Shit.
"I guess I let that cat out of the bag." I can't help but make a cat joke. Tabitha does all the time. "Leslie and I went to drama camp together when we were sixteen. It was …" I don't know how to describe it. Those eight weeks were such a bright point before the darkness and devastation that followed. "Poor timing," I offer lamely.
"And you still love each other!" Tabitha clasps her hands to her chest. "Oh, that's so wonderful. You should write a show about the two of you."
In a way, I already have.
I shake my head. "No, it's still not the right time. She's going through a lot. Like years of stuff that she's just beginning to sort through. And until she's through it, I can't be with her. I'm only going to get hurt again while she's figuring herself out."
Tabitha stands up, shaking her head. I move to a sitting position. "You know, Josh, with how you went balls to the wall trying to sell your show, I didn't have you pegged for a coward. If you wait for the perfect time, it'll never come. And if you think you can love without the risk of getting hurt, then you'll never know what love actually is."
Chapter 31: Leslie
Here it is, the ballet scene. A fourteen-minute dance segment that has me—my character, that is—dreaming that her dance partner is really the artist she's in love with.
I wonder if Josh can dance?
But instead, I start dancing with Braedyn, who's quickly replaced by Max. I'm on stage and dancing for almost twelve of the fourteen minutes, including two costume changes. I start to panic that I'm not going to pull it off. The saxophones begin to wail the melody and I want to freeze.
However, once Max pulls me into his arms for the first time, I'm assured I'll be fine. Whether I want to admit it or not, Max and I move well together. He's very talented. Maybe not in the bedroom so much, but certainly as a dancer, actor, and singer. He really is a triple threat.
His arms are sturdy during the lifts and holds, making me feel light as a feather. His large hands span my ribcage as if I'm a waif. In that instant, I feel beautiful. In reality, it's another story.
Both of us are sweating like stuffed pigs and trying not to let the exertion show on our faces. I can't even think about the choreography; it flows right through me. If I have to stop and think about it, I'll lose where I am. Instead, I rely on muscle memory and the power of the music to tell my body what to do. Max pulls me into an embrace—a kiss—and I know I'm in the home stretch.
If only Max were Josh. Involuntarily, my eyes dart toward the pit. He's not even watching me.
Do your best. Be your best. My brain chants this over and over. This is a subtle, yet different, narrative than I've told myself my whole life. Replacing the word “the” with “your” has been a game-changer.
And I know I'm up here, doing my best.
The only thing that could make this night better would be to celebrate with Josh.
As the show draws to its conclusion, I’m clad in the iconic yellow dress, and Max and I walk, arms around each other, as if we're heading into the Paris painted on the backdrop. The curtain falls.
I did it.
I starred inAn American in Paris. As we take our bows, it's all I can do not to cry. It doesn't matter that this is a small theater. It doesn't matter that I'm not backed by a famous ballet company.
I still did it.
And with friends who care about me. Family too. I spy my parents in the audience, on their feet and clapping wildly. I bow, a slight curtsy, before taking Max's hand and bowing again. We lift our arms and drop them toward the pit so that everyone can applaud the band.
The music is another star of this show, and Josh deserves every single clap that's coming his way. He's so talented. He's going to make it, I just know it.
I spy Tabitha in the wings. Josh really is going to make it, with Tabitha's backing. Not that he's told me. Pain pangs my heart, penetrating this moment. Josh is on his feet, looking toward the audience. Away from me. Like I don't exist.
I close my eyes for the briefest of seconds, before opening them and waving one last time at the audience. Max is holding my hand and we back up as the curtain falls. In a moment of rare sincerity, Max squeezes my hand and pulls me into an embrace.
"You were great." If I didn't know better, I'd say there was a hint of surprise in his voice. As if, despite all the rehearsals, he didn't know that I'd actually be able to do it.
"Thanks." I should tell him he was great too, but I don't need to feed his ego at all. He already knows it. I break the embrace and head to the backstage area. I need to find my parents.
My face hurts from smiling, thanking each of the cast and crew who stop me to offer their congratulations and praise. Gloria appears, pulling me into a hug. This is big. She doesn't come to many shows, so I know she was there for me.
"Girl, you killed it up there. Magical. Absolutely magical. Henderson should be shot for not casting you directly."
I shrug, not sure how to respond to it. "I'm trying to let it go and work on the philosophy that things happen for a reason." To give up the desire to control things that I can't. And not to take it out on myself.
