Page 77 of Poetry By Dead Men
A melody mine
Notes repeating and circling
Parts of my own bone
Can you tell that you’re mine?
Because I feel that I’m yours
Like I’ve always known
—An excerpt from "Almost There," written and performed by Robert Beckett
When Bobby said I needed a distraction a few days later, I didn’t expect him to lead us to a local high school. We’re hiding just around the corner from the front doors. Bobby has his hat pulled low over his eyes and his sunglasses blocking his face, and every few minutes he checks his watch, waiting until just before 2:00 to head inside.
Bobby takes my hand, and electricity runs from my fingertips up to my elbow. It’s such a casual gesture, but it feels as intimate as sharing secrets under the covers in the dark.
Ishouldpull away.
My heart is too tired. Too sore from severing Harrison from the muscle, but Bobby’s touch is comforting and I just can’t bear to let go.
Bobby leads me confidently down the hallway, pulling two tickets from his pocket and handing them to a student waiting at a fold-outtable in front of the door before slipping into the back of the theater. It's almost completely full, but there are two seats in the second to last row.
When we reach our seats and Bobby drops my hand, I feel the loss all the way to my toes. My fingers go cold, and a pang of nostalgia washes over me. Even the lights seem to dim, and I wonder how much brighter my life would have looked if he’d stayed in it.
Wait—it’s the theater lights that are dimming. I mentally kick myself for being so foolish. What good is it thinking about what could've been when it’s not what happened? When there's a reason it didn’t—one that I still haven't allowed Bobby to explain. What good would it do?
The audience applauds politely as a squat, older woman with neon blue glasses and slightly frizzy, white hair takes the stage. She thanks us for coming, then extends an arm as she walks stage left. The curtains open, and my breath catches.
The moment I realize what we're doing, I'm overcome by an intense need to cry. I'm not even sure why. Sure, the play is a tragedy, but I've read it before. It's one of my favorites. Maybe that's why I’m emotional. Because Bobby knows how much I love this play. Or maybe it's because he was thoughtful enough to find something that I would enjoy doing before the show tonight.
Or maybe it's because he's here sitting next to me when Harrison never would, saying plays weren’t histhing.
I'm just as certain that Shakespearean tragedies aren't Bobby's thing either, and yet, he’shere.
I force the burning thought down like a shot of whiskey as a waif-like blonde girl who can't be more than sixteen takes the stage. Juliet. She's adorable. Way too young to know what true love is, but then again, how many of us really know true love when we see it?
She trips on the train of her dress as she changes directions on stage, her cheeks reddening, but no one laughs. It's not the only small mess-up that happens, but still, it's magical. I laugh. I hold my breath. And I even cry as the star-crossed lovers take their final breaths.
The entire crowd stands as the cast takes their bows, and I can't help but whistle through my fingers as Juliet takes hers.
“What do you say we make their afternoon a little more special?” Bobby asks, leaning down to speak into my ear so I can hear him over the applause. His breath tickles the little hairs on the back of my neck, making me shiver.
“Let's do it,” I say, and as soon as the actors leave the stage, Bobby beelines to the Director, pulling off his cap and asking if he can meet the cast. I don't think the director could be happier if Shakespeare himself was here, and she loops her arm through Bobby’s and basically yanks him behind the curtains.
I scramble after them, but Bobby reaches out and grabs my hand, pulling me along so we don't lose each other. I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of what's happening. Of being at a high school production of Shakespeare in a small town in Florida, going backstage to make some teenage girls extremely happy.
Bobby takes at least thirty pictures with different configurations of the cast, signing playbills and notebooks and even a few arms. He’s charming and personable throughout it all, but so himself. None of it seems forced or like he’s acting. There's no ulterior motive. He simply enjoys making these kids happy.
“I can't believe he’s here,” I hear as a group of girls giggling with their arms linked together shuffle past me.
“He's gorgeous,” one of them says. “And so kind. Even his eyes are kind. Did you see them?”
“Maybe he'll come to our next show.”
“Maybe he'll make a big donation so we can afford to have real sets for the spring musical. Do you think Miss Castin will ask him?” Their conversation trails out as they round the corner, and I make a mental note to mention the art department's need for donations, certain he'll want to help.
I turn from where the girls disappeared back to Bobby, who is still talking to a group of students, ones who don't appear to have been in the play. He smiles at me, his dimple making my stomach flip.
