by Ciz, Alley
Nope. Time to take every ounce of anguish I’ve felt and pour it into tonight’s performance.
Zoey is suspiciously quiet on our trip to the theater, but I don’t inquire.
It isn’t until I’m braiding my hair to fit under my wigs and applying my stage makeup that I’m able to relegate everything that isn’t the show to the back of my mind.
Dressed in my first costume, I head to the stage for the passing of the Legacy Robe, one of Broadway’s oldest traditions.
With it only being a couple of weeks away from the cutoff for Tony eligibility, we will be one of the last shows to get the robe this season.
Arms linked, Zoey and I join the circle of our castmates. In the center stands last year’s recipient with the white robe draped over his arms.
The representative from the Actors’ Equity Association goes through each custom we observe. First, he introduces each cast member making his or her Broadway debut tonight. I may have been seven when I made mine, but I’ll never forget the excitement, the nerves, and the joy. We applaud and cheer for them, our way of formally inducting them into the Broadway family.
Other formalities include introducing the production’s Equity chorus counselors, naming anyone else who has had the honor of receiving the robe, and finally a reading of a scripted history of the robe.
Then the fun begins. Our production’s recipient—the chorus member with the largest number of Broadway chorus credits—dons the robe, which is decorated with patches from all the other shows from the season.
Falling in line with various other weird theater traditions and superstitions, he must circle the stage counterclockwise three times, making sure to touch everyone for good luck.
A memento from our show will be added to the robe under the recipient’s supervision, and during intermission, the rest of the cast will sign near it.
“Mels.” Zoey grabs my hand as I move to exit the stage.
She’s worrying her lip hard enough I’m afraid she might chew a hole in it. “Zo?”
“So…ummm…” Her chest rises and falls with a deep inhalation.
“Spit it out, Zo.”
She curses in Portuguese, looks over her shoulder, down to the stage, at the curtain before finally bringing her gaze back to me. “I wasn’t sure if I should say anything or not…”
“Do you think you can tell me before curtain maybe?”
“Fuck it,” she says, more to herself than me. “Come here.” She takes my hand again and pulls me with her deep into the wing of the stage.
We edge around the heavy red velvet fabric of the closed curtains, keeping to the shadows to avoid being seen by those in the audience.
“Look just off center in the orchestra.” She keeps her hand close as she points.
What?
Is Nate here?
We have two minutes until curtain so I do as she says, scanning over ushers and people finding their seats. It’s a packed house tonight, which only adds to the adrenaline.
What does she want me to see?
I keep scanning, only to double back.
Holy shit!
Jase is here.
Jase and what looks like most of his family and friends are here. It’s hard to miss a group of men their size; they tend to stand out even seated.
What is he doing here?
Why did he come?
What does this mean?
My heart is pounding like I just finished the dance number at the end of scene three, and if I don’t start breathing, I’m at serious risk of passing out.
My fake lashes brush my eyebrows as my eyes go wide, trying to make sense of what they’re seeing, but it’s impossible.
Does he forgive me?
Does he regret what he said?
Is he only here because of some sense of obligation?
“Zoey,” I plead. For what, I’m not sure.
“He didn’t want me to say anything to you.”
“You talked to him?” I squeak.
What the fuck? He can text my best friend but not me?
“Yes. I helped him get the tickets for tonight.”
The look I give says we are not done with this conversation, but with the shout from the stage director calling for places, there’s no time to get into it.
“You know where he is. Go show him what you’re made of.” Zoey smacks my ass, because why wouldn’t she?
One more glance at the audience then I roll my shoulders back, resolved to put on the performance of my life. Marilyn Monroe was a natural seductress, a force of nature, a goddamn icon even decades after her death.
Time to channel the bombshell for more than the show. We have a man to get back.
“Break a leg, Mels.” Zoey wishes me good luck, but I don’t need it. Jase sitting in the audience is all the luck I need.
Showtime.
Chapter Fifty-Four
This is it.
Showtime—no pun intended.
The groundwork has been laid. The Zamboni has laid down a fresh sheet of ice, if you will.
I’ve gone Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade big for tonight’s grand gesture.
Fingers crossed it’s enough to get my girl back.
“You think this will work?” Cali’s question echoes my thoughts.
“I sure as shit hope so.” I keep my gaze locked on the red velvet curtain covering the stage.
“It’ll work,” JD says from my left.
“We got your back.” Rocky rubs my shoulder from her seat behind me.
“Always, bro,” Vince tacks on.
“I feel like a proud mama.” Turning in my seat, I see Maddey has her hands clasped in front of her chest, a dreamy expression on her face.
“This can’t be good,” Justin mutters under his breath. If her own brother is concerned, it can’t bode well for me.
“I’m almost afraid to ask.” Ryan shifts in his seat next to hers. “But why?”
“It’s like I helped write how this would play out. I mean it’s tailor-made for Melody.” Maddey waves an arm around the theater filling with people. “It’s like I’ve taught you all the things, and my baby bird is ready to fly the nest.”
