Exit Stage Left

Chapter 3: Theater Folk

I slip the dozen roses into a paper liner and staple it shut as the man in front of the counter nervously fiddles with his phone, barely looking up when I set them between us. My fingers straighten the little packet of preserver dangling from the top as I wait for him to notice me.

He doesn't even comment when I tell him he's laying out over a hundred bucks for flowers that will die in a week, his credit card out before I can repeat the price showing on the computer's readout. My perky smile doesn't register with him at all as he hustles out, scrawled signature crooked and off center on the slip of paper I slide into the drawer.

Aunt Vonda laughs over my shoulder into the quiet of the empty store as he leaves, bell jingling behind him. "He's in trouble," she says.

I turn from the aromatic and greenery-laden front to frown at her, though I'm half-smiling, too. "You're a flower whisperer, are you?"

Aunt Vonda winks at me from the back over the giant mound of wedding blossoms she's assembling, deft hands tucking ferns and leaves in a space I didn't even know required it until I see how awesome it looks placed there.

"You work in this business long enough," she says, "you get to understand people and their motivations."

"All through flowers." I turn as the doorbell rings again, brushing bits of rose ends from my pink apron and smile at the couple who wander through, looking at arrangements.

Aunt Vonda comes to my side, leans in, hands full of fern fronds. "Those two are buying for a funeral, my guess." I can see it then, the tightness around the woman's eyes and mouth, the way the man hovers over her. "Long illness," Aunt Vonda whispers. "Expected." She flinches a little, meets my eyes with her own sadness. Only then do I think of Ian.

And squeeze her arm. "Cool superpower," I say, smiling so she knows her remark doesn't bother me.

It really doesn't. Because he's with me all the time.

She sets aside her burden of ferns and goes to the couple, speaks softly to them while Ian's phantom leans over the counter, smiling sadly.

Mom looked like that, his ghost says. When I died.

She did, too. I remember Susan's tight, pinched expression, as though the tension in her face was the only thing holding back the torrent of tears. I knew from experience they wouldn't stop once they started or until she ran out of the will to cry.

I watch in shock as the strange woman's face crumples and she nods, allows Aunt Vonda to take her hand, the crushed whiteness of a wadded tissue appearing as she does.

And I realize my aunt is amazing.

I've already learned so much from her and it's only been a week. Hard for me to believe, really, seven days have gone by. I feel like I've been here forever, in a good way. Walking the streets of New York, exploring Broadway and Time's Square with Aunt Vonda on Sunday afternoon while Ian's memory trailed along, prodding me to ask questions and pay attention. To live. Layering memories over a life I knew I lived once.

In Clifton.

With him. And now here. No different, except I can't really hug him. And he's just a figment of my imagination.

Moving on, the change of scenery everyone said would do the job?

Did the job. At least as far as I'll allow.

Right from my first night, Aunt Vonda made me feel like her own daughter, though my cousin Caroline, her husband, and newborn son lived in Dubai.

"Really," Aunt Vonda moaned. "Stupid oil jobs. Why couldn't they have gone to Texas?" I grinned as she rolled her eyes, leading me through her spacious living room and open concept kitchen, down the hall to the back of the apartment. "At least then they'd still be in the U.S." She hesitated by my door, smiling at me, blinking away moisture in her eyes. "I hope you like it here, pet," she said, one hand settling on her cleavage. "I've missed having a girl around."

The room was small, but she wasn't kidding about the daisies. Comforter, pillow shams, even a cute decorative pillow in the shape of a daisy. I looked around the freshly painted blue walls and large window overlooking the street and smiled. Aunt Vonda squealed softly at my expression.

She steered me toward a narrow white door and into the small, but complete, bathroom on the other side.

"Not the princess suite," she said, voice quivering, "but it should be okay?"

I spun and hugged her on the spot.

"It's perfect," I said. "Thank you so much."

And, a week later, it still is. I love my room and the breeze blowing in the window. My privacy for talking to Ian, who my mind sees laying on my bed more often than not, his quirky smile pulling at his mouth, closing over one eye almost all the way. Just like home.

