Chapter 38
Closing Night
Closing night is my favorite. Some people love opening, but by closing, the wrinkles are ironed out, and there is an even greater sense of occasion, of momentum.
The show is tighter. This is the last time we will ever do this.
This thing we have labored over will soon evaporate.
There is a set strike scheduled for tomorrow.
All are expected to come help, so we will all still see each other then.
But there is a bittersweetness in ending that heightens everything.
After the show is a cast party at my parents’ house.
We spent the day preparing a makeshift bar, placing all the flowers we have acquired over the run into vases, giving a vaguely funereal vibe, which isn’t totally off the mark.
My parents have decided to spend the money they saved on pyro on food and an open bar, which thrilled the cast. Despite all their hijinks, the community does love them.
We get to the theater early. I have written a few cards to Max and Bailey, Theo, Sally .
. . I had a sexy little present for Will planned, an embroidered framed quote from the play—“But I shall do thee mischief in the woods”—but I chickened out, given our current status, which is unknown, and bought him a nice bottle of whiskey instead.
He comes up behind me while I’m doing my makeup. He lays a hand tentatively on my arm.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” Our eyes meet in the mirror. I place my hand over his.
“We should talk,” he says.
“Yes,” I say. “Maybe after?” He deflates a little. “After the show?”
He nods. “Last one.”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s make it good.”
We make it great. People get a little silly on closing: Everything is bigger, louder, and some people go over the top, like Arthur, whose donkey sounds have escalated beyond shrill. The play feels like a frenzy in a wonderful way. It goes in slow motion and also at high speed.
“I can’t believe it’s the last time!” weeps the woman who plays the lion, pacing backstage. “We’ll never say these lines again!”
I don’t bother reminding her that most of her lines are roars.
I am surprised by how much crying there is at the end, the hugs, the big declarations of love.
People are kind; they say nice things about me, my acting.
There are a few shots fired at Nick, which I smile at and brush off.
It’s over. This all-consuming thing that occupied my whole summer, that I uprooted my life for, is done.
Taking off my costume, soaked wet with sweat, my own and everyone else’s, I feel a surprising pang of sentimentality.
When no one is looking, I stash my flower crown from the wedding scene in my bag. A souvenir.
After we have done the requisite meet and greet after the show, after we have cleared away our personal belongings and returned our costumes to the racks, we change into party clothes.
I have an excellent dress for the occasion: a long, gauzy cream sundress with layered ruffles at the bottom, a smocked bodice, a halter tie, and a completely open back.
It’s like if a Shakespearean forest fairy was attending a garden party on a summer’s eve.
Which, tonight, she is. I shake out my hair, a little longer now, loose and wavy from being pinned back onstage.
I feel happily drained, anxious about things with Will, glad the whole thing is over, and also a little sad.
I take a last look around the theater. I’ll be back tomorrow morning for strike, but the thing we built is over.
The house lights are up, and the fairy magic wafted out the door with the last audience member.
The party is just getting started as I arrive.
People are trickling in, some still heavily made up, some with scrubbed faces.
I feel buzzed and anxious. It’s the end, and suddenly I have this larger need to make a lasting impression, to connect with people.
I was so cold when I got here, so certain I was an afterthought. Now these people feel like family.
Compared to the party at Nick’s cottage with costumes and catering, the cast party is a humble affair, even with my parents’ open bar.
I grab a glass of wine and start to circle around.
It’s a relief to know that I don’t need to worry about Glory’s baking.
There is a case of Will’s special Midsummer’s Cider at the bar, but I can’t bring myself to drink it.
I try to chat with everyone; people are in a good mood, and there is sort of a collective happy exhale.
The only person who looks down is Arthur: He is sitting off to the side, staring miserably into his drink while the sound guy talks his ear off about some solo motorcycle road trip he took in 1987.
I see Will across the room. I try to catch his eye, but he is standing with the fairies with his arm slung over Barb’s shoulder. Theo appears by my side.
“Good show, Mirabel.” He clinks glasses with me.
“Good show.”
“Look at us, all grown up and openly drinking in front of your parents in their living room.”
I laugh. “Largely because of them.”
“Not untrue.” He follows my gaze across the room. “Will Reed is looking extra delicious this evening.” It’s true. He is freshly showered, damp hair curling on his forehead, wearing jeans and a plain black T-shirt.
“It’s so unfairly effortless for men,” I say.
“Speak for yourself,” says Theo. He glances at me. “So what’s the deal with you two?”
I take a large sip of wine. “I’m not sure. I haven’t stayed over in two nights. He has been friendly but distant. But tonight, onstage, he held my hand in the sexy way.”
“There’s a sexy way to hold hands?”
“Um, duh, yes.” I look back over at Will, and this time he catches my eye. He tilts his head toward the door and holds up a bottle of the magic cider. “I think I’m being summoned.”
Theo catches my hand before I leave. “Remember, Mirabel. You are allowed to be loved,” he whispers before releasing me. “She will find him by starlight . . .”
“The play is over, Theodore,” I say, but I smile.
Will and I walk in silence toward the back gazebo. One of my parents, in a burst of whimsy, has added fairy lights, as well as small spirals of solar lights throughout the garden. The backyard looks like a fairyland. Will’s hand grazes mine as we walk. I don’t move, and he moves it away.
We sit next to each other on the swing facing the house, not touching. He hands me the bottle, and I take a swig. It’s a little warm.
“Show’s over,” he says finally.
“Yeah.”
“Hard to believe.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Totally.”
