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“—and did a lot of work to make sure I was the kind of man your mother would want to marry again.”
I already knew the looser, less detailed version of the story, and for years I filled in the blanks myself. I thought their story was deeply romantic, and, zoomed out, I guess there is something kind of romantic about it.
But zoomed in, the story is way less romantic. It’s actually kind of gritty, and there must have been a lot of hurt feelings and crying. I’m trying to reprocess a story I’ve clung to for years, trading it for the reality of what happened, all while fighting tears, because there is something deeply comforting in knowing that my father knows something about loneliness and loss. He knows what it’s like to miss someone.
“You know, the thing is, our stories are rarely linear. We don’t get from point A to point B in a straight line. That’s just not how it works when there are people involved and feelings and traumas and histories. The journey is up and down. The lows are often very low, and the highs are euphoric. Sometimes we hit a low point, and we know there’s more beyond that, so we fight for another high. Sometimes the low is the end of the story, and all you can do is pick yourself up and dust yourself off and keep on walking.”
I know what he’s getting at, implying the possibility of the end of the road for me and Jade, but my dad knew in his bones there was more to the story for him and my mom, and while I don’t have the same sense of knowing, I know what kind of ending I want.
“But what if I don’t want to keep walking without them?”
“You have a couple options. You can wait for them, and you can stand still and see if they’ll catch up to you. But you might get stuck there looking backward and hoping for something that will never happen. Your other option is to go get them and see if they’ll come back to you.”
Jade made it clear she was done, but I know she was just scared. I know she was running. And after talking to Mac . . . that spark of hope in my chest feels a little bigger. A little brighter.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Anytime, kiddo,” he says and takes my clear plate to the sink.
Before he goes to bed, Dad pats my shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze.
“Turn off the lights when you’re done down here?”
I give him a thumbs-up and scroll on my phone at the kitchen table a little while longer.
A new makeup tutorial Jade uploaded recently stops me in my tracks. I watch it too many times and practically break my thumb resisting the urge to “like” it. She might think I’m doing it for attention—or worse, she might not notice it at all.
I click through to her page and find a photo of her—just her—smiling. The urge to call her, to hear her voice, her laugh, to hear her say my name, hits me like a punch. A feeling I know all too well.
I think back to my dad’s words about the pathways I could choose. Do I stand still and wait for Jade to catch up? Do I risk getting stuck? I already know chasing her won’t end well—her instinct is to run. She’s run in the past, and she’d probably run farther and faster than I could keep up with.
But maybe I can do both. Maybe I don’t have to choose. Those were my dad’s pathways, but I think it’s time for me to make my own.
Before I fall asleep, I make a phone call, leave a voicemail, and hope for the best.
Red Barn Playhousehasn’t changed since I first stepped into it as a middle schooler. The building smells vaguely of a woodshop and freshly printed programs. Not much decor has changed in the lobby except a few new photos of more recent productions that have been added to the collection of Red Barn Programs—framed after each production and added to the wall in the lobby. Even the benches for visitors to sit on are the same bright red, squeaky leather ones that have been there for at least a decade.
Robert invited me to swing by the theater so we could have a chat today about the job position, but he has a virtual meeting overlapping our time by about ten minutes. He left the building unlocked for me so I could let myself in.
“Feel free to explore the old stomping grounds,” he’d said on the phone last week. I’m taking him up on the offer as I wander through the building. It’s not as big as the theater at MPC, but there’s a good-sized stage and a couple hundred chairs.
I look up first, taking in the light fixtures hanging along the grid pointing toward the stage. Between the lights and the mostly built set, I realize they must be prepping forA Christmas Carol.Every other year, Red Barn does the Charles Dickens book-turned-play, alternating withA Miracle on 34th Street. It’s similar to how ballet companies doThe Nutcrackerevery year. I’ve been the light designer, light crew head, and light crew for both shows multiple times. These two Christmas shows are both deeply comforting for me and something I would be happy to never do again.
But being the tech director here would mean doing these shows every year. Unless, like my dad mentioned, I had some say in what programs we do.
We.
As if I already work here. As if I’m already part of the team, part of the group of people who make shows happen at this small local theater.
I take a seat in the audience, the silence of the theater wrapping me up like a blanket. I love this space. This stage is the first one I ever fell in love with. The scene shop here is as familiar to me as my childhood home. Everything about this place is safe.
“Sounds . . . safe.”
Jade’s voice is so clear, I turn my head to see if she’s actually sitting next to me. She’s not. I’m still alone in here. As alone as I can be with the ghosts of all my previous shows.
Little Shop of Horrors, when I hung my very first light fixture.
Company, the first show I ran follow spot for.
