by Emma Scott
No email. No phone. No way for her to contact me, even if she wanted, and I hadn’t lifted one goddamn finger to find her. I’d cut her out of my life entirely.
I held my head in my hands.
“What the fuck are you doing?” My voice echoed off the walls. “What the fuck have you been doing?”
It made sense back then. The pain was so raw and real. Losing Willow, watching her slip through my fingers on the opening night of Hamlet was like being shot in the heart all over again. After a life of so much misery, I finally had something good and perfect, and it disintegrated; I hadn’t been able to do a goddamn thing to stop it. So I’d rolled with it the only way I knew how.
I got the fuck out and didn’t look back.
The first few months were agony, but each day that passed was another brick in the wall between me and my old life and everyone in it—Marty, Brenda, Benny, Willow—until the wall was miles’ high and years’ thick. The only time I’d been back to Harmony was for my father’s funeral. I’d stayed long enough to see him laid to rest beside my mother, and then I was gone again, back behind the wall.
Now it was crumbling to sand.
It’s not too late, Marty always said. But what if it was? What if something terrible had happened to her?
I opened up my laptop and typed Willow Holloway into the Google search bar.
There she was. First hit, top of the page. My girl.
Goddamn tears stung my eyes. A review in the Harmony Tribune for A Doll’s House playing—of course—at the HCT.
Willow Holloway (20), is miraculous as Nora. A delicate, almost frail young woman who stoically manages the patriarchal conventions of Ibsen’s 1870 Denmark.
“Denmark,” I murmured gruffly, even as hope and pride and love swelled my chest. “We haven’t left Denmark, have we, baby?”
It is the final act of the play in which Miss Holloway’s expressive face reveals the emergence of Nora Torvald. Not a daughter, wife, or young mother, but as a woman—a human being. The realization is stunning to watch, proving that Miss Holloway’s debut performance in Hamlet three years ago was no fluke.
At the bottom of the article was a picture of Willow in a ruffled, high-collared dress that looked as if it were strangling her. Her smile for Len Hostetler, playing her husband Helmer, was sweet and passive, but fire burned in her eyes. She was still fighting.
I swallowed hard and shut the laptop.
“There you go, Pearce. Now you know where she is,” I said. “She came home.”
I left the office and flopped down on my empty, king-sized bed. A state-of-the-art luxury item that had never had a woman in it. When I first arrived in Los Angeles, I tried to date. To forget Willow and lose myself in someone else. But I’d sit across from a beautiful candidate and feel nothing. No desire. No interest. Not even base lust.
I miss her too much. I love her too much.
The closing night performance of A Doll’s House was Saturday, four days away. I tried to harden my heart against the idea of jumping on the next plane out. Tried to ignore the possibility of standing in the same room with Willow. Self-preservation and yet I didn’t know what was worth preserving. My life here was empty. But if I went back to Harmony, was there anything left between us to salvage?
She ended it, I reminded myself. She cut you out and wouldn’t tell you why. No recourse. No second chance. No defying her father’s bullshit. She chose him.
I’d mentally replayed our final scene on Hamlet’s opening night a thousand times. No matter the hurt and anger it dredged up, the heart-breaking, agonized expression on Willow’s face never changed. That night I’d been too blinded by my own pain to see hers. But she’d been dying on the inside too. Because she loved me.
The love was there first.
“Fuck…” I rubbed my hands down my face, then sat up and hurried back to the office.
Now that I knew where she was, the need to see her again was a ravenous hunger, and the simple truth was I’d starve to death without her.
She might hate me, or worse—ignore me, but…
If nothing else, I’ll see her perform. Just that. Start there and see what happens.
I dialed up Tyler. He answered on the second ring.
“What’s up, bro? Change your mind about hanging out?”
“No, man. Listen, I’m going out of town for a few days.”
“Okay,” Tyler said slowly, warily. “When are you coming back?”
I closed my eyes and conjured Willow in the hedge maze, with the sun setting behind her hair and her eyes full of love for me.
“Best case scenario?” I said. “Never.”
Willow
Saturday seemed to rush up to me. Marty added a performance of A Doll’s House on Thursday night at the last minute to give myself, Len, and Lorraine—who played my best friend, Christine in the play—an extra night. It sold out within hours of the announcement. Friday night was packed too, and as the standing ovation washed over us, I tried to savor it and hold on. Only one performance left.
At noon, I went to The Scoop to meet Angie. My heart pounded in my chest and happiness bubbled out of me in a small burst of laughter as I locked my bike outside the restaurant. We’d been talking and texting, but between her packed schedule at Stanford and my father’s constant relocations, we hadn’t been face-to-face in three years.
I opened the diner door, and saw her sitting at a booth for two facing the door. I noticed she wore glasses now, and her curled hair was a little bit shorter, her skin a little paler from long hours of study.
Then I burst into tears.
She was a blur as she scrambled out of the booth. She threw her arms around me and I held her tight, crying against her shoulder as years of missing her overwhelmed me, so that I could hardly stand.
I pulled back long enough to wipe my eyes and get a good look at her. Her T-shirt read, I will seduce you with my awkwardness. I laughed, then collapsed in tears all over again.
