I stand behind the curtain—breathe in, breathe out—as I fiddle with my bare wrist. My charm bracelet. I can’t fucking find it.
That beautiful bracelet he got me for Christmas.
I wear it for good luck every show—much to my costumers’ chagrin. Then yesterday before I left for rehearsal, I couldn’t find it.
I am so furious with myself.
But I have to focus right now. There’s an audience out there, a show to do, and a cast I can’t let down.
When I think about it, Claudio Vergas did a number or two on me. So did the absent Damien Rigby. And the little training-camp-getaway that was Italy, they planted a few seeds that I have come to appreciate. Every mistake I’ve made has strengthened me. Every crushing defeat and red-faced humiliation has served as a necessary stepping stone to reach this place, right here, in front of the curtain.
I don’t regret a single thing. Maybe I’ll even write Claudio a letter to thank him. I’ll send the letter with a package containing a brand new mug to replace the one he threw at my head.
The audience hums with anticipation. Their excitement feeds me, energy racing up and down my body as I wait for the curtain to rise.
“Dessie!”
I spin, my whole backstage universe knocked to the side. I blink through the semidarkness. “Clayton? What—What are you—?”
His hands grasp mine. “I’m so sorry, Dessie. I didn’t give you your good-show gift.”
I gawp, freeing my hands from his. “Are you serious?” I sign and say to him frantically, lit only by the indistinct blue wash of light onstage. “Clayton, the show’s about to begin!”
“They can’t start without me, now can they?” He chuckles, then extends his palm. “Give me your wrist.”
After a brief moment of hesitation, I sigh and surrender my bare wrist to him. He pulls something from his pocket, then gently attaches it to my wrist.
My charm bracelet! But there’s something added to it. I lift my wrist to inspect the new charm. It’s a hand symbol. A fist presented with only the thumb, pinkie, and index fingers extended. It’s the sign for—
“I love you, Dessie,” he whispers.
I bring my eyes up to his, touched. “Clayton.”
“I couldn’t stand letting you go back to New York without telling you that I love you. I’m totally fucking in love with you. Maybe you already knew. I want to stop being a coward and just … fucking say it. And I want you to wear it. I want you to wear my love and … and think of me when … when you’re in those piano bars and you’re singing your beautiful fuckin’ heart out.”
I grab his hands, putting a halt to his frantic signing. He meets my eyes, his own wet with inspiration, with sadness, with several emotions.
Without words, I sign to him: I wanted to tell you tonight after the show, but if you insist on doing this, well, Clayton, I guess we’re doing this right now.
He stares at me, taken aback. The intensity of his eyes sharpens as he awaits my hands’ next movements.
I tell him: I know we talked about moving in together in the fall, but I don’t want to spend the summer without you either. My father wants to offer you an internship at his theater in New York.
Clayton’s eyes shimmer against the dim blue lighting, wide as the eyes of flashlights.
I continue: You’d work alongside some seriously cool professionals up there. And yes, it’s a paid internship. It’s an amazing opportunity and it’s there for you … if you want it.
Clayton’s lips have parted as he stares at my hands in disbelief. I watch the warring thoughts race across his face in a matter of seconds. He doesn’t know what to think. I wonder if maybe I should’ve saved this piece of information for later like I’d planned.
He whispers, “I’m … I’m not a charity case for … for your—”
“No.” I pull his attention to my hands, then sign: Clayton, this is not a handout. My father saw your work. He thinks you’re talented and really likes you. You remind him a lot of himself when he was young and had big ideas.
The stage manager hisses from the side of the stage that they’re ready to start the show. Words squawk at her through her headset, the static carrying to me.
Naturally, I ignore them. I have one more thing to say to my man. And—my hands carry on, bringing his bewildered, wide-eyed attention back to me—for the record …
I present my fist to him with the thumb, pinkie, and index finger extended. It’s the combination of an “I”, an “L”, and a “Y”—I love you.
The next second, he rushes into me for a kiss. My lips crush into his hungry ones as his hands slip around my waist, pulling me against him with all his strength.