CHAPTER 61 (1)

"Here we go," I say as the woman I've been on the phone trying to land for the last few days takes the stage for her audition.

Jeffrey's on one side of me, Miranda on the other. I don't look over to see their reactions while the actress performs the song we sent her.

But I'm sitting bolt upright.

She's good-really good.

When she wraps up, we thank her, and she heads out of the theater.

"We're screwed." Miranda Tamayo's blunt tone has me cutting her a look after the actress is gone.

"What do you mean? She was great."

"She wasn't right," Jeffrey agrees.

My stomach flips. "Come on. She's a household name. I bent over backward to get her"-even using one of my dad's contacts, which I'd decided was worth it given the circumstances-"and she'll definitely get the show attention."

We've been running auditions at a small off-Broadway theater all day to cast the main roles for our show. Even Miranda refused to miss this, insisting the worst of the reaction from her most recent chemo session was over and tearing up a few headshots from wannabe actors would help her feel better anyway.

"It's a no," Jeffrey says crisply, glancing my way.

"We've identified great people for four characters," I point out.

"But not the leads."

"There's another group after lunch, right?" I ask our production assistant.

She shakes her head.

Shit. "I could've sworn there were more..." I riffle through the papers in front of me.

Jeffrey sighs. He's done this a dozen times before, but I can tell he's disappointed. "We don't have a lead, we don't have a show. Frankly, I'm concerned you're in such a hurry to distance yourself from it."

"It's not that. I love this show more than I thought I'd love anything," I promise. "But there's something-someone-I love even more."

His face unreadable, he gets up and reaches for his phone, hitting a contact as he heads down the aisle.

We've thrown ourselves into preparing for this.

I figured today would be more like a victory lap, but it's turning out to be hell. How can it be so hard to find the right person?

"Knock, knock." Andie sticks her head in the door before coming into the theater bearing a brown paper bag.

"Is that something to numb the pain?" Miranda asks dryly as Andie stops next to our row.

"Hoagies," my roommate explains.

"That'll work."

"You want Emily's too?" Andie asks, passing them out. "She likes the pain. It's cleansing."

I shoot my friend side-eye. My phone buzzes, and I glance at it. There's a text from my dad, and the tension in my chest eases just a little.

I walk toward a dark corner and hit his contact, and he picks up on a video call.

"Thought you had auditions this weekend," he says.

"We do. We're at a theater right now." I flip him around to see the space, then back to see me. "Unfortunately, we haven't found the right actors yet."

He frowns. "Don't give up. Sometimes the best things come from the last place you expect. Like Timothy finding Shane. Her single releases next week."

"That's great, Dad." I swallow. "Have you talked to Timothy? I sent him something a few days ago, and I hoped I'd hear back by now."

My dad's expression shifts, and I can't read the strange look on his face. "I think he misses you."

The backs of my eyes burn, and I'm glad I'm in a dark corner. "I miss him too. Well, I should get back to it."

Dad nods. "We're proud of you. All of us. Let us know how your casting goes."

"I will."

I hang up and head back toward Miranda, who has already unwrapped a sandwich and is in conversation with Andie.

"I want to do this show where the audience sits on stage and I'm watching them from the floor," Andie's saying, and Miranda's studying her with a raised brow.

They both look at me when I return, and Jeffrey comes back down the aisle.

"We have one more to see."

"Who?" I ask, frowning. Every headshot in front of me is familiar. We've seen each of these people on stage already today.

But Andie stiffens next to me, grabbing my arm. "Holy shit."

Someone walks past us up the aisle. I lift my head slowly, tingles starting low in my stomach and spreading to my arms, my legs, my toes.

The man takes the stairs to the stage as if this were his house, not an audition. He's confident, relaxed, in dark jeans and a shirt rolled up at the sleeves to reveal swirls of black ink.

Timothy hits center stage and turns to face us. I'm so floored it takes a moment for me to catch up when his gaze meets mine.

Jeffrey shifts into the seat next to me. "Well?"

I blink. "Well what?"

"Go with him."

I shift out of my seat, nearly forgetting the book before I trip toward the stage, take the steps, and cross to Timothy. I stop in front of him.

Even under the lights, he takes up the stage, takes up the room.

"What are you doing?" I shake my head in disbelief. I'm so happy he's here I almost don't want to know the answer.

"I'm auditioning. You sent me a script."

My jaw hits the floor. "I wanted you to read it. I wasn't asking you to audition."

His mouth twitches. "You should've been more specific."

"But..." My mouth works, nothing coming out. "You can't be auditioning on Broadway."

"Someone told me you don't need your hands to make good music. That it can come from your head and your heart."

Timothy cuts an expectant look toward my colleagues. Jeffrey folds his arms, and Miranda smiles broader than I've seen her smile since I returned from Dallas.

Timothy nods to the pianist in the corner, who plays the arrangement. The song moves through me, the accompaniment to the song I spent this summer writing.

Timothy sings the first part of the duet, and I melt into the floor.

I can't move.

Can't think.

Can't breathe.

Can't live.

Except I am living, and his voice, his presence, is the only thing responsible for it.

Music is a language that makes sense when all the others don't. And right now, there's no greater expression of life's promise than what's happening around me, inside me.

Hearing Timothy as the dreamer makes my heart explode. I almost miss jumping in at the female lead's part, but once I do, I focus on the song and match him tone for tone, measure for measure, phrase for phrase.

Every verse and chorus I'm vibrating, caught between the stage and the words and the man in front of me.

When we finish, the final notes of our voices and the piano fading, Jeffrey, Miranda and Andie are all standing silently.

They don't need to say it was good.

Because it wasn't good.