“Exactly.”
“And you’re here.”
“I am.”
“Which means a lot.”
She chuckles. “Thanks. I’m going to head out so you can get ready, but can I see you after?”
“Yeah, of course!”
“Awesome.” She leaves, calling back over her shoulder, “Break a leg …”
Knowing they’ll be out there watching, I’m going to make it the best performance I’ve ever had. I want to blow them away with how incredible the entire show is and have them go home and talk about it with everyone who wishes I would disappear from the family tree. I want her to talk about how amazing I was until they’re sick of hearing my name. Until my parents, just for fucking once, acknowledge they maybe had it wrong. Maybe me being gay isn’t everything. Maybe there are other reasons they can be proud of me.
I give my nose ring a few small tugs, trying to get refocused. It’s not long now until curtains up. Word has been spreading and we’ve had some great reviews, which makes me hopeful that this doesn’t all end once this run of shows are up, even if we haven’tbeen able to fill the theater yet. But I’m trying not to think too far ahead. Especially when ahead is a clusterfuck of unknown.
All I have to do right now, is go out there and perform for the only family who gives a shit about me. And sure, maybe it’s not the right kind of shit like Émile expects, but after seeing his family, all it’s done is remind me that no one’s perfect. I’ll take what I can get.
Still, the stabbing reminder that the hope I was holding on to about my parents was for nothing kinda hits deep. Seventeen years they were in my life. They were warm and kind and so loving.
Then one tiny part of me wasn’t who they thought I was and like that … nothing. Some days I struggle to remember what it was like to have parents.
“You ready?” Sophie asks on her way past.
I jerk out of my pity party and realize everyone is already on the move.
“Yep. Totally. Let’s knock ’em dead.”
Josie cares. Josie’s here. I’m going to make it my best performance ever, which shouldn’t be hard considering the entire crew are buzzing. We can all feel it. That precipice of potential. After years of working in and out of small productions and local theater, this could be the show that takes us somewhere.
But we’re only as good as our last performance, so I clear all the pressure and try to get into character. I might not have any lines to memorize, but constant costume changes and high-level choreography are more than enough for me to keep up with.
The opening music trembles through me, settling some of my nerves as my mind empties. Mostly. It’s still holding to the knowledge that Josie made the effort. Josie’s here.
The nerves amp up again but I wrestle them down. No time for those.
My cue hits and I run out onto the stage. The attention feels heavier today, the audience most interested. Where normally I slip into the background as an unidentifiable figure, today IknowI’m being watched. Studied. Judged.
I push myself. Spin harder. Faster. I’m overly conscious of my footwork and end up flubbing a few steps. It’s minor. No one notices. I fuck one of my rotations which puts me a beat behind everyone else, but it’s okay. I can catch up. This is only the first number and starting on the back foot only gives me room to improve.
I try to sink into that nothing place I go when I perform. Where my brain empties and I let the moves take over, but reality crashes into me when I sidestep too far and collide with another dancer. Brit? Joseph? I don’t stop to look.
With any luck it will have gone unnoticed. Well, for anyone but Josie. Josie, who’s watching. Josie, who cares. Josie, who wants to be proud of me, but I’m making it so hard.
Sweat prickles along my brow, and my heartbeat is drumming way harder than it should be. I have one wild, ridiculous moment where I think—heart attack or indigestion—and it’s enough to throw me off. I spring onto the bench and the second I launch off it, I know I’ve fucked up. I twist the wrong way, send the backflip over too fast, and my foot smacks into something. There’s a muffled grunt, I land, barely, foot too far out and I throw myself back to correct before I face plant, hit a prop instead, and lose all sense of the stage around me as my feet disappear.
I fall back, hit something that slows my descent and gives off a thunderous rustle. A groan. And then an enormous bang as I hit the stage.
It takes a very long moment for anything to happen. Sound. Feeling. Sight. It’s all sucked away into aholy shitvoid where I’m about to cry.
The stage backdrop is behind me, pulled tight under my weight, the cables keeping it suspended, pulled to their limits, and I’m just waiting for the entire thing to fall.
But hey, if it lands on me, at least then no one will be staring.
“Oh my god, Christian, are you okay?” Reece asks, darting from backstage as a voice announces that there’ll be a quick intermission and the curtain starts to drop.
I don’t answer. Because there is no answer. Because I’m dead. Surely I’m dead.