Page 61 of Rebel Romeo

I stick my tongue out at her, ignoring the fact that she’s right. I yank the door open and make my way into the theater. My blood runs cold when I hear Addison singing.

Singing my song from the show. I slink back into the shadows as Amy finishes playing and turns to grin at Addison.

Missy applauds from the audience, launching to her feet. So much for her only being here on Thursdays. “I told you she’d be wonderful, didn’t I?” Missy says, hanging on Holden’s arm.

“You did.” Holden says, standing as well. He runs a palm over his weary face and my breath catches in my lungs. “Addison, that sounded great.”

Missy pushes on her toes and kisses Holden’s cheek.

That in itself shouldn’t make me pause. By this point, I’m used to seeing her hang all over Holden. Other than that one fight I witnessed in the theater, they’d been a happy couple. Outwardly, at least.

What I’m not used to is the adoring smile on his face that he returns to her.

My stomach sinks even more as he bends and whispers in Missy’s ear, pausing to nuzzle against her for a long moment.

His eyes lift, snagging on me standing at the back of the theater and it’s like for a few seconds, a vacuum sucks all the oxygen out of the room.

“You’re still better,” Nolan whispers in my ear.

I startle, whipping around, and press my palm to my sternum. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He nudges his elbow to my arm. “Seriously, don’t let this scare you. Understudies are just a way of life in theater. In the end, you’re going to be glad you have her so that you can take vacations and sick days.”

I swallow hard and look down at my phone. I’d given up on the idea that I might be able to get home to see my Dad. The biopsy was a week ago and now we were waiting for the results to come in. Even though I’m pretty sure I know what they’re going to say, my mom and Mallory were acting so chipper, so hopeful, that I felt like such a downer whenever I spoke with them.

But maybe Nolan’s right. The better Addison is, the more I can rely on her and take days off. Not have to perform with strep throat like I did last year during my summer stock preview week of Pippin.

Maggie sees us from center stage and waves, notating on her clipboard that we’re here. She gives us a thumbs up. “Get ready to run Act two in ten minutes!’

Nolan returns her thumbs up with one of his own and heads down the aisle to the stage. He pauses and turns back to me. “Are you coming?”

I’m about to start down after him when my phone buzzes in my palm, Dad scrolling across the screen like ticker tape. “Um, in a minute.”

I don’t dare leave the theater for fear of missing the start of our run and Holden putting Addison in for the day instead of me. Instead, I go to the furthest corner of the theater and turn to talk into the wall, hoping the acoustics won’t carry the entire conversation to the entire cast and crew.

“Hey Dad.”

“Hey Sprout,” Dad says. My throat goes tight at the nickname. He hasn’t called me that in years and something about hearing it again makes nostalgic tears spring to my eyes.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Oh, ya know,” he says. His voice is rougher than usual. Its normally graveled tone is like a wagon wheel being dragged across pebbles. “Seen better days and seen worse ones,” he adds his adage, his Indiana accent piercing through. He’s said that exact phrase every time we’ve spoken since I was a kid. Seen better days and seen worse ‘uns.

“The biopsy came in,” he adds and my breath catches.

“I figured as much. You don’t usually call to make small talk.” Nope, that’s Mom’s job.

There’s a pause.

It’s far too long of a pause to be good news. If it were good news, you usually rush into it to alleviate the burden of worry. But bad news? You draw that out. Postpone saying the big, scary thing you don’t want to admit is true.

I squeeze my eyes shut, picturing my dad. Picturing the times we spent where he tried to make me a softball player. Pitching underhand to me as I’d squeal and dive out of the path of the ball. Remembering doing my homework at his pub while he served pitchers of beers to regulars. Remembering snuggling with him in his lounger while a Clint Eastwood film played on the television.

I relish in these last few seconds where I can pretend he’s fine.

His exhale triggers a coughing fit, followed by a whispered son of a bitch. Then, finally, he says, “It’s lung cancer.”

Even though I knew it would be, my heart still sinks.

---