The fact I can climb to the roof and the deck shared by the whole building, look out over Hell's Kitchen and the towering core of Manhattan not so far away is just an added bonus. Not to mention the easy three block walk to the flower shop and my job.

Perfect. Everything. Even more so when, three nights ago, Aunt Vonda dropped a magazine on the table beside me while I finished dinner. Sat with a hopeful smile pulling at her round cheeks, the lines narrowing her sparkling eyes. She nervously patted her curly red hair as I read the cover, Ian's phantom leaning over my shoulder to whisper the title in my ear.

"Backstage?"

A trade magazine for theater and film in New York, Ian said while my stomach flipped over.

"You mentioned acting classes," Aunt Vonda said, hands fluttering, her multitude of gold rings catching the light. "I thought you might want to have a look."

Since that moment, the magazine has been my best friend, as much as Ian's memory. I carry it with me everywhere, hear his voice talk about the hope living between its pages. There are times he distracts me with his excitement over it so much I'm lost for hours.

In fact, the magazine sits behind me right now as I wait for Aunt Vonda to handle the mourning couple. I reach out absently to touch Ian's hand. Feel cold glass and remember he's not really there.

I hate those moments most of all, the ones when I forget it's not real and Ian is just an apparition. Something I've constructed in my head to keep me from falling apart. To block the sudden sting of tears and reality, I spin and grab the magazine. I finger through it, absorbing myself in the write-ups, the images of actors and scenes frozen in time highlighting reviews of new shows. I love the listings, the articles. Everything about it feels magical, a portal to another world. To my dreams, the place where Ian lives. Silly how a classified ad for a sound technician could make my heart sing. Or a sprawling spread for a theater production could almost make me swoon.

This is my passion. And the last thing Ian spoke to me about. Just before he sank into the coma he never woke from.

"Rye," he said. "Go live your dream, now. I'll be cheering you on from wherever I am."

A tear hits the open page, spreads on the semi-gloss surface. Damn it, do I have to remember his death when I just want to cling to him as I have this past week? Doesn't matter the memory, really. Ian's wish-alive or imagined-is my command.

Now I just have to muster the courage to act instead of living inside the fantasy.

The doorbell rings. Aunt Vonda is still busy with the grieving woman and I shake off my imaginary moment under the lights, Ian clapping in the seats, to do my job.

I look up as four people stroll in. And catch my breath.

He is tall, lean, t-shirt faded, though it looks like it's on purpose. Dark blonde hair hangs in waves around his cheekbones, shoved back by one long-fingered hand. His jeans hang low on his narrow hips, but it's his eyes. Blue, so blue, like a summer sky just after it rains. And his smiling mouth.

He's smiling at me.

Aunt Vonda bumps into me, breaking my moment of awkward staring. I feel myself flush, hating it, knowing I'll be all blotchy down to my collarbone and suddenly wishing I could just let her handle it, handle him.

What the hell is wrong with me? He's just a guy. I've seen cute guys before. And he's not Ian. That truth slaps me with so much guilt I have to lean against the counter to stay upright even as my mind hunts for Ian's phantom.

Who remains absent, for once.

When I look up again, knowing I have to at least try to act normal, I realize handsome isn't alone. A stunning black girl, her full hair held back in a gold scarf, smiles at me, teeth a striking contrast with her dusky skin. She leans over the free side of the counter, cleavage showing, and winks at me.

The two guys behind her laugh, one of them slapping her ass. She spins on him, shaking her finger before rolling her eyes at me.

"Can I help you?" I feel suddenly shy at her familiarity, the way she leans in again, bangles singing against the glass counter, dark eyes huge and framed in the thickest lashes I've ever seen. Tiny gold sparkles glitter on the outside edges of her wide eyes, her generous mouth slick with gloss. The little denim jacket cuts off at her ribcage, a flowing yellow dress beneath.

