Regardless of whether that dream includes me or not.
A tap on my shoulder nearly scares the shit out of me. I spin in my chair to find Dick standing there, an excited look on his face. He says some words to me that I miss. I lift my chin and furrow my brow.
“Wi-no-na Le-beau,” he mouths, punching each syllable. “She’s … here. The … lobby … is … a … fucking … madhouse.”
I blink. Dessie’s parents?
Dick slaps me on the back suddenly, then types something out on his phone and shows me the screen:
You do realize
who Dessie’s father is,
don’t you?
I bite the inside of my cheek. Of course I do.
I return his enthusiasm with a slow, cool-tempered nod. Dick says something else to me, then slaps my back once more before excitedly hopping out of the door and down the stairs to the lobby. I lean forward, staring through the glass and focusing on the front rows again. Is all the craziness over Dessie’s parents, the celebs who’ve apparently decided to come and show their support for their daughter?
A sting of resentment touches me. Dessie’s no longer mine. Doesn’t matter whose daughter she is. Once her father gets word of what a dark and unstable guy I am, he won’t want his daughter anywhere near me.
And haven’t I said it since day one? She deserves better. I’m no good for her.
I clench my teeth and watch listlessly through the window, waiting for my opportunity to darken one world and light up another.
Twenty minutes later, I get the cue on my phone, texted to me from the stage manager backstage—that is, the actual stage manager. I wait for the cue light to glow. The moment it does, I slowly fade out the houselights, casting the audience into darkness, before bringing up the lights for act one.
The actor Stage Manager, who acts basically as the narrator of the show, comes out onto the stage, greets the audience, and then presents the scene to them, telling them where the Gibbs house is, where the Webb house is, and so on. Sullenly, I read along with my marked-up script in front of me, guesstimating the lines judging from who’s on stage and what’s happening.
This whole experience would be so much better if I hadn’t lost my fucking temper and punched those glasses off Kellen’s face. Sure, it felt good and I gained peace, but I lost something else. And I’m pretty sure knowing that I’d be going home with Dessie tonight would feel a hell of a lot better than that punch did.
This is my own fault. I’m married to my anger. I always will be.
Then the scene finally arrives. Desdemona Lebeau makes her stage debut entering as a young Emily Webb, dressed in a cute sort of early-1900s dress, her hair loose and flowing.
I’m so fucking proud to give her light.
I push a hand against my mouth, sighing into it as I watch Dessie.
It hurts, just to see her.
I saw her every day this week at rehearsal, and every day was a knife to my gut that drew no blood. The wound’s always too deep to see, and I went home every night with the pain of it. No amount of squeezing any fucking pillow could quiet the ache.
Against any scream in the world, emotional pain screams louder.
The first intermission almost catches me by surprise, so entranced and pained by watching Dessie onstage that I lose track of time. After a sigh, I suck in my lips and mash fingers into my phone.
ME
Is Brant still being weird?
Not ten seconds later, I get my reply.
DMITRI
It isn’t too bad.
You know him.
I think he’s bowling.
Hey, you do realize
I’m in the audience tonight,
right?
I snort. I was so wrapped up in worries and frustrations of Dessie that I completely forgot about him being here to support Eric who, I might add, plays a very convincing drunk choir director Simon.
ME
Yeah, of course.
Hope you liked act one.
There’s two more.
Get ready for some #feels
DMITRI
You should talk to her
after the show.
I sigh, pushing my phone away after that text. Doesn’t he realize there’s really no fucking use? Her parents are here. They pretty much serve as a wall of protection between us. I’ve already upset her enough.
It’s funny, how Kellen lost the fistfight, but won the battle.
I take deep breaths, count the minutes, and prepare for act two.
Houselights down. Stage lights up. We move into act two, taking place three years later—as explained by the helpful Stage Manager. I get to watch George and Emily in a flashback where they fall in love, and then they get married in the present, despite their misgivings.
Dessie kisses someone else’s lips onstage, and I feel my cock twitch. I know what power lives in those unassuming lips of hers, power I’ve had the joy of knowing intimately.