I've been trying to formulate what to say to her for a week now. Trying to tell her that she broke my heart—again—but I was trying to be adult enough to understand why. Trying to tell her that she's not ready for a relationship, and it was foolish to think we should try again. Trying to tell her that my dreams are finally becoming a reality, and maybe someday she can wish me well, as I'm about to wish her.
Instead, I say, "What's chookas?"
Leslie turns, almost unrecognizable in a black, bobbed wig. "Oh, Josh. I didn't expect you."
"What's chookas?" I repeat, apparently unable to form any other words.
"It's Australian for good luck in the ballet theater. Most of the time, we just say merde, but you know, it's Henderson, so …" She looks at me, painted red lips plump.
I run my hands through my hair and then shove them deep in my pockets. "Well, break a leg. That's all I came to say too." I turn to leave.
"Josh?" Her voice is faint, almost a whisper.
I give her a tight smile, my back teeth grinding together. I want nothing more than to sweep her into my arms and ruin that lipstick. Instead, I clench my molars harder, balling my hands into tight fists. "I've got to go warm up. You'll do great out there."
I walk away. That could've gone better. I take my place in the pit. I long for the days when I not only had to play and conduct and direct, but mix sound as well, because I'd be able to pull on my headphones and cancel out the world around me.
I really do need to focus. Gershwin's music is timeless and classic—and well known. The audience knows what they're hearing, even if they don't know it coming in. We have to be on the mark. I've been distracted—to say the least—this week. I have to hope my musicians don't let me down.
But the moment Jen starts wailing on her alto sax during the overture— the immediately recognizable melody of this show—I know we've got this. I make a mental note to make sure I've got a sax solo somewhere for Jen to play in my show.
And then Leslie steps out on stage, and I almost forget what I'm doing. Even though with the wig and makeup she's barely recognizable, the moment she starts dancing, Iknowher. How she moves. Her soul. Everything in my body yearns for her.
Watching her, I feel a heavy tug in my chest. As proud as I am of her, I know this won't make her happy. It's not what she wanted. She settled by coming here in the first place, and even now is playing second fiddle. She's truly great at this, but is she the best?
What is the best? Is it something unattainable like a quest in some Greek myth? Will she spend the rest of her life like Sisyphus, pushing the rock up the mountain only to have it roll back down again? There's not room for two of us there, rolling that rock, unless you're willing to get flattened by the boulder time and time again.
And then it happens. Leslie looks out at me and smiles. Sure, her character is smiling, but this one's for me. I can't help myself. I smile back and give her a little eyebrow lift, trying to tell her I'm proud of her.
Even if she broke my heart, she's still killing it up there. I see that drive. That determination. All that hard work. She is destined to be the best, and I won't stand in her way.
Maybe someday we can go back to being friends. As if I wasn't in love with her from the moment I saw her. Friends—distant friends—it will have to be.
Act One ends with the upbeat “Second Rhapsody” and “Cuban Overture.” It's almost eight minutes of music and dancing without dialogue. I'm sweating, but love the piano I get to play, showcasing my talent. I wonder if dancing makes Leslie feel how playing makes me feel.
No wonder she never wants to stop.
At intermission, I lie down on the floor in the music room, stretching my back, shoulders, and arms out, knowing what the second act will bring. The rest of the band is in the large rehearsal space, getting drinks and relaxing for these few minutes. I don't hear Tabitha come in.
"Okay, so I gotta know, what's the deal with you and Leslie?" She sits down on the floor cross-legged next to me.
I lift my head up off the floor. "I don't know what you mean."
She waves a hand at me. "Josh, don't kid a kidder. I see those looks between the two of you. Thosemeaningful glances. I also see that you're trying not to look at her and have avoided her the past week or so. What's that all about?"
I rest my head back down and close my eyes. "It's nothing. We're friends."
Lie.
"Friends. Right. Like Henderson and I are friends?"
I open one eye. "I don't know what goes on behind closed doors. Maybe you're playing Uno."
"What's going on, as you very well know, is much more of a duo thing. But I see you. I saw you at the cabaret, watching her. And I saw that smile she gave you, and how you returned it. You both might as well have hearts coming out of your eyes."
I roll to my side, propping up on my elbow, resting my head on my hand. "What can I say? Our timing is terrible. Once again."
This has her sitting up straight. "Once again?"
