Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

“Aww. I love that story. It’s so modern,” I say as I walk through the English afternoon. “I was looking for a place to talk about Fun Home with other musical geeks.”

“And I was dying to find a theater buddy in New York City, back when I was in San Francisco. Someone to join me for afternoons of Hamilton and Dear Evan Hansen,” she says.

“And we found each other in an online group,” I say, smiling.

“And people wonder why we’re dorks who love musicals.”

“I don’t know if anyone actually wonders that,” I say.

“Anyway, how is everything going? Do you hate it more, a little more, a lot more?”

“Actually, I don’t hate one thing . . .” I say, enticingly.

She shrieks. “You did it? You actually did it? You met an English hottie and got some action?”

Yes, this is technically gossiping, but it hardly feels like it. Talking one-on-one rather than faux bragging isn’t gossiping. “Is it crazy that it was kind of . . .”

What’s the word?

Amazing sticks to my brain.

Reverberates in it.

But that’s so overused. When a latte can be amazing, I’m not sure I want to put sex in the same category.

“Hold on a sec,” I say as I reach a corner and get my bearings, then duck onto a cobblestone side street where it’s quieter. “So, this guy . . . last night . . . it was . . . different.”

There’s a pause on the other end, a crackle across the phone line. Maybe it’s a testament to the tone in my voice that Emerson doesn’t crack a joke like different in that he wanted to lick your toes, or braid your hair, or have you call him Daddy?

When she speaks, her question comes out with a certain gravitas. “Are you going to see him again?”

I feel that gravitas too. I stop my pacing, set a hand on my chest, try to quell these weird nerves inside me. “I think?”

“Are you asking me?” Emerson asks, and now there’s a smile in her voice. “Or yourself?”

That’s a good question.

But it has an easy answer.

“I’m going to call him tonight.”

That feels like the perfect way to end the evening before I start work tomorrow.

I return to my hotel room, settle onto my king-size bed, letting the memories of several hours ago zip down my body. With a satisfied sigh, I find Heath’s name in the contacts.

But before I can call him, my phone rings.

It’s my father.

7

HEATH

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

This is not me.

And yet, here I am, waiting at the stage door with the other groupies.

Grand. Just grand.

But truly, groupies are fantastic. My brother worked hard enough for the last decade, chasing role after role, cutting his teeth, learning his craft.

Jude deserves fans queued up to have him autograph their programs. When I took our parents here for opening night a few weeks ago, the three of us were the loudest in the audience, and wildly proud.

“Thanks for coming, Maggie,” he says to a tall woman with a sharp nose and kind eyes. “So glad you loved If Found Please Return. Hope you enjoy And So It Begins, as well.”

“I’ve no doubt I will. You’re incredible,” she says, then slides in close and snaps a picture of the two of them.

A few more flourishes of the Sharpie, a few more photos, then Jude ushers me past the heavy black door to the backstage area.

“Is it like that most nights? They wait for you before a show?”

He gives an easy shrug. “Yeah. And after.”

“Amazing,” I say.

As we wind through the narrow hallways of the theater, I try to sort through the mess in my head that brought me here. The way my mind tossed and turned all day at work, and to how Google—in incognito mode, obviously—gave me no help in understanding dating protocol.

Along the way, Jude says hello to the stagehands, the makeup artists, and the other actors. We reach his dressing room, and head inside, where he inhales deeply then says, “And now, entertain me.”

Jude flicks on the LED lights around the mirror and slides into the chair, swiveling it to face me. I exhale as I take a seat on the couch, but that doesn’t loosen the knot of uncertainty inside me.

“All I want to know is what to do next,” I say. “Couldn’t you have just texted me the answer when I texted you? And maybe dispensed with all this theatricality? Rather than insisting I show up here?”

He scoffs. “No. No. Also, no. Plus, you’re literally a stone’s throw away, and I’m going back to New York soon, so we’ll take what we can get.”

He has me there. Best to enjoy these moments. “True. Good to see you.”

“Also, it’s too complicated with you and women and dating. I can’t just text you how to do it because . . . well, you’re you.”