"Of course you can," she says in a voice like butter and velvet poured over spiced chocolate. Winks again. "Though I have a feeling, as sad as it makes me, you're not my type."

My flush returns. Did she just hit on me? She laughs, a rich and engaging sound and I laugh too, unable to stop the nervous giggle escaping. I've never met anyone so charismatic in my life.

"Girlfriend," one of the guys, a gorgeous Hispanic almost too pretty for his own good, says in a softly effeminate voice, "you tell her she's wasting her time."

His companion, lithe and skinny, black hair slicked, eyes dark with liner, c***s one hip and hums a tune in a clear, crisp voice, vocal training obvious to my ears. "I think there's a show tune in there, sugar."

The pair of them break into an improvised song, snapping their fingers and dancing in place while the stunning girl laughs at them and joins them in her deep contralto voice.

I look up. He's watching me. Their friend. The one I noticed first.

The kind, open smile on his face makes me shiver and look away. And think Ian's name over and over like a mantra. One handsome face and I'm forgetting him already? What kind of girlfriend am I?

And then I remember. Ian's dead. He's been dead for a year.

It hits me like a blow.

"Now, then," the girl leans toward me on one elbow, obviously unaware I'm falling apart inside, as her two friends wrap up their song. "Our real reason for being."

"Can anyone ever know their real reason?" Handsome finally speaks, breaks my loop of self-hate and the need to sob over Ian despite the fact I know-I've known for ages-my love is gone. This delicious stranger distracts me with his words. I thought her voice was melodic. His strokes my ears with heat and softness, also trained and trained well. "For being, I mean?"

The girl turns on him, shrugs. "In this instance," she says, radiating so much confidence I wish I could be like her in a stab of sudden envy. "We do." Spins back to me, chin dropping, arms opening. "We require a bouquet, fair maid. But not just any bouquet." The two behind her hum in harmony, back dropping her little performance. "A bouquet to rival all that came before. To stun and amaze in its beauty and grace." Her voice alters from its deep pitch to a softer, higher tone full of angst and sorrow. "Precious flowers to give their lives so that we," she pats her chest with both hands while her choir modulates their hum, "might show our undying love and faithfulness to one we would honor with their deaths."

Her two friends immediately clap as she bows her head, smiling at their false patter of applause. While handsome laughs at them. Turns back to me from his casual observation.

"Just a dozen roses, please," he says.

His two friends-Backup #1and Backup#2-swoon.

"Just!" They say together.

The black girl stomps her foot, but she's grinning behind her scowl. "Such a cruel way to crush the heart of a performer," she says.

He hands over a credit card before I can turn to fill the order, heart pounding, lost in the need to keep listening, the longing to be like them, to join them in their easy way with each other. "Aleah," he says, giving her talent a name, "I have no fear for your heart." He shrugs at me. "Just," stresses it, "the roses. And I'll do my best to keep my companions from scaring off your customers while we wait."

My lips twitch in a grin even as I whisper, "It's okay," and spin away. Realize I still have his credit card in my hand. I slip it into my apron, rush to the refrigerated case. Aunt Vonda, back behind her arrangement, catches my eye.

Grins and leaves me to them.

They must be actors. I'm shivering with excitement, cursing my sudden shyness, wishing I could blurt out I want to be like them even as I look up.

And see Ian's reflection in the glass. He's smiling at me. Is this what he wants? For me to be like them? I hope so.

I really hope so.

My hands fumble in the bucket full of blooms as I wander over the roses, carefully selecting the very best and arrange them in the plastic sleeve, hands shaking.

Try to slow my pounding heart. Why am I acting like a little kid? They are just people. I have to remind myself. But I'm still in awe, and, as I staple the paper over the deep, red roses, almost puncturing my index finger in the process, the jab of pain tells me why.

Mom. They act like Mom. She was huge to me despite her slim body. With a towering personality, extravagant with her love and in her manner, always on, always an actress. Boisterous and confident like the girl, Aleah. Full of charisma, filling a room with her presence wherever she went. Like Ian did, despite his illness.

