Chapter 32
Priscilla
“You’re going back home,” he says. He doesn’t look at us as he speaks, instead keeping his gaze on the empty seats in front of him, playing the moment to a crowd that doesn’t exist.
“We are,” I confirm.
“And we’d like you to come with us,” Marlowe adds.
Dallas waits. And waits.
And waits.
The art of expectation. His favorite.
I don’t know how long it goes on before he whispers, “You know I can’t.”
“We do,” I tell him. “But we’re not the type of people who give up without trying.”
“You’re the one who taught us that,” Marlowe says.
There is no give to the silence that fills the auditorium. Any lingering shred of hope we have is squashed by his resolute stare.
“Please,” I try anyway, hating the way it comes out so small and sad. “If you hold too tightly to the pain of your past, you’ll miss out on all the amazing things waiting for you in the future.”
His eyes are filled with tears as he says, “I love you both more than you will ever know.”
“We love you just as much,” Marlowe says. She’s the one to go to him first, wrapping her arms around him.
I want to join, but they deserve this moment with each other.
Though this stage was once mine, too, it hasn’t been in a very long time.
It’s been theirs. And the image of Marlowe holding Dallas as he looks out to the empty house is a memento I know I can keep safe—like Dallas’s passcode, or Marlowe’s costume stealing, or my real feelings for her in high school.
I am the keeper of the keys. The holder of the secrets.
I protect the hidden truths of the WRHS stage.
“Go make your greatness known,” Dallas says.
This is it, then.
Our last goodbye with Dallas Winthrop. It’s not a death, but it sure feels close, and my body doesn’t know the difference anyway. How will we face a world without him? How can this ever be a sufficient ending?
It’s not. And it won’t be. But we can’t live his life for him. We have our own to live.
I look back one last time, but he’s still gazing out to the empty audience, waiting for something he will never reach.
“Goodbye, Dallas Winthrop,” I say.
“You are always with us,” Marlowe tells him.
We step into the Memory Machine one last time.
I grab Marlowe’s hand and squeeze. “Let’s go back to the life we left behind.”