Chapter 35
August
Opening Night
A good daughter would check on her parents after their trip to the hospital.
I’m trying to be a good daughter these days.
Also, I’m not letting one more thing go wrong in this show.
I show up on their front porch the next morning with coffee and pastries from Has Beans.
I’m going to give them a talking-to. I’m going to call them out on their shit.
I’m going to tell them that their drama is affecting everyone, that they are acting like assholes, yes, both of them, and that enough is enough.
I’m going to save the family, I’m going to save the show and the theater and the whole company, and I’m going to be a goddamn hero.
I stand on the porch, half expecting to still hear screaming from inside. I knock, but there is no answer, just like my texts and phone calls this morning. I use my key and let myself in.
The house is silent. Worryingly silent. I find a box on the counter with a note:
You’ll feel better soon. xo Glory
I read it again, thinking I’m misreading. I peek inside the box. Brownies. I sniff them. Oh, Glory. Oh, shit.
I move cautiously up the stairs. I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but the closer I get, the more nervous I am.
Their bedroom door is ajar. I peek carefully around the corner, and there they are, sprawled on the bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, naked except for (thank God) a sheet.
I look closer. Are they dead? Did they die together, like in The Notebook?
I take a step forward. My mother lets out a small, contented sigh, and they nestle further into each other.
I jump back and slip out the door and run down the stairs before they wake up.
I leave the coffees and pastries on the counter, but then rethink it and take them with me. Better that they never know I was there.
Opening night feels almost incidental after the drama yesterday.
I arrive at the theater early. The crew has done final cleanup, and full order has been restored.
The dressing room is not the frenzy of costumes and hair spray from the night of the dress rehearsal; rather, it is calm and quiet.
Someone has made an indie playlist, someone else has brought trays of fruit and cookies, and there is a general air of quiet purpose.
It’s like a page has been turned: The energy is, indeed, different.
I put very little stock in last night’s witchcraft, but whatever this is, I’ll take it.
My parents arrive together, hand in hand.
Whatever tempest possessed them seems to have passed.
They make a brief stop in the dressing room and wish the cast a good show, thanking everyone for their teamwork yesterday, assuring us that they are both fine.
It’s a little off the mark—their focus should be on us—but it is brief and congenial and contributes to the general air of peaceful fortitude.
Some people do flowers and gifts on opening night (I always do mine on closing), and there is a small collection of cards at my spot on the counter. There is one from Theo:
Happy Opening, Mirabel!
Can’t believe we’re here again. What a joy to share this stage—and life—with you. I’m so proud of you and the lovely performance you are about to give.
Much love, T
There’s a text from my Listings friend, Nisha:
Girl, I’m so sorry, not going to make it, schedule is madness, but sending you so much love! You’re going to kill it!
I’m a little disappointed, but I know how it is. People in the city can barely fathom life outside of the city. I don’t bother reminding her that the run is for two weeks. Somehow, it doesn’t seem to matter.
There’s an ostentatious spray of roses from Nick, with a card.
I’m sorry. Truly.
xo N
P.S. I’d say “break a leg” but . . .
That makes me laugh.
There’s a hand-tied posy of wildflowers in a mason jar and a note card attached.
Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful . . .
Will. I smile to myself.
I try to take it all in. It really hits me, sitting here in this room of friendly chaos, that so much has been missing in my life.
I put so much energy into getting away, making it, but it has been so long since I actually considered what I left.
There was only one version of my future that I was willing to accept, and I did what so few people do: I got there. But what did it really bring me?
Everyone is abuzz before curtain. People are doing their weird little rituals: stretching and prayers and mantras.
Bailey makes everyone pass around a crystal that is supposed to be grounding.
I have a little time before I go onstage, so I wait out in the hall.
Will squeezes my hand in passing. I can tell he’s a little nervous.
Theo hugs me; he is practically bouncing with excitement.
He has always been that way. I wonder if he does that in professional shows. I bet he does.
That magic moment happens, when the audience instinctively quiets themselves: It’s time.
The house lights go down, and we are all suspended in darkness.
And then, the opening notes of the first sound cue, the lights come up, and this thing that has been ours for so long, this thing we built, has now begun.
I watch Will, Max, and Bailey in their first scene. I can’t stop smiling, watching Will. There’s such a particular buzz watching someone onstage and knowing they are yours. The realization strikes me: He is, isn’t he? Mine. Do I want that? Does he? Do I even need to ask?
I move back into the corner to focus, to gather myself before my cue.
I have no ritual, so I just close my eyes and put my hand on my heart and breathe.
I’m not sure why. It just calms me. Find your breath.
I am listening. I am readying myself. I am dropping back into the place where I’m scorned and frustrated and unloved.
I let Mira drop down and Helena rise. My cue comes.
“Call you me fair?” I enter, and off we go.
It goes well. Not perfectly, but incredibly well, considering that the set was on fire yesterday.
A couple of late cues, dropped lines, but also a few moments of real alchemy.
The fight scene with the four lovers is the best we’ve ever done, and when we awaken from the “dream,” when Will kisses me onstage under the warm stage lights, I feel my whole world coalesce.
Everything in me pulls tightly together, and it feels so sweet.
We get a standing ovation, the bonus of being a novelty act in a small town, and after, when the curtains close, everyone starts hugging and high-fiving and saying kind things about each other. Will takes me in his arms and kisses me long and hard in front of everyone, and I don’t even mind.
