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Making her see things from my side might slowly show her that not everyone acts like her parents do. Maybe then, we can have that shot I’ve been dreaming of.
11
GABRIELLE
“All right, work on that comedic timing for next week, study the scenes provided and then Cass gave you some movies to check out that you might not have watched,” I inform the mid-twenties improv class in front of me as they all begin to collect their bags.
This is one of my favorite classes to teach at the theater because these amateur actors have no expectations that they’ll be famous. This is a hilariously fun and enjoyable Wednesday night hobby for them. The scenes can get raunchy, and most of these people are genuinely funny.
Cass usually comes up with source material for our classes to study, which movies or shows that she thinks demonstrate what we’re trying to explore in terms of acting. People sign up for the classes here to have some fun but to also perfect a craft. Even if they aren’t going to be on the world’s stage, there is something satisfying about pursuing a passion.
“Thanks, Gabrielle.” One of my improv students waves on the way out, and I’m left alone in the smaller theater at the playhouse.
Being here and working here has brought a sense of calm that can’t be replicated. Drama club was one of the only things I got to do for me growing up, and it was only available when I was acing classes and taking on a thousand extra-curriculars at the behest of my parents. But I did it all so that I had a chance to sing and dance and act. Something about the theater made me feel wholly like myself, something that didn’t happen often in any other place.
The first time I returned to Hope Crest, I worked at the high school as not only a teacher but a drama club advisor as well. The one year I’d been able to work with students had reignited my love for the theater, and I knew I’d have to get more involved in the future. Of course, that time was cut short. But the moment I realized I’d be coming back and would need something other than cleaning out the bookshop to occupy my time, I looked into jobs at the playhouse.
Wilson took me on that first day, right there in the interview, and I’ve been working with the seminars, amateur productions, and improv classes since. Anywhere he needs me, I’m willing and able to lend a hand.
Something about this rustic, enormous building that looks like a quaint barn on the outside calms my soul. With its antique fireplaces, ornately painted double theaters, the sweeping cathedral ceilings painted with farm scenes, the scarlet carpet in the lobby, and old-timey gold popcorn cart at the refreshments bar, it all makes sense in some deep part of my heart.
When I am here, nothing bad can touch me. I’m here for me and me only, and I guess the actors I help out along the way. This is the first job I’ve ever had that requires no heavy lift or pep talk to come in and do it. I am here because I love it.
Going to the controls behind the stage, I flick off the house lights and dim the ceiling ones, creating a darker effect in this room that can house a hundred and fifty people. Only the stage lights remain, remnants of the last musical the amateur company put on occupying the backdrop.
A piano sits on the corner of the hardwood by the flashbulb lights at the front of the stage, and I take a seat. Nights like this are some of my favorite, and Wilson is in his office and has left me alone in here. I think he knows this is my therapy, sitting alone at the piano in the theater, playing and singing terribly sad songs as if calling to some former part of myself.
Closing my eyes, I start, touching the keys with a surety that I rarely ever possess in everyday life. They come to life under my hands, the notes hitting me square in the chest. I sing for myself, humming the words at first and then singing them more clearly. It doesn’t even matter the song, it’s more about the feeling.
The melody I’m playing takes over me as I belt out the chorus, abandon running through me like wildfire. The song opens up some part of my chest that always refuses to bleed or be poked at. But with this music, playing here alone on the unlit stage, I’m allowing myself to be the rawest possible version of me.
Tapering off as the lyrics leave me, I play the last melancholy note of the song and keep going, stroking the piano keys in a sad rhythm that also makes me feel less alone.
“Wow,” someone says quietly from somewhere in the rows, and when I look up, Liam is standing in the center of the theater holding a plate full of pizza.
Shock, embarrassment, and all that chemistry usually buzzing around us hits me full force. I wasn’t aware I had an audience, or I’d never have been singing like that. I don’t perform for anyone anymore, I dabble when I’m alone after Wilson heads out for the night.
Ducking my head so he can’t see my blush, my subconscious tracks him as he makes his way to the stage.
“That was … your voice …” There is awe and wonder in his tone, and I can only imagine how furiously maroon my cheeks are now.
My eyes lift and connect with his, that gorgeous lean figure standing mere feet from me now, and I’ll never get over the look on his face and how it’s directed at me. It might be the first time in my life I feel cherished.
Suddenly, the piano lid drops … right onto my hands.
“Ow!” I yelp, pulling my right hand out a little delayed since I was staring at Liam.
“Oh, shit!” He runs over, lifting the damn lid, then slipping onto the piano bench and straddling the wooden seat as he takes my hand in his. “Does it hurt?”
My breath catches in my lungs, but it has nothing to do with the sharp pain radiating through my fingers. The concern he’s approaching me with, the soft note of his voice, and the way he’s touching me like I’m fragile. God, I think I blink back some tears.
“A little,” I admit, glancing down at my fingers.
My middle and ring finger shine bright red, and I know they’ll bruise eventually. I can barely feel the pain over the beating of my heart, though.
“We should get you an ice pack. I’ve caught my hand like that a couple of times in farm equipment, nearly lost my pinky to a tractor once, now that I think back.” He chuckles as he puts pressure on my fingers, which is helping.
Being this close to him after our hookup in his truck has all the tension bleeding out of me. How is it that this man makes me so nervous and so calm all at the same time? And why is it that I’m getting used to him coming around?
