Page 39 of Wish For Me

In half an hour, she’ll have to start fitting me into my safety gear for our evening performance. This play involves me sailing across the stage on ropes, and in the third act, jumping off a balcony to place a star on top of a giant Christmas tree on the other side of the stage. It’s a soft landing, and I’m supported by the gear, but I hate it. I’m scared of heights, and I love acting for the characters, not the physical feats.

But more and more, I’ve felt like I don’t want to be here. That this dream I chased for so long, now that it’s here, isn’t the one I really wanted.

But I smile anyway, because Marissa’s waiting. “Thanks.”

She hesitates a moment. “You okay? Need some help going over lines?” Her eyes are on the pen in my hand. She knows something’s off. She also knows I’ve been watching every news report there is on the lunar trip. She thinks I’m just caught up in the excitement like everyone else.

She doesn’t know I hold my breath every time Leif comes on the screen.

For years I forced myself not to look him up, but this year, I let myself loose. I’m not seeing him for Christmas, I reasoned.

But it’s messed with me. A lot.

Every time the camera lands on him, I can see that little muscle in his jaw tighten the way it did before we went into that kindergarten classroom last year. Then he says a few quick, smart words, and retreats, like he doesn’t want to be on screen, and doesn’t want to leave anyone to do any of the work without him, either.

Unlike some of his crew mates, who are clearly there for the glory and attention, and others who are there for the science, I know Leif’s there to ask those questions that have guided him his whole life. He’s right where he should be.

Which is why I’ve been working so hard to squash my own feelings about wanting him here.

Marissa’s looking at me strangely. She’s very type A. She triple checks everything. She cares deeply about everything going well.

I school my expression into one that’s hopefully not concerning for her. “I’m good, really. I’m just writing a letter to an old friend.”

Luckily this seems to satisfy her. She probably loves writing letters. I can suddenly see her as a Victorian governess, penning letters and clapping her hands to get the children in line, and smile. It’s my first smile in a while.

An old friend. Is that what Leif is?

Sweat drips down my temple, beading on the back of my neck. I’ve got under thirty minutes to pour everything in my chest out onto paper.

Dear Leif,

It’s stupid to be writing to you—I can’t send letters to space. I didn’t ask if you could get email, because I was the one who said we shouldn’t contact each other during the year. Do I wish we hadn’t done that right now?

I chew on the end of my pen.

Yes I fucking do. The way I think about you all the time…the way you’re the first person I want to call when something goes right, and when something goes wrong. We’d talk all the time. Would the magic of our annual visits be depleted if we were in constant contact?

I grimace, then rip the page out of the book.

Dear Leif.

It’s Christmas Eve. You’re in space. I’m on earth.

Something crashes outside and two people launch into a yelling match down the hall. While we’ve been getting rave reviews and night after night we’ve been fully sold out, tensions are high. My leading man is a diva, and our director is a tyrant, just as everyone said. Even to me.

“Fine!” Someone yells outside the door. “Merry fucking Christmas, Brad!”

I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers.

And here’s my first confession, Leif: I don’t want to be here.

The words on paper shocks me. I stare at them a moment, then take the paper and pen and go to the window overlooking the street. Down below, a man tosses a fast food bag on an already overflowing garbage can on the corner. A car splatters through the brown-stained snow, fishtailing as it honks at the pedestrian who’s stepped out into the street.

It’s not because of all the drama backstage, more than up front. I still love the energy of the theater. It’s just…I don’t want to be here, in New York, acting on stage. I want to be with you, in Quince Valley. I want to be on the roof of the Rolling Hills resort. Or the balcony at your grandparents’ house. I want to be at the Mistletoe market, answering your endless questions about the play I’m auditioning for, and trying to convince me to go to the bird sanctuary so I can see how misunderstood those vile creatures really are.

Above the street, past the offices and hotel windows, a thin crescent moon stands out starkly in the inky black sky.

He’s there. My Leif is there, so far away I can’t even see him. My throat goes thick, my eyes welling with tears. I press my fingers against the cold glass. I’ve never felt so far away from anyone in my whole life.

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