I crave such a life. To be just like Mom. Like Ian. But as I carry the wrapped bouquet to the counter, thinking about my mother and the time we spent together, I feel myself sigh.

Who am I kidding? I'm not my mother. And no matter the plays I did, the roles I filled, Ian was always the star.

I set the flowers down, feeling my nerves finally calm. Mom took the time when I was little to teach me what she knew. We spent hours acting out scenes she made up for me, at least when she was home. Her career was in film and on stage, but she insisted I learn, and seemed to love to teach me. I absorbed every bit I could, and adored it. I thought I lost all of that when she died, Dad's disapproval quashing my acting passion. And even though I struck out into acting again in high school, it never felt the same without Mom there to guide me.

Standing here, with the girl Aleah and her friends still messing around, their clear love of the craft pouring out of them, I feel like that part of me has awoken all over again, the dream a sudden reality presented to me in stark relief. And I'm a starving woman who finally found a banquet.

Acting classes. No more thinking, planning, imagining. I have to start acting classes, now.

My eyes meet crystal blue and I freeze again. Hold my breath. He smiles, looks down at my waist.

"I'd love to pay," he says. "But you seem to be attached to my card."

How can I be so stupid? I've spent too much time in my own head lately. Not enough focusing on the real world. I fumble in my pocket, red all over again and knowing I've made a fool of myself even while I wonder what it is about him that makes me care. That drives Ian to the back of my mind when he's dominated it for so long.

I fish out the card and, with hands that won't stop shaking, ring in the flowers.

When I hand back his card, his fingers brush mine and he smiles again, gentle and kind. "I see you have a copy of Backstage," he says. I spin, eyes wide, mortified the magazine is making things worse though I'm not sure why they are worse. "Are you an actress?"

I choke on my tongue before I'm able to speak. "My mother was," I say as Aleah and her two buddies lean in. Draw a breath. "And I've done some. Just local stuff. Back home."

I'm a lame duck, fatally injured and wish someone would just come and put me out of my misery. Can I possibly sound more pathetic to their obviously cultured ears? But he nods like he understands, Aleah smiling brighter.

"Not sure if you're in classes or not," he says, casual, as though it's no big deal to him even as my heart feels like it's going to leap out of my chest. "But there's a great one we all go to every other night. If you're interested."

Aleah bounces on her toes, nodding. "Yes, please come." She jerks her thumb at the two behind her. "We need more women, and queens don't count."

This time I really choke. Have to cough a few times to clear my throat. Sure, I have a few friends back home who are gay. But no one really talks about it in the open. And I've always been sensitive about labels.

The pair fake shock, spin on their heels and march out while Aleah laughs and goes after them with a wave goodbye and a blown kiss. I watch her go, wishing I could follow.

Lock eyes with handsome who waits, patient and silent.

For what? I gave him his card, his flowers.

Dear God. His question.

"Sure." The word erupts out of me.

He leans in, the scent of coffee and something sweet carrying with him as he reaches for a pen. Takes my hand. I can barely feel the tickle of the nib as he writes down an address and a name on my palm. I'm too distracted by the fact he's touching me.

The click of the pen retracting under his thumb breaks me out of a trance created by the warmth of his strong fingers. I miss his touch when he steps back, lifting the bouquet into his arms.

"Tomorrow night," he says. "See you then."

I wave, a half-hearted and measly attempt at a goodbye, as he turns and leaves. My eyes descend from the back of his head to the pull of his shoulders inside his t-shirt. How his stature seems wide despite his leanness.

How the rear pockets of his jeans do a great job showing off his-

The doorbell jingles and he's gone out the storefront into the sunlight. He and his friends walk past the window, smiling, laughing, a silent film of joy I long for with so much sudden need my hands clench around the edge of the counter to keep me in place.

I thought the best part of dreaming was imagining how things could be. Now I know better.

I was so wrong. I know what perfect looks like. And I want it for myself.

***