“And to think…” I don’t need to see Skye to know she’s smirking. “He figured it out all on his own, unlike numb-nuts over here.” She hooks a thumb at Vince.
“True…too bad he can’t figure out how to actually get Holls to accept his proposals.” Becky snorts.
Jake leans across JD. “Ignore them.”
“Easier said than done.” I rake a hand through my hair.
I’m still not all that confident this will work. Sure, Maddey is all about how this is my grand gesture and yes, that is my intention, but we aren’t doing anything major.
Zoey and Ella proved themselves to be surprisingly willing allies, helping to arrange the more than two dozen tickets needed for our group. If my baby’s family can’t be bothered to show up and support her, mine sure as hell will.
I had to alter my original plans slightly to accommodate the traditions and superstitions of the theater, but as a lifelong hockey player, I understand.
My nerves are starting to take over, and listening to my people is not helping. The heels of my palms dig into the muscles of my thighs when I wipe the sweat on them off on my suit pants. My pulse is racing, and if I were wearing a tie, I’d be loosening it.
The lights of the theater flash, signaling that the show will be starting in a few minutes.
My surroundings fade, the lights turn down, and I focus on the stage. I shift, balancing on the edge of my seat. The orchestra starts to play. My breath catches in my throat as the curtains lift.
There she is.
My baby stands center stage, under a lone spotlight, curves fully on display in a tight skirt stopping midcalf. I drink her in, missing her pink hair, which is currently hidden underneath her brown wig.
The music eases down and Melody starts to sing, her voice sure and strong. I thought hearing her sing at The Duel
was something, but holy shit, homegirl was holding out on me.
I’m enthralled from the first note.
Scene by scene, song by song, I don’t know if I even blink as I watch her disappear, Marilyn Monroe taking her place. She owns the role so wholly the sight of her kissing other men doesn’t have my hands clenching like I suspected it would.
Intermission comes, but my ass remains rooted in my seat.
Close by, Lyle is gushing over the glitz and glamour of the show, and the girls are talking about god knows what.
Me? I’m running through my plans like plays in the Storm’s playbook, going over every angle, all the potential pitfalls, what I need to do in case I need to go for a rebound shot if the first fails.
Halfway through the second act, Mels has a solo number where Marilyn is singing about the loss of yet another husband. The heartbreak she portrays is visceral and hits me like a punch in the gut.
Her dark eyes find mine, and though I doubt she can see me with the bright lights—or, you know, due to the fact that she doesn’t even know I’m here—none of it takes away from the feeling that she’s singing to me.
Is she pulling from experience for her performance? Did she feel this way when I walked away? Was what I said too much for her to forgive?
She tells the story of how we—she and Arthur Miller, not she and I we—had magic but now things are tragic and we are left as shells. Fuck if that isn’t precisely how I’ve felt all these weeks.
I let my issues ruin the best thing that had ever happened to me, but I own my shit. Finally talking to Ryan was only the first step. The biggest will be extending the olive branch to Nate.
When Marilyn commits suicide, tears fall from my eyes, and I want to rush the stage and scoop her into my arms.
The stage goes dark, and the next scene is set, the show going on until we finally get to the last number of the show.
And as Vince would say, Holy Bombshell Batman is Mels something else in a sequined gold gown. She sparkles and shines, and I want to the kiss the red lipstick off her face.
The somber mood in the theater from the death of an icon disappears as she sings about all the reasons the world shouldn’t forget about her.
Melody isn’t the only Marilyn on stage for the final number. In the stage’s adaptation of a movie montage, spotlights around her turn on and off, depicting Ms. Monroe in her most recognizable roles.
She belts out the last note, holding it far longer than should be humanly possible.
The curtains close and the entire audience is on their feet giving a standing ovation, none clapping harder or cheering louder than me.
The red velvet rises for the cast’s curtain call, starting with different groupings of the chorus and trickling down to the leads. Melody is the last to take her bow, and the noise level inside the theater could rival that of any Storm game.
With everyone on their feet, it’s easy for me to scoop up my package and make my way out of the row, headed for the stage.
I’m coming for you, baby.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Without a doubt, that was the best performance of my career. I don’t know if it was because Marilyn was a role I was born to play or the fact that I knew Jase was in the audience. Either way, I left everything out there on the stage, purging every chaotic emotion I’ve felt since the night we first met.
Rhythmic chanting of “Mel-o-dy! Mel-o-dy! Mel-o-dy!” filters through the applause, and there is no way to miss Jase’s family. Thank god my face is caked in thick stage makeup because the heat in my cheeks has nothing to do with the hot lights shining on me and everything to do with them acting the same way they did when I was at the hockey game with them.
“Mel-o-dy! Mel-o-dy!”
“Whooo!”
“We know her!”
“Crushed it.”
I shouldn’t be able to hear them, but they are that loud.
There are a few waves when they notice I’ve spotted them. Scanning the group, I double back but don’t see the one I want.
Where’d he go?
Did he leave?
Why would he leave?
Zoey rushes the stage, throwing her arms around me, and I let her distract me from my worries.