We stood smack in the middle of the restaurant, holding onto each other until we heard a little girl in another booth ask, “Mommy, what’s wrong with those two ladies?”
“Did you hear that, Holloway?” Angie said, finally pulling away and wiping her eyes. “The first and last time someone will ever call me a lady.”
I laughed again but it threatened to turn into more tears. We quickly slid into the booth, grabbing for napkins, laughing and clutching hands across the table, then needing more napkins.
I shook my head staring at her. “Holy shit, Angie, I missed you so much.”
“I missed you too, girl. It’s so good to see you. To really see you. You look great.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s been a long road just to get to presentable.”
“How are you really? How are things with your parents?” she asked, bracing for the answer.
“Weird,” I said. “My dad’s in ass-kissing mode. I think once we’d been in Canada for a few months, his eyes opened and he saw what a mess I was. He finally grasped the damage that he’d done. He expected my pain would wear off. It never did. I never outgrew my feelings for Isaac.” I shrugged, glanced down at my hands. “I’m twenty years old and I’m still in love with him.”
“Oh, honey.” Angie reached across the table and took my hand.
“Not that it matters, I suppose.”
Her dark eyes flared with anger. “Isaac had to know you were being forced to break up with him, right?”
“I think so. I never told him what my father actually threatened. It was too horrible—so obscenely wrong… I was afraid it would make Isaac stay in Harmony. Stay and fight for us and end up losing everything. His future. I couldn’t let that happen and have him resent me later.” I sighed. “I’m glad he went, I just…didn’t expect him not to reach out at some point. I guess it was too hard for him. He’d already lost so much.”
“What about what you lost?” Angie burst out. She saw me through the dark months after my father moved us out of Harmony, an
d I knew she’d been biting her tongue about Isaac the entire time. “So that’s it?” she asked, struggling for calm. “You forgive him? Just like that?”
“It’s not that simple,” I said. “It’s not yes or no, it’s…all tangled up. Yes, I’m hurt and angry with him. But we were both forced to do things we didn’t want to do. Now we’re coping. He’s coping the only way he knows how and so am I. Finally. I made it back here. I’m away from my parents and I can start over.”
Angie shook her head. “Three years, Willow.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m not denying it hurts. It does. I’m getting stronger every day, but pretending like I don’t love him or don’t miss him isn’t going to get me anywhere.”
“Sounds like someone’s been talking to my mother.”
I laughed a little and looked around. “Where is Bonnie? I thought she was going to join us?”
“She wanted to give us some alone time. But she’ll be at your show tonight. Wouldn’t miss it. I hear you’re slaying some Ibsen.”
“I don’t know about that, but I’m enjoying it. It’s helped too. But Christ, enough with my shit already. How’s Stanford? How’s Nash?”
We ordered burgers and shakes and ate while Angie filled me in on the details. Nash was at school in Pennsylvania. He and Angie were somehow making a long-distance relationship work while she was double majoring in robotics and pre-med at Stanford.
“I’ll basically be in college until I’m eighty,” she said. “I’ll have one year to actually practice medicine until I croak.”
“But it’ll be a solid year.”
“Oh, for sure. Like…golden.”
As we talked and laughed the hours away, I felt another piece of myself, once broken and scattered across North America, were put back into place.
Out on the sidewalk, we hugged again.
“Bye, love,” she said. “See you tonight, after you knock’em dead.”
She started to go, but I grabbed her hand, blinking back yet more tears.
“Before I met Isaac, before I auditioned for Hamlet, before I had anything else that was good here, I had you. You were the first person to break through the walls I’d built up around myself from all that shit with Xavier, and I just want to thank you for that.”
“Dammit, Holloway,” Angie said, swiping her fingertips under her eyes.
“You’re a life saver, McKenzie, okay?” I said. “You’re a fucking life saver.”
Angie pulled me close again. “Do me a favor?” she asked, sniffling.
“Anything.”
“Tell Stanford that? Because it would save me a shit-ton in med-school tuition.”
I met my parents in the lobby of the HCT at quarter after six. It felt uncomfortable to have them over to my little cottage. Now that I was no longer depending on them for anything, their iron-clad grip on me was slippery at best. As was my grip on forgiveness.
They greeted me in the theater lobby with too-wide smiles and loud talk.
“I’m so pleased that you’re letting us throw the cast party after the performance,” my father said.
“It’s a thoughtful gesture,” I said.
“Yes, it’ll be quite nice, I think,” my mother said. “The hotel—the Renaissance—is very nice. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
Funny how everything in Harmony was nice now, as opposed to when everything Midwest was beneath her. All at once, I felt incredibly sorry for them both.
“It’ll be great,” I said. “Thanks for being here. I have to go get ready now. I hope you enjoy the show.”
God, I sounded like a pre-show recording.
“Willow,” my father said. He looked about to take my hand. “I just wanted you to know I’m proud of you,” he said, stuffing his fist in his pocket. “Your reviews have been quite complimentary. And the work you and Mr. Ford are doing to keep the theater as a living piece of history in this town is quite commendable.”