There are few highs that top coming offstage after a good show, knowing you did well, you got certain laughs, you hit your marks, and that you get to do it again.
After we have changed, we go out into the main hall, where family and friends are gathered.
There is applause when Theo and I walk out, and people come up and congratulate us.
“I remember the two of you in Romeo and Juliet,” says an older woman I don’t know. “Ooooh, the chemistry. It was so tragic. Tell me, why did the two of you never get together?” I look at Theo, unsure what to say.
“Well, I’m gay.” He smiles. “But if there was one gal in the world for me, it would be this one.” He gives me a side squeeze, and the lady pats my arm disappointedly and walks off. I am turning to head back to the dressing room when I hear a squeal behind me.
“Ohmygod, Miranda!” Sweet holy Jesus. It’s Kelsie and seven more Kelsies. I put on my most shrill smile before turning around.
“Kelsie! You made it!”
“I so did! Miranda, this is my book club! Girls, this is Miranda, we went to high school together!” They all squeal at me in sync.
“Hello.” I wave lamely. “Thank you so much for coming.”
“We saw you on TV,” says one of them, leaning in as though this is an exclusive shared experience between us.
“Oh, yeah, I . . . I’m on . . . it.”
“Okay, so, your play . . . I didn’t understand the language,” says Kelsie, “but I thought you were, like, so good. That play would make a really cute rom-com. We are a romance book club.” The Kelsies all nod enthusiastically. Of course they are. “And that guy you hook up with, OMG, he’s so sexy!”
“He owns the cider place,” another Kelsie whispers to me.
“Yeah, I know, we . . .” It’s like their eyebrows are telepathic, like they know what I’m about to say.
They lean in together, wide-eyed. “We, uh, went there a few times after rehearsal.” If there was ever an opportunity to flex in front of my high school nightmare, this is it, but I don’t feel the need.
Maybe I’m growing. They nod disappointedly.
They were hoping we were sleeping together. I smile to myself.
After, we go to the pub for one celebratory drink; we do have three more shows this week.
“I wonder if I should sleep at my parents’,” I say to Will at the pub. “Now that they are . . . stabilized.” In truth, my parents seem to be enjoying a renaissance following their near demise: I caught them kissing twice before and after the show. I’m certain they would appreciate the privacy.
“Why?” asks Will. “I mean, you’re totally welcome to stay with me.” He looks at me closely. “You don’t want to?”
I look down the table toward my parents, who are holding hands while sharing a martini with two straws. “Of course I want to,” I say. “I just . . . I don’t know . . . it’s been . . . what, three nights in a row . . . and I really appreciated it . . . I just . . .” What? I don’t even know.
“Hey, there’s no pressure at all,” he says casually, but I can see he’s hurt. “You need space, I get it.”
“Is it just all too fast?” I blurt out.
“Hey, you don’t need to move in,” he says. “Unless you want to.” He winks. I drop my head. “Oh, hey, listen, Mira, we can totally slow it down. I just thought . . . things seem to be going really well . . .”
“They are.”
“So?”
“So that’s . . . that makes me nervous.”
“Okay.” He takes my hand and kisses it. “So, a night in your own bed might just be what you need?”
“I think . . . yes?” I feel stupid. I look at my hand in his, his easy smile. I think about how I climbed on top of him this morning, his cry, his breath on my neck. “Or . . . no?” I shrug. “Aren’t you tired of me? Don’t you want your place to yourself?”
He shakes his head and takes a sip of beer.
“Don’t do that,” he says. “Own your choice. I’ve told you I am happy to have you spend the night.
And I understand if you don’t. Don’t make it more complicated.
” He gives that half smile, and I know something vital has shifted. This man sees right through me.
“Well, now I feel dumb for being weird.” I steal a sip of his beer, trying to be cute. “Okay, ugh, fine, if you insist. I will come to your bed.” I smile hopefully.
“Lovely.” He nods curtly. “I look forward to it.” Just then, Sally sits down next to us and starts chatting about what a good audience it was, and we move on.
I drive myself to his house after. The door is unlocked, and I let myself in. He has run a bath upstairs and poured me a glass of the magic cider.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” he says later in the bath, his legs wrapped around me, my whole weight resting against him. “I want you. I want you here. As often as you want. Okay?” He rubs his fingers along my jaw, dropping a kiss on the side of my head.
“Okay.” I am quiet for a long moment. “Why do you even like me?”
I feel him laugh behind me. “What? How can you ask me that?”
“Well, I’m just kind of a shit.”
“You are.” He kisses my head again. “I think you’ve been underestimated . . . and unappreciated for so long by everyone around you that you can’t even see yourself clearly.”
“Huh. Wow.”
He holds me tighter. “You are wildly talented. Fiercely intelligent. Scathingly witty. Sexy as hell.” I try to laugh it off.
“No, you are, Mira. You’re remarkable. You’re brave in a way that most people aren’t.
You have succeeded in a way that most people can’t.
And under the scathing wit, and I promise not to tell anyone this, you are kind and compassionate and insightful. ”
“Wow,” I say again. “You’re . . . good too.”
“I never said you were great at expressing your emotions.”
“Fair,” I say. I lift one of his hands to my lips. “Thank you, sweet Will.”
“So, we’re clear now?”
“Yes.” I say. “Completely.”