There was no judgment in his voice.
"More than that." I touched my pocket where the cherry wood rested warm against my hip. "I've found where I belong."
Harrison's smile was unexpectedly kind. "Some roles choose us, Alex. And sometimes they're not the ones we originally auditioned for."
He paused. "For what it's worth, you could have had a remarkable career. But I suspect you're going to build something more important. Something real."
"Thank you." My voice came out thick. "For giving me a second chance. Even if I didn't use it the way you expected."
"Perhaps especially because you didn't." He glanced at something off-screen. "I need to finish packing for London. Good luck, Alex."
The call ended. I stood alone on the stage where I'd played Santa, directed children, and slowly let go of the person I'd thought I needed to be.
The workshop door opened. Ben's footsteps crossed the stage—not rushing, but not hesitant either.
"I heard," he said quietly. "Not the words. Just your voice through the door."
"I sang 'All Through the Night.'"
His breath caught. "Your grandmother's song."
"I couldn't do it. Couldn't sing 'Music of the Night' and pretend it mattered more than what I have here." I turned to face him, letting him see the tears I hadn't bothered to wipe away. "Harrison said I failed the audition."
"Alex—"
"He also said it was authentic." I laughed. "So I guess I failed successfully."
Ben crossed the remaining distance between us.
"You're staying." Not a question.
"I'm staying. Not because Broadway doesn't want me—Harrison made it clear I could have had the tour if I'd played by the rules.
I'm staying because this is where I belong.
" I pressed my hand over his heart. "This is who I want to become.
The person who sings Cole Porter in an empty theater and means every word. "
The kiss was different from any we'd shared before. Softer. More certain. When we broke apart, Ben smiled.
"Tomorrow," he said. "The show."
"I know. And after the show—Marcus. I promised."
"We promised." He reached out to gather me into his arms. "I'll go with you. We can bring the dragon nightlight together."
Something unknotted in my chest. "Ryan's going to be thrilled."
"Ryan's going to cry and pretend it's allergies. He's eight, he's got an image to maintain."
I laughed—really laughed—and the sound echoed through the empty theater.
Through the high windows, the stars were brighter than usual. Maybe it was the clear winter sky. Perhaps it was the magic that ran through Yuletide Valley like water through stone, ancient, patient, and sure.
Ben led me back to the workshop. On his bench, the tools he'd inherited from five generations of Blitzens gleamed in the lamplight. Beside them, my grandmother's music box sat in its place of honor, the mysterious marks on its base catching the glow.
"Your grandmother knew," Ben said quietly. "About us. About magic. About what you'd find if you came home."
"She always did see more than she let on." I touched the music box, feeling the wood warm beneath my fingers. "I think she'd be happy. Knowing I finally stopped performing long enough to listen."
"To what?"
"To what the wood wanted to become."
His smile was slow, warm, and full of recognition. "Spoken like a true craftsman."
Outside, the sleigh bells chimed once more—faint and receding into the night—as if something ancient and kind had been listening all along, and finally approved.
Tomorrow, I would play Santa Claus for a theater full of people who believed in Christmas magic. Tomorrow, I would visit a sick boy in a hospital and try to give him one perfect moment of wonder.
But tonight, in this workshop that smelled of cedar and possibility, I let Ben pull me close and simply breathed.
I was home.