He glanced down and then forced his eyes to meet mine. “I feel it’s important you know I recognize your accomplishments. And to that end, we’ll have something for you at the party. A little bit of a surprise.”
My mother’s face wore a strange look, and she nudged my father with a nervous laugh. “Let’s not ruin it now or make her nervous.”
“Yes, quite,” my father said. “After the show. Break a leg.”
They hustled into the theater before I could tell them I wanted no surprises. The party was too much already. The only reason I’d agreed to it was because my cast mates deserved a better sendoff than burgers and fries from The Scoop.
I went backstage to prepare for the show—makeup, hair, and costume. The cast assembled onstage for warm-ups, led by Martin, who was playing Krogstad. On the other side of the closed curtain, we could hear the crowd beginning to file in.
“Standing room only,” Marty said to me. “Break a leg tonight.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He started to walk away, then stopped and looked at me closer. “Everything okay?”
“Sure, fine,” I said forcing a smile.
“Closing night jitters?”
“This party my parents insists on having is kind of throwing me, I guess. Or… I don’t know what. The energy feels strange tonight. You know how the air feels right before lightning strikes? Kind of tight and humming?” I gave my head a shake. “I’ll get over it. It’s been a wonderful experience, Marty. Thank you so much. I won’t let you down.”
“Thank you for your incredible Nora, my dear,” he said. “And for seeking me out when you came back. For being such an amazing part of this theater.”
“Marty,” I said warily. “That sounded ominous. Did you get more news from the city council? Bad news?”
He chuckled. “As if I’d tell you something like that twenty minutes to curtain. No, I merely—”
Frank, the stage manager ran up to Marty looking pale. He whispered something in his ear, his eyes on me.
Martin’s eyes widened and then darted to me as well.
“What?” I said. “What is it?’
Marty’s face smoothed out and he said to Frank in a calm tone, “I’ll be there in a minute. Thanks, Frank.” He turned to me and patted my shoulder. “A theater manager’s job is never done, even on opening night. I’ll be right back.”
“Marty,” I said, grabbing his hand. “Tell me.”
“It’s nothing you need to worry about. I promise.”
I would’ve believed him. He was a fantastic actor. But Frank was not, and Frank looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
Isaac
Frank let me into Marty’s office, then ran out to tell him I was here. I settled in to wait, feeling like a student sent to the principal’s office: about to get my ass handed to me. These consequences would be far worse than detention. Marty was probably pissed mad as all hell. Who was I kidding—he was hurt.
I leaned against the desk in my expensive jeans and black jacket and tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal. Like I had some kind of upper hand. Then Marty burst in, red faced and breathing fire. Anger crackled around him; I’d never seen him so pissed off in my life. And though I’d expected it, seeing so much outrage in Martin Ford was unsettling.
“Three years,” he said without preamble, slamming the door behind him. “Three years without a word. Not one. You showing up for your father’s funeral doesn’t count. You said nothing to me then. You’ve said nothing to me since.”
“Marty,” I said. “I’m sorry—”
He took a step closer, his finger stabbing the air at me. “And don’t get me started on Brenda or Benny or Willow.”
I gritted my teeth. “I know, I’ve been—”
“And now you just show up in my office fifteen minutes before I go onstage? What the hell, Isaac? Want me to hold the curtain so we can get a cup of fucking coffee?”
He stared at me, his jaw clenching. For a moment, I thought he’d have me hauled out of the building. Hell, maybe call the police. Or simply plant a
foot in my ass and kick me to the street. As he took two steps toward me, I sort of wished he would.
Do it, I thought. I don’t deserve you, Marty.
Instead, he grabbed my shoulders and engulfed me in a hug. My eyes fell shut with relief and gratitude.
“I thought I was too late. I thought you’d hate me,” I said gruffly.
“I do hate you.”
“I don’t blame you.”
Marty pulled back and held me at arm’s length. “Are you here for real? To stay and talk? And be here?”
I nodded.
“Okay then, what I told you still holds. There’s no such thing as too late. If you’re really here then I stand by that. But Jesus, Isaac. What do I tell Willow?”
“I don’t want her to know I’m here. Not until after the performance.”
“She’s the reason we’re sold out,” Marty said, crossing his arms and smiling. “I don’t know where you’re going to sit.”
“I’ll stand in the back. As long as I can see her, I’ll be happy”
Marty’s smile fell. “Why did you come back?”
“For her,” I said. “For you and Brenda and Benny, but for her. I want to talk to her, to sort out what happened and—What?”
Marty was shaking his head. “No, no, no. I’ve grown very protective of her. Very.”
“I don’t want to hurt her, Marty,” I said. “It’s the last thing I want to do, but she… Fuck.”
“She hurt you too,” Marty finished. “You’re pissed off at her, but you don’t have the whole story. Not by a long shot. Did she tell you what her father threatened?”
“No, she refused to tell me.”
“You can’t guess?” he asked, his tone heavy.
“I don’t know. Yes, I can. He’d have me arrested for being at his house. He’d sue my dad into oblivion. He would’ve pulled her out of the show and we would’ve lost Hamlet but so what? I was willing to lose everything if it meant keeping her. She didn’t believe me.”
