Page 24 of Method Acting

I sang about a grief that can’t be spoken, of a pain that goes on and on. Then I sang about empty chairs at empty tables.

The whole café was my stage as I lifted every chair, sliding it atop a table. Like I felt everything Marius felt as he sang that song for his fallen friends. Like I was singing for my life.

I sang about revolution, about a tomorrow that never came. I sang to the phantom faces in the window, to the shadows on the floor. I gestured to the table in the corner, where my friends would meet no more.

I belted out the crescendo, my voice straining as I held the note. Like I was ten years old at home alone, acting the whole scene in my parents’ basement. Like no one was watching.

Except someone was.

When the song ended, Amos stood there with the mop handle in the crook of his arm so he could clap. He was grinning, a full-on grin. Something I’d never seen him do, ever.

And so help me god, it was breathtaking.

He nodded slowly, still smiling. I wasn’t embarrassed. I was nervous, strangely enough. I wanted him to approve.

“There he is,” he said.

Huh?

“There who is?”

His eyes locked with mine. “The you you don’t show anyone else.”

Chapter Six

Amos

So maybe Mr. Generic Hollywood wasn’t so generic after all.

Well, okay, he still was . . .

But watching him sing “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables” as he lifted the chairs like props... Damn. He was something else.

Surprising, to say the very least.

I hadn’t expected that out of him.

The emotion, the heart. The talent.

He was quiet afterwards and he helped me clean and lock up, and soon enough we were walking across campus to my dorm. I wasn’t sure what to say, not wanting to make things awkward between us.

If we were supposed to act like boyfriends, the very least I could do was stop being sarcastic or rude. He’d shown a part of himself to me that I highly doubted he’d shown anyone else, ever.

Hell, in the last three years I’d been in his drama classes, been in stage productions, and done improvs with him, and I’d never seen that side of him.

“I used to act out Les Mis when I was younger,” he said, clearly feeling the need to explain. Or maybe to open himself a little more. “Or any musical, really. My mom had DVDs of a whole bunch of them, so I’d go down in my parents’ basement—it was a family room with old couches and a TV and DVD player. You know, like the kids’ room with old bookcases, board games, that kind of thing.”

I nodded. “Sounds fun.”

“It was. Anyway, if I was ever home alone, I’d put on a musical, crank up the volume, and act them out. I’d use the furniture like I was on stage. Les Mis was always a favorite.” He sighed. “I haven’t done anything like it in years.”

“You should,” I said. “And I don’t want to inflate your ego or anything, but you were good.”

Chase smirked at me. “A compliment from you. Wow.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“How could I? When an insult follows swiftly behind.”

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