Page 203 of June First

I’m done being sad.

We’re all done being sad.

It’s time to chase our light.

Do you want to know exactly what’s hiding in that light at the end of the tunnel?

Well, I’ll tell you.

That’s your legs working again after months of physical therapy.

That’s the medication readjusting the chemicals in your brain after you took a razor to your wrist.

That’s the bronze AA chip after a year of painful sobriety.

That’s the warm tickle in your stomach when you find love again after a messy divorce.

That’s forgiveness after you’ve hit rock bottom.

That light shines differently for everyone, but at the end of the day, it all amounts to the same thing. It’s the better version of yourself, the person you’ve been trying to get back to.

It’s your healing heart.

And a heart can only heal if you choose to let it.

That same night, I packed my bags and booked a flight to New York City.

37

AT FIRST SIGHT

JUNE, AGE 21

My face feels stiff from the costume makeup as I tuck stray strands of hair back into my bobby pins. I feel lighter without the enormous animal prop secured around me, but the bright lights and cramped space always have my chest squeezing during intermission.

Delicious nerves sweep down my spine and tickle my tummy as my reflection stares back at me. I look different these days. I’m a dancer now—a Broadway dancer, living my dream—and aside from the elaborate makeup caked all over my face, the real difference is in my eyes.

I’ve grown up.

Beatrice bumps into me, curling her fingers into cat claws as she winks. “Where’s Celeste?” she asks. She fans herself with one of the programs as dark strands of hair stick to her forehead.

“Smoking,” I reply, smiling at her as I collapse into a chair and roll up to the vanity counter. Illuminated mirrors line the walls, decorated with those vintage Hollywood light bulbs and scattered photographs from the performers.

I only have one photo taped to my personal mirror space—the prom picture of me, Brant, and Theo.

It brings me good luck and placates my nerves.

I spoke to Brant before the show today, but he sounded busy. Distracted. Static and background noise stole most of our conversation, as if he were taking a walk or out in public. I wondered if he was with someone and my call was putting a damper on his plans.

He told me he had a present for me, though, so curiosity has prickled me all afternoon and into the evening. What could it be? As much as I want to know what it is, what I want even more is for him to deliver it in person.

The distance is hard.

It gets harder every day, and even though my life is exciting and my career is thriving, I will never truly feel fulfilled. I’ll always be missing a giant piece.

I’ll always be missing him.

“She’s smoking without me? Wench.” Beatrice pushes through a wall of dancers that are all chatting loudly and sucking down liquid from water bottles as they regroup from the arduous first half of the show.

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