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Fifteen minutes after seven, Willow appeared at the rear of the theater.
My eyes fell shut with relief, then opened and stared at her. Stared until my eyes itched from not blinking. Blinking would make her disappear and I wanted to freeze her in time. She looked whole and healthy and fucking gorgeous in a dark skirt and gray sweater. She scanned the theater and when she found me, she smiled and gave a little wave.
She’s going to be okay.
More than okay. Even all the way across the theater, I could see the tiniest change in the way she carried herself. Like some of the terrible weight pressing down on her had been lifted. Not all of it. I didn’t know if it would ever leave her comp
letely. But telling me her story had helped in some way.
And it changed everything.
I saw it in her smile and in the way she looked at me. You don’t hear a story like hers and keep things casual. Even blind drunk, she’d trusted me. I was the keeper of her secret now, and nothing would be the same between us again.
That’s not the truth either, I realized, my heart pounding hard in my chest. Nothing was the same after that day in Daisy’s Coffeehouse.
“Sorry I’m late,” Willow said. “My ride got a flat.”
“It happens,” Martin said mildly. Rebecca joined us and they bent over their clipboards.
“We’re set to run Act Two, Scene Two,” she said.
Willow furrowed her brow, reaching into her bag for her script. “Is that… Sorry, which scene is that?”
“You’re not required, dear, but in spirit,” Martin said. “Act Two, Scene Two is where your dear old dad, Polonius—” he gestured to himself “—tells the king and queen he’s discovered the root of Hamlet’s madness. Or so he believes.”
He pulled a rolled-up piece of paper from his back pocket.
“The prop will look much better,” he said, “but this will do for now.”
“What is it?” Willow asked.
“A love letter from Hamlet to Ophelia.”
Martin handed the paper to Willow.
Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.
“That’s beautiful,” Willow said. She glanced at me, then quickly looked away.
“Indeed, it is,” Martin said. “Love is always a beautiful thing.” He shook the paper. “And this is Exhibit A that Hamlet can, when he wants to, put his money where his mouth is.”
Martin beamed at my murderous glare, then clapped his hands to call rehearsal to order, leaving Willow and I alone for the time being.
“I love how Martin gets so into this stuff,” she said. “I guess it’s what makes him such a good director.”
“I guess so,” I said.
“Hamlet, Horatio, Fortinbras,” Rebecca called. “To me, please.”
“I gotta go.” I said.
“Sure,” she said, and I hated how unsure she sounded. “Break a leg.”
