My hands ached. Calluses covered fingers and palms. I breathed more sawdust than air, doused myself in paint and fumes, did nothing but sand and measure and hammer and screw and bleed and bleed again until each night I passed out on a single mattress on the floor in the corner of the backstage area.
No distractions. Only work.
I showered at a nearby gym. I ate every meal at a diner. I lived to work, losing myself in the rhythms. Sometimes, I texted Max, because I couldn’t leave her completely, because I was too weak for that, but I also couldn’t see her, not until the work was finished.
Not until I could show her that I’m not the man I used to be, that I won’t fail her the way I failed my father, that I won’t ruin her or destroy her, because she’s far too precious to me, more precious than anything else in this miserable world.
But I probably fucked that up too.
Walking away was the wrong decision, and I’ll never forgive myself for it.
At the time it seemed like everything Cowan said was true, that I would only make Blair suffer if I stayed. It felt so real to me then, and I did the only thing I could think to do, and now I look back with a horrible, deep, aching sense of regret.
Walking away only proved Cowan right.
Now, I want to prove him wrong.
I drown myself in work.
Because it’s not enough to go back to her and kneel on the ground and kiss her feet and beg.
It’s not enough to tell her I was stupid and confused and angry, so fucking angry.
It’s nowhere near enough.
I need to show her that I’ve changed. That I’m decent. That I can love. That I can bring good things into this world, not just misery and sadness.
So I worked. For a month, I worked.
My entire world existed in a theater.
Now, I’m bone tired, and for the first time since this all began, I feel like I’m lifting my head above water and looking at my surroundings.
At my theater.
At the theater my father helped build, and now I’m rebuilding as a monument to all my failings, but also as a symbol of what I can do better moving forward.
It’s beautiful. Better than I ever dreamed possible. It’s not completely done—one man can only do so much, even working day and night—but the shape of it feels ready. The seats are reupholstered, the concession stand is completely redone and renovated, the stage is refinished, the molding is updated and repaired, and a dozen more fixes add up to a single cohesive vision.
My vision for the future, for Blair and my baby.
Maybe it’s naive to think doing all this can possibly make up for walking out on her for a month. I know it’s foolish to expect her to turn around and accept this apology, or to see what I’m trying to show her. But I hope that one day, maybe in a month, or maybe in ten years, maybe one day she’ll understand that she can trust me.
That I love her more than I ever thought I could love someone before.
The front door opens with a loud screech and I remind myself to fix that tomorrow as footsteps echo in the room. A figure approaches, moving through the gloom and into the light of the main stage. He stops at the edge of the shadows, but I recognize him, and a strange shiver of anticipation runs down my spine.
“Love what you did with the place,” Alexander Webb says. Blair’s father comes closer and looks up at me with his arms crossed over his chest.
“I didn’t expect you to show up here.” I remain standing, staring down into his eyes. Max must’ve told him about this place. I asked Max not to tell anyone—but ah, well, I can’t be angry at the kid. “What can I do for the illustrious Alexander Webb?”
“Oh, so I’m illustrious now? The last time we met, you acted like you barely know who I am.”
I smile at the memory and gesture at him. “Seriously, what do you want?”
“I came to check in on you. Honestly, I didn’t expect all this. I’m impressed.” I don’t believe him at first, but he’s looking around with a satisfied frown of surprise and maybe he’s not fucking with me after all.
Pride swells in my chest. Pride of a hard job done well. But I remind myself I didn’t suffer to impress Blair’s father.