Beneath the Lights

by Taralynn Moore

Almost tears.

  Because I wasn’t crying either.

  Chapter 3

  Three Years Later

  I peeked out from behind the curtains, scanning the crowd of parents’ faces.

  “Is he here?” Marc stood a few feet away, his red bow tie as awry as his face.

  “I’m still looking.” My mom waved with a big smile, and I waved back.

  Beside her, Marc’s mom sat with a sullen look, an empty seat on her other side. I knew that look. My mom used to have it all the time.

  Before she stopped expecting the disappointment.

  I looked back to Marc. “I don’t think he’s coming. Your mom’s face is all twisty.”

  “She might look like that if he’s coming.”

  True. The curtain bobbled as I pushed it back again to look out. Marc’s mom was motioning someone into the previously saved seat. The gray-haired woman with a knitting bag was definitely not Marc’s dad.

  I turned to him with a slow shake of my head. He dropped his, scuffing his heel against the stage. “I knew it. I knew he wouldn’t come. It’s so stupid.”

  “I’m sorry I made you do this.”

  “You didn’t.”

  I did.

  It was selfish of me. He hated being in front of crowds. But I’d wanted my best friend there during the rehearsals, the recital. It was our last year together wading through the middle school waters. Next year, on a new campus? Who knew what would happen. High school loomed with a wicked mix of anticipation and fear, and I was afraid I’d lose him in a crowd of new faces. So, I’d made him sing with me. For weeks. When his dad had called for the first time in months, and he’d told him about the performance, Marc had almost burst with excitement. His dad had mentioned wanting to see it. He was coming home. For him.

  But now . . .

  The music began to play, and Mrs. Fletcher ushered us into the line feeding onto the stage risers. Marc and I filed along the back row, shuffling into place with the other students. I gave him a smile, smoothed the red velvet folds of my dress, and squinted past the stage light glare to where I’d spotted my mom earlier.

  A gasp escaped my lips. My throat squeezed shut just as the music began to play.

  I’d been so focused on finding Marc’s dad in the audience, I hadn’t noticed . . . mine.

  His hair had more gray, but it was his face and my eyes that stared back.

  Why was he here? I looked to my mom. She sat beside him, arms crossed, jaw clenched. The twisty face that had long gone now revisited with a vengeance.

  I tried to mouth the words to the songs, tried to play along, but I had no voice. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Marc’s head bobbing back and forth as he volleyed between staring down my dad and nudging me to perform. He knew I had my eye on the lead in the spring musical, but if I couldn’t pull off the Christmas concert as a choir member, Mrs. Fletcher would never cast me.

  My solo was next, and I still hadn’t uttered a note. My heart pounded, but then, in an act usually reserved for comforting moments of solitude between houses and shrubbery, he reached down and his hand clasped mine. I didn’t know if the audience could see it beyond the rows of kids in front of us, but I didn’t care. His touch was steady. His touch was home. And everything I needed to remember who and where I was.

  The spotlight beamed as the other students stopped singing and the chords built up to my verse. I closed my eyes, took a breath . . . and sang. Strong and clear and true. Marc’s warm hand my only link back to reality.

  Until I opened my eyes.

  The final note had barely escaped from my lips when I noticed.

  He was gone.

  My dad.

  He was just . . . gone.

  My mother sat empty-faced, empty-handed.

  And the only consolation I had . . . was that I wasn’t.

  Marc didn’t let go. Not when the lights faded. Not when the other students poured off the stage to their parents. We stood together as his mom chased mine down the aisle, tissues in hand.

  He squeezed my fingers. “Want some tea?”

  “Yeah.” I tried to answer, unsure if a sound had even come out.

  He must’ve heard it because he pulled me backstage and down the hall to the cafeteria.

  “We’re not supposed to be in here.” My protest was weak as I followed him through the kitchen door.

  “I don’t care.”

  “But—”

  He rubbed my back. “I’ll leave a quarter for the tea, okay?”

  My palm felt cool, empty, now that he’d released my hand.

  I watched as he fixed a cup of tea. Microwaved water, but it would work. “You’re not having any?”

  “Oh. Sure.” He quickly fixed himself a cup too.

  We made our way back into the dining hall and over to the Christmas tree lighting the corner of the room. It was tired, worn, like how my heart felt, and somehow that comforted me. The tea soothed my throat, my chest. Marc set his aside and scooted beneath the branches.

  I laughed. “What are you doing?”

  He waved me over. “Come here.”

  I slid in beside him and looked up.

  “It’s beautiful, right?” He let out a breath.

  “Yeah.” And it was. Tired or not. It still glowed.

  His hand brushed mine, and he clasped it again.

  “Another Christmas together,” he whispered.

  I swallowed. “Yup.” My thumb rubbed along his, just once. “Thank you for being there tonight.”

  His thumb rubbed mine back. “Always.”

  Our eyes met beneath the lights of the dusty worn tree, our old promise at the ready as our voices chorused one final moment for the night. “We stay.”

  After that, silence reigned. Because no words could explain away the madness, could take away the hurt, that was our lives, our family.

  But this moment, this was ours.

  And we were in it. Together.