We say nothing for a while. We have gotten really good at a comfortable silence, but this isn’t it.
“I’m going crazy, Mira,” he finally says. “Talk to me.”
I lean back against the swing and stare at the sky.
It’s a perfectly clear night, mild and starry.
I take a breath. “You know what the problem with Helena and Demetrius is?” He looks at me sideways.
“Lysander and Hermia: They are in love from the get-go, right? Puck’s fairy magic casts the spell on Lysander accidentally, he falls in love with Helena, Puck realizes his mistake, and casts the spell on Demetrius too. ”
“Um, I mean, this is the plot of the play we just did . . .”
“Right, but here’s what’s always bothered me: Lysander wakes up from the spell and sees clearly that he loves Hermia as he always has.”
“Right.”
“But Demetrius . . . what, he just suddenly loves Helena? After rejecting her all this time?”
“Mira, what exactly are you getting at?”
“How does she know it’s real? What if he is still under the spell, and what? Is he just going to stay that way? Is she doomed to a life of false love with someone who doesn’t know he’s been drugged by a fairy?”
Will looks up at the sky too, as though I am looking for the answers up there, as though he can help me find it.
“For what it’s worth, for my performance, I thought that he woke up from the spell, like Lysander, but that the love for Helena was reawakened.
That he saw what was right in front of him, that his love was real.
” He glances at me. “I know we’re doing a metaphor, but I can’t tell where you’re headed. ”
“I like you,” I say softly. “So much.” He reaches for my hand, and that small contact nearly undoes me.
“I just wonder . . . I don’t know what I’m doing.
Or what I want. Or who I even am.” I close my eyes.
The cider is starting to burn a little in my chest. “Is this thing with us real, or is it just what happens when you play lovers? Is it just . . . fairy magic?”
“I see,” he says.
“It’s all feeling very complicated.”
“Okay,” he says slowly. “And I’m going to tell you again that that’s okay. I just . . . and I’m really not trying to put pressure on you, I just feel like . . . at this point in things, an idea of what’s next is, like, basic communication.”
“That sounds very unromantic.”
“I . . . No, that came out . . . For fuck’s sake, I’m just asking for—”
“Basic communication,” I repeat.
“Well . . .”
“I just can’t answer it. I can tell you I like you. I can tell you that being with you feels amazing.” I sigh. He softens a little beside me. “I can tell you it feels like it’s gotten kind of serious, really fast.”
“It’s showtime,” he says.
“Huh?”
“We spent every day together, nearly, for three months. It’s not regular dating, it’s showtime.”
“Yes, I know showtime,” I say. “It’s just not the most sustainable relationship model.”
He exhales hard. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
He turns to me and puts his hands on my face. “I’m falling in love with you.” He stares at me hard. “And I can’t even tell if you’re going to answer my calls.” His face is close to mine, and I don’t know what to say, so I kiss him, long and deeply.
“I am,” I say softly when we come up for air. “Okay?” His face melts into that smile, and he kisses me again, pulling me into his lap.
“How dare you wear that dress,” he murmurs into my hair, sliding his hands under the flimsy back straps.
“You like?”
“It’s criminal,” he says. “I love.” He pulls back and looks in my eyes, smiling, then pulls me close again, kissing me with more urgency, his hand sliding around my back toward my breast, and . . .
“Oh, children!” Theo calls from the back deck. “It’s speech time.” Will takes my hand, squeezes it, and pulls me up. We run up the lawn toward Theo.
“Naughty. Naughty,” he says, patting us each on our bottoms as we pass him. “Good?” he whispers to me once Will is past.
“I think so?” I smile and slip inside, but an old, familiar dread is already churning inside me. The instinct to flee.
For the rest of the party, Will is attached to my side, one hand around my waist, his hands grazing the lines where the dress meets my skin. “I miss you,” he whispers in my ear when we have a moment alone. “Come home with me.”
I’m a little drunk and very tired. “Tomorrow?” I say. “After strike? I’m so tired.”
“Sure, yeah, okay.” He nods, gives me a squeeze, but I can see he is disappointed.
When the party ends and people hug goodbye, as though we won’t all see each other tomorrow, Will pulls me into a corner and kisses me intensely. “Tomorrow,” he says.
“Tomorrow.” I avoid his eyes.
“Then it’s not just showtime. It’s not fairy magic,” he says. “It’s just you and me, real life.”
“Whatever that is.” I laugh it off, but my voice catches.
He leans his forehead against mine, his hands gently holding my chin. “I’m not just falling,” he whispers. “I have fallen.” He kisses me. I kiss him back, but doubt has already started to calcify in my chest.
I fall asleep immediately, but my dreams are restless.
I dream I am lost in the woods, like that night at Nick’s cottage, but this time the trees grab at me, trying to pin me down, hold me tight.
I wake up with a start, gasping, my heart racing, my veins coursing with fear.
Panic. I put my hand on my chest and try to steady my breath.
It will pass. It always passes. I do this every time.
I jump ship before it sinks. But this time there is no reason to worry: Will is steady, he wants this.
He wants me. I have never had someone want me completely without conditions or reservations.
I have never let anyone this close. He must be wrong.
He must not know that I don’t begin to deserve him.
I can’t bear the moment he finds out, some moment when I feel safe and loved and secure and am blindsided again. There is only one way to save my heart.
I don’t realize I’m crying until it’s running down my neck. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what to do, but I need to do something.
By six a.m. I have packed my things and am on the highway, headed back for the city.