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I know this doesn’t fix anything. But if you still want to spend a couple of hours getting lost in a story with me, I thought you might like this.
There’s no pressure if you’d rather not come.
—Max
I pull the ticket out. It’s a third row-rows center Stalls ticket to Hadestown. One of the bests seat in the entire venue. For me. To my favorite musical at the moment.
There isn’t a single excuse. Just an apology. I can picture him agonizing over every word as I reread it for a second time.
As I turn the card over in my hands, I bite back a quiet laugh. He used the aparthotel’s stationery. Apparently, he thought of everything except the note part.
My thumb brushes the embossed edge of the ticket. Of all the shows in London, he picked Hadestown. A story about love, trust, and what happens when fear makes you look away at exactly the wrong moment. The comparison isn’t exactly subtle.
I think back to the first time I played the soundtrack for him in my car in Orlando and how we sang together obnoxiously, getting completely lost in the music. I thought he was just humoring me. Now I realize he was paying attention the entire time.
A part of me considers not going. I could stay here, eat my sandwich, and keep my walls up. Then again, this is the West End production of Hadestown, and these are the kind of seats people joke about selling a kidney for.
Before I talk myself out of it, I send him a quick text.
Katie
I’ll be there tonight.
The entire Tube ride into Soho, my stomach twists harder with every stop. The Lyric Theatre is a hive of activity by the time I arrive. There are men in tailored suits standing right next to tourists in hoodies and sneakers.
I’m wearing the plum dress I bought the other day. It has a disastrous memory attached to it, but given what it cost, I refuse to let one bad evening ruin it.
“Can I help you, miss?” an usher asks.
I hand him my ticket.
“Ah, center Stalls, Row C,” he says with a polite nod, gesturing toward the auditorium doors. “Enjoy the show, miss.”
As I walk down the center aisle, I take in the theatre. It’s breathtaking. There are gilded ceilings, heavy red velvet curtains, and a stage that looks like a gateway to another world.
I find my seat and sink into the plush cushion. Around me, couples lean toward each other, sharing Playbills and whispered theories about the cast. I stare stubbornly at the empty seat beside me, uncertain if I want him to show up or not.
I pull out my phone, partly to distract myself.
Katie
You’ll never guess what I’m seeing tonight.
I snap a photo of the Playbill against the backdrop of the stage and hit Send.
Katie
Be jealous. I’ll take you when you visit. Promise.
There’s no immediate reply, which makes sense given that it’s barely mid-afternoon back in Florida, and Zoe is likely getting ready for her date with Randy later.
I tuck the phone back into my bag just as the orchestra begins to tune. That beautiful swell of strings and brass sends a tingle up the back of my neck.
Five minutes pass. The lights begin to flicker, signaling the start. The house lights dim to a warm amber. The chatter of the audience dies down into an expectant hush.
Then a shadow slips into the row, moving with a practiced grace. A man settles into the seat beside me just as the first low note of the trombone growls through the darkness.
Even without looking, I know it’s Max.
