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"Can or will?" she asks.
I log back onto my computer and pull open a travel website. "I'll have tickets in less than five minutes."
"That's going to cost a fortune."
"Yeah, but money is nothing compared to Alyssa."
"Ugh! You're too sweet. It's sickening," she says. "This is the last time I get involved in your business. The absolute last time."
Leave Sunday, return Tuesday. I'll have to move around a few appointments, but I don't care. If Alyssa needs me, I'll be there.
"Thanks, Laurie," I say.
"Yeah. You're welcome. I guess."
We hang up, and I read over Alyssa's texts again and again. She doesn't sound okay. She sounds like she's coming unglued. But I can help her hold herself together.
***
Curtain is eight o'clock, but I arrive at the theater as soon as the doors open--seven thirty. My mother didn't take me to plays often--there weren't a ton of opportunities in San Diego--but when she did, she always arrived early to marvel at the inside of the theater.
And this place is a marvel. Gold walls, plus red chairs, soft yellow light everywhere. I drink a glass of wine, barely able to contain my anticipation. This is the first time I'll see Alyssa on stage. She's going to be amazing.
Then tonight will be just as amazing.
I take my seat, fiddling with the flowers I brought for Alyssa. They're roses, vibrant red roses. It's an obvious choice, I know, but they remind me of her. Strong and delicate and ready to prick me when I try and get too close.
Not tonight. Not this weekend. This weekend will be perfect.
The theater fills in. It's the official opening week of the play, and it's a packed house. Alyssa is probably a nervous wreck about it. I'm tempted to call her and wish her luck, but I'm sure she's busy "in the zone," the way she gets when she locks herself in her room to memorize her lines.
Then the lights go down and the play begins. There's a short scene--the two male leads shooting the shit--then Alyssa's character steps on stage. She stares into the blindingly bright lights coming from the balcony. Then her eyes pass over the audience like she's looking for something or someone.
Then they stop at me. Her mouth drops open, and her face shifts. For a split second it's not Blanche, it's Alyssa, and she's shocked to see me. She shakes her head and slips back into character. Her posture changes. It's longer, more sultry, more confident and more insecure at the same time.
She's amazing.
I almost can't believe she spent so much time tearing her hair out, stressing over how to play to the back of the room. Because she's nailing everything. She's easily as good as the apparently pretentious Nicholas.
I forget my plans for the rest of the weekend. I forget everything except watching her on stage, moving and speaking and living with effortless grace.
How the hell did I get so lucky?
Intermission comes and goes quickly, and I'm back in my seat, drawn into the other world of the play. It's as gripping and beautiful and tragic as Alyssa claimed, and when it ends, I'm on my feet applauding.
She's so fucking amazing.
An usher taps me as people filter out of the theater. "Miss Summers has requested you come backstage." I grin and follow him, like I'm some cheap groupie at a rock concert.
She's got her very own dressing room.
The usher points me to the door and I knock.
"Get your fucking ass in here," she says. She pulls the door open and scans my body with her eyes. "You fucking... why didn't you tell me?"
"This is more exciting," I say.
I offer the flowers and her face lights up. She grabs my hand and pulls me into the room, slamming the door behind us.