  Chapter 4

  Four Years Later

  The carpet had a worn path from my years of pacing. In the same spot. Often for the same reason.

  Marc.

  I stared at my phone, willing him to message back. The screen lit like a beacon.

  Hey. Sorry.

  I scrambled to respond. Are you home? I pictured him in his disaster of a room, waving his hockey stick like a sword through the air.

  Just left practice.

  Oh, that’s right. I sighed.

  What’s with the 50 texts?

  My fingers itched to type back. What’s with ignoring me?

  But I didn’t. Because he wasn’t. Technically.

  I took a deep breath, relaying a calmer message through my fingers. I need to finalize plans for winter formal. He needed to ask me. Why hadn’t he asked me?

  Okay.

  I waited.

  Nothing.

  And?

  And I support your efforts?

  I chucked the phone at my padded headboard, and it promptly slid between the mattress and the wall. I dove after it, shoving my arm into the carefully tidied depths under my bed. Just out of reach. The phone flashed at me. Marc was still texting.

  Shouldn’t you be talking to Shayne anyway?

  I stared at it through narrowed eyes. Why Shayne?

  He said he was going to ask you.

  My stomach formed a pit. I’d rather go solo than go anywhere with Shayne Rochford and his grabby hands. I smiled. He’d tried to corner me against my locker before English lit, as if I liked having no say in who entered my personal space. I’d probably broken at least one of his toes with the heel of my foot before he’d even been able to ask the dreaded question.

  I shoved my arm further down, grasped the phone, and finally retrieved it.

  He won’t be now. His limp today? All me.

  Haha. Nice. He’s a punk anyway.

  Agreed.

  I stared at the screen, rubbing my shoulder where I’d mashed it against the bed.

  Ask me. Ask me
. Don’t make me ask you.

  I’m sure you’ll figure something out.

  I sighed. Really, Marc?

  Are you still going with Keri?

  I knew the answer. They’d broken up last week.

  No. lol I’m all crazied out. Thanks.

  Maybe she went crazy from trying to make plans with you.

  I jabbed in my reply. Thou shalt not call women crazy.

  Hey, crazy is crazy. Shayne’s crazy too. Better?

  I see. Equal opportunity shaming.

  Exactly.

  I rolled my eyes and sent him an image of the same.

  My phone felt bulky in my hand, heavy with the weight of unanswered, unissued questions. I tapped at the side.

  Fine. I’d ask. So you’re going solo?

  To what?

  If dense had a middle name, it would’ve been Marc. The formal.

  Oh. Nah. Signed up for a shift at work.

  My breath hitched. He hadn’t even thought to ask me. We’d both just ended super lackluster relationships, had been hanging out more again, and still. I wasn’t on his radar.

  Not like that anyway.

  I swallowed. Ok. I’ll hit up Em. See what she’s doing.

  Good idea. Gotta shower. Nite, J.

  Nite.

  The theme was winter wonderland. Not exceptionally creative for a winter formal, but at least they’d pulled it off. White trees filled with white lights popped against silver backdrops offering the perfect photo op from all angles. Emily and I had arrived with a couple other friends. It wasn’t not fun, but it definitely wasn’t what I’d pictured when I’d broken up with Ken.

  It wasn’t shocking, the moment when I realized I’d buried my feelings for Marc. We’d been sitting on my porch, reading under a bundle of blankets. It had been too long since we’d hung out, even to study. He was chomping on an apple, his jaw working overtime to crush the large, crisp bites. And I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, couldn’t shake the idea that his jaw should be working those lips against mine. And that nothing could be more normal than that.

  Except he had a girlfriend. And, technically, I was still attached.

  But still. It was all I could think about.

  He’d frowned at me from behind his apple, going in for another mouthful. “You okay, J?”

  A little apple bit flew out of his mouth, and I wiped it off the arm of my sweater.

  “Yeah.” I laughed. “I’m great.” How was this not disgusting me?

  I’d stared at him as he wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

  Really? Marc? What was I thinking?

  Ken—yes, he looked like the doll—was all the things I was supposed to want. Especially as a senior. He was kind, smart, future-focused and goal-oriented. He loved to think ahead, organize a calendar, his space. He even managed to pull off a sweater vest with style. Well, at least I thought so.

  But he wasn’t Marc. He wasn’t home.

  He wasn’t . . . us.

  So, I’d ended it. That night.

  And now?

  Emily pulled at my arm, bringing my thoughts back to the dance floor. Whatever. Faces of my choir friends surrounded me with smiles and laughter, and I shook off the memory and its hold, letting the music takeover. Until the song changed and a slow one started. Couples paired up across the room, forming into two-headed blobs of hands and feet. I could only imagine melting into someone that much, being that open. I’d only ever dated from a distance.

  At least with my heart.

  I started to shuffle out of the crowd, when it parted, leaving nothing but open floor space.

  Leading straight to Marc.

  His suit was a little rumpled, his tie completely crooked.

  But he was staring at me like I was the only person in the room. Like he was the only person who’d seen me, the real me, for my whole life.

  Maybe he was.

  With only a few steps, he was at my side. “You look amazing.”

  My heart kicked into overdrive.