The opening night pomp and circumstance continues with flowers presented to those essential in creating our masterpiece. Zoey for choreography, the director, the book writer, and the composer all get bouquets.
I expect Zoey to pass one off to me as well, but when I turn in her direction, all I get is a grin. She misses the questioning look I send her way, because she’s not looking at me but at something over my shoulder.
Spinning around, the beads of my dress clack together in a swirl of fabric. I search, cursing her taller stature when it takes me precious seconds to find what—or in this case, who—put that expression on her face.
Waiting in the shadows, looking too good for my sanity in a dark gray suit and white collared shirt, sans tie, is Jase. He winks, and my insides turn to goo.
My mind whirls. What does this mean? Is he here for me? Who else would he be here for? Does he forgive me? If he can forgive me, I can certainly forgive him.
He stalks across the stage, his long legs eating up the distance between us with ease. Canting my head back, I notice his shirt isn’t plain white; there are skinny green pinstripes in the weave, enhancing the color of his hazel eyes.
I eat him up with my gaze, starting at his carefully styled blond hair, moving down to those color-changing eyes, ghosting over the healing yellow bruise on his jaw I know he got from a fight in the first round, scanning the short scruff of playoff beard, only stopping once I get to those tempting lips that are tilting up in a smirk.
His tongue sneaks out to lick across his bottom lip, and the glint of his piercing has me digging the heels of my stilettos into the wood beneath them to keep from launching my body at him.
I remind myself we’re in public, and if I touch him, there is zero chance of keeping things PG.
“Hey there, Sweet Potato.” His deep voice rumbles through me; my nipples tighten and my panties flood. I’ve missed this man something fierce.
“All-Star.” My voice cracks. “Wh-What are you doing here?”
His smirk turns downright devilish, and he pulls the hand I hadn’t noticed was hidden behind his back free. “I heard it’s tradition to give the lead actress flowers on opening night after the performance.” He lifts his arm, a small mason jar cradled in his hands.
My eyes bounce between his handsome face and the orange flowers held out to me before accepting the offering. The jar is heavier than I thought it would be, and I almost drop it. Bringing them to my nose to sniff, my brow furrows. Upon closer inspection, I see these aren’t actually roses. They’re—
“Sweet potatoes,” Jase says, completing my thought. “Gemma made them, and Skye did all the crafty shit to make it pretty.”
In the audience, I can see Gemma and Skye holding hands, watching us like we’re a part of the musical.
His large hands cup my elbows, his calloused fingers setting off their usual tingles. My body, having been starved for his touch for months, practically liquefies as he trails his fingers up the backs of my arms to my upper back, spanning it completely and tugging me a step closer.
Warm from the wall of heat in front of me, my eyes flutter closed as his thumbs trace circles on my bare skin.
“I’m sorry, baby.” He bends, whispering in my ear. “I should have never said what I did. I regretted it the second the words left my mouth.”
“I know,” I whisper. Jase is an inherently good person.
He inhales against my skin, the air brushing my neck, the stubble of his beard following in the wake. It’s like I’m an exposed nerve, my fingers doing their best to dig into the glass jar in my hands.
“I’m also sorry I walked away.”
“Why did you?” I turn to bury my nose in the open collar of his shirt, taking in the familiar scent of soap and ice.
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“Because I’m an idiot.”
I giggle. Can’t really argue with that. Then again, I wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box either.
“I let my own shit get in the way, and…I found you guilty by association. But I realized none of it matters anymore.” His nose runs along the vein I’m sure is pulsing visibly.
“No?” I sway forward.
“No.” The word rings with conviction.
“Then what does?”
On stage, with the musical’s full company surrounding us and a literal audience in front of us isn’t necessarily the best place for this conversation, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“You.” He kisses the soft spot behind my ear. “You are what matters.”
I roll my lips in to hold back a sob. Only three words could sound better than that.
He pulls back, staying bent to rest his forehead to mine. His hands are on the move again, rising to cup the back of my neck, his fingers threading together while his thumbs stroke the underside of my jaw. Eyes locked on mine, unblinking, he tells me, “I love you, baby.”
All the hurt, every tear that fell, all the unanswered texts dissolve from existence with those words. Yes, we will need to talk about what happened, but not here.
I get why he told me now, but I’m not returning the sentiment yet. Those words are meant for him and no one else. “Come with me.” I jerk my head back, and he nods in understanding.
Adjusting my “flowers,” I link my hand with his, luxuriating in the simple intimacy I missed more than I realized, weaving through the crowd, not stopping until we’re inside my dressing room. The moment Jase’s large frame steps over the threshold, I collapse against the door, shutting out the rest of the world.
The room isn’t all that large, only made smaller by the new piece of furniture I added to it, AKA Jase Donnelly. Seriously, the man is huge. I wouldn’t be all that surprised if his wingspan reaches wall to wall.
He’s standing between the small loveseat crammed in the corner and the makeup vanity, and the glow from the large bulb lights surrounding the mirror bounces off his golden hair as he takes in my new home away from home.
