In Harmony

I nodded.

“How long…?”

“A few weeks.”

“Is it serious?”

“As serious as I’ve ever been about anything in my life. Including acting.” I smiled at their stunned expressions. “I’m not going to propose to her on opening night, if that’s what you’re thinking. But I know she wants one of those cottages, so I’m going to get it for her and…Jesus, Marty, get a grip.”

Marty wiped his eyes with the napkin Brenda handed him.

My chest felt warm. He’d always treated me like a son and asked for nothing in return, except that I show up to rehearsal on time. The heat in my heart was pure gratitude, but also relief.

I don’t have to say goodbye.

I leveled my fork at him. “You can’t say a word about Willow to anyone. No one can know about us. Her dad will flip his shit and you’ll be short one Ophelia.”

“Lydia is a passable understudy…”

I gave him a look.

“Oh fine, Willow’s extraordinary. But Isaac, she’s…young.”

“I’m behaving myself, Marty,” I said. “I swear. I care about her a lot.”

Understatement of the goddamn century.

Now it was Brenda’s turn to wipe her eyes. She got up from her seat, reached to hold my cheeks and smacked a kiss in the middle of my forehead.

“I’m proud of you,” Martin said. “And shocked. You and Willow. I never saw it coming.”

“There’s some straight-up bullshit,” I said into my water glass.

“Language,” Martin said laughing. “And I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. I was going to make a smart-ass comment about his meddling and matchmaking, but I was too damn grateful.

Martin laced his fingers behind his neck, looking supremely proud of himself. “You and Willow. Sweet lovers love the spring…That’s As You Like It…” He slapped his hand on the table. “As You Like It.” He looked at his wife. “I’ve always wanted to do that one. Can you not see them? Willow and Isaac as Rosalind and Orlando?”

I rolled my eyes and forked a bite of okra, unable to stop smiling myself. “Too soon, Marty.”

“Well, since you’re sticking around…” He grinned and shot me a wink. “But you’ll have to audition first, of course.”

That night, at dress rehearsal, I felt fucking invincible. The pieces of my broken life were falling into place. The only dark spot was my dad. I prayed to any god that was listening to watch over him, make sure he was okay until I could take care of him. I’d see him on Sunday to deliver the week’s money, and I vowed to talk to him. Tell him everything was going to be okay. The silence of my shitty childhood and his abuse was fading. Because of Willow, I was learning to trust my own voice. Because she hadn’t demanded that I be anything more than what I was.

And I love her for it.

The thought slugged me hard. I sat staring into space, flinching when Frank, the stage manager, knocked on the dressing room door.

“Three minutes,” he said. “Three minutes to warm-ups.”

“Hear that, thespians?” Len said, giving his fake white beard another dab of spirit gum. “Three minutes and this dress rehearsal is a go.”

I looked in the mirror, darkening my own light beard and forcing my concentration through my pre-show process. I scrolled through Hamlet’s evolution, mentally mapping his journey through every Act.

“Are you ready, Hamlet the Dane?” Len said. He clapped me on the shoulder, then cringed. “Sorry. You’re doing your mental thing. I respect that.”

I smiled a little. “You respect it, Len, but you never remember.”