  “I know.” I blushed, my confidence a cover, and smoothed the dark green fabric of my dress.

  His hand trailed mine down the fabric. “Green’s my favorite color.”

  I searched his eyes. “I know.”

  The smile that fell across his face warmed me to the core.

  I beamed back. “I thought you had to work.”

  He shrugged. “You wanted me here with you.”

  “I never said that.”

  His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “You didn’t have to.” He took my hands and leaned into my neck. “Jillian, dance with me.”

  This wasn’t an offhand request, not the dance of friends we’d had before. This was the dance of more. Of maybe. Of possibility.

  And without another word, our bodies joined into a blob of our own. His head rested on mine, his arms swept across my back, and we swayed as one until the song was through, and the next. And the next.

  His mouth hovered over my ear. “Come on, we have to go.”

  I smiled, my body all tingles, then frowned. “Wait. What?”

  He took my hand, paused us for a pic against one of the silver backdrops, like he was checking it off a list of things to do before we escaped, and ushered me outside and into his Jeep.

  He’d worked three jobs over the summer to buy the fixer-upper, then months afterschool getting it ready to roll. He was proud of it. And I was proud of him.

  “Marc, the dance is inside.” I had to protest because he’d left without asking me, but the look on his face was priceless, like this was his Christmas and he was the ultimate Santa.

  “Ours isn’t.” He flipped the radio on low and holiday music settled into the silence as he drove to our mystery destination. His hand found mine, and he laced his fingers through.

  I stared at our hands, then looked back to his face.

  His brow furrowed. “Is this okay?”

  “More than okay.” I rubbed my thumb along his and thought about how right this felt, how real. Why hadn’t we done it before?

  The Jeep bounced over whatever backroad he’d turned down, jolting me against him. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder, drawing me in closer.

  Lights appeared before us out of the treed darkness, hung above a perfect little ice skating pond. I looked up at him with the largest grin. “You’re teaching me?” I laughed. “Tonight?”

  He’d been pestering me for years, but it was only last year I’d finally agreed to it, letting go of my fear of falling. We’d just never gotten around to it.

  “I told you I had to work.” He winked. “Old Man Jones said my next lesson had to be you or he was firing me.” The Jeep rolled into a spot, and he put it in park. “He tried blaming Mrs. Jones—called her a matchmaker—but I think he was just tired of hearing me talk about you all the time.” He laughed, then dipped his head, blushing a bit.

  I did too. Okay, more than a bit. “I’m glad he put his foot down.”

  “He is pretty wise.” His eyes twinkled. He reached for something in the backseat and got out, slamming the door behind him, before walking around to my side of the car and opening the door with a flourish.

  His backseat retrieval had been a box of brand-new skates, gleaming with hope.

  Just like us.

  “Instead of flowers?” He grinned.

  My face lit up. “Better than flowers.”

  He shimmied the skates onto my feet, his hands working their way through the laces and further into my heart with a masterful precision before he pulled on his own.

  “I really should’ve tried to break yours in for you.” He shook his head. “You’re going to be slipping all over the place.”

  “I’m not worried.” My heart grew at least two sizes as I watched him. “You’ll catch me.”

  Guards on, we walked the short distance to the rink. Mrs. Jones waved hello from a porch window, happy, pink-cheeked, beneath a soft puff of gray hair. Mr. Jones gave us a mischievous smile before disappearing indoors to see about s
ome music. Marc’s boss, mostly friend, delivered on his promise within minutes and soft waves of holiday songs spun through the air before we’d even hit the ice. It made my heart happy that they’d found each other. The childless, surface-only curmudgeon and the down-a-father aimless boy. What a difference they’d made in each other’s lives. I shivered to think what direction Marc might have fallen without their relationship. Unlike my dad, when his had left, he’d never come back.

  At all.

  We still couldn’t decide if that was actually better, but at least I’d had a chance to say my piece. Well, not that I’d taken it. But if I’d wanted to . . .

  Marc held my hand as I bobbled across the ice. “I can’t believe you’ve never learned.”

  “I can’t believe it’s taken you this long to teach me, mister hockey star.”

  I nearly tumbled, but he stopped the fall, steadying my body against his. Then, center ice, in the quiet of the night, with nothing but the whisper of music, the cool wind, and glowing lights to keep us company, Marc tipped his head down, and his lips met mine for the first time. My pulse raced, his jaw working its apple magic as his mouth moved with a soft pull against my own.

  I swear I could taste the sweetness.

  When he pulled away, his brown eyes gleamed bright, perfectly content.

  My heart skipped with happiness. “This isn’t going to help my balance any.”

  He laughed. “We’ve got nothin’ but time for that.”

  And he leaned in for another kiss.

  Chapter 5

  Two Years Later

  What once felt like endless time together had gone in a flash, before college hit with its hurdle of separation. He never thought he’d go, but hockey brought scholarship offers pouring in. We’d tried to stay close, but I was hours away, pursuing an architecture degree, my skills in organized creativity finally getting put to use.

  We’d promised we’d see each other on weekends, but with his game schedule and my class load, we were lucky if it was once a month.

  It was a Friday near midnight when my phone rang. “Where are you?”