Page 43 of Wish For Me

Tell me what you see out there, Leif. Tell me if you can see between the stars.

Be safe so I can see you next Christmas.

And wish for me.

I tuck the letter into the envelope it came with and scrawl Leif’s name on the front. Cosmically, I’m giving it to him. In reality, I’m going to tear it up.

“Noelle? Marissa says.

But it’ll have to wait.

“Coming.” I run to my vanity, sticking the letter into one of the moon novels next to the photo of Grandma Betty. Marissa’s watching me like a hawk, and I don’t want to answer questions.

That night, as I swing out over the stage to an audience of a thousand cheering people, a star in my hand, I look beyond the crowd, beyond the stage, to the people in the wings. The director’s there, whisper-yelling at another actor in the wings. He’s not even looking at me. There are a dozen people crowded around the equipment holding me up. In the shadows, more rush around prepping for the next scene.

And for some strange reason, I think of Eleanor Cleary. At the old news clippings my parents have sent me over the years.

She never wanted the life she’d made for herself—I could see it in her eyes. There was this faraway expression in every photo, like what she really wanted was just out of view. And then she lost everything. Her baby. Her lover. Her life.

I drop the star on the Christmas tree, my lips stretched into a grin. But it’s not real. It’s only for show. I can’t see my parents in the audience. I can’t see them, and I can’t see Leif. I can’t see anything except the mistake I made in thinking this was more important than anything else.

The rope creaks above me. It’s ironic, that I’m hanging by a thread.

I do my best for the rest of the show. I give it my all. And when the show’s over, the audience roars.

As I’m heading off stage, after the final curtain, my director snaps at me that I shouldn’t have gotten so close to the tree in the last scene. “It fucked up the whole scene!” he says. “Are you listening to me?”

I walk past him into the wings.

“You’d better get your shit together for tomorrow’s show,” he says, following me.

I smile, unhooking the safety apparatus from my body with Marissa’s help.

“Pritchard!” he hisses.

I step out of the gear and thrust it at his chest. “You can tell it to my understudy—nicely, please. But I’m done. You’re an asshole, Bob, and this is not how you should direct a Broadway show.”

He’s apoplectic. His skin turns an alarming shade of purple. “You think you know better?”

I do, but I know better than to tell him that. “Goodbye Bob.”

“If you walk out on this show, you’ll never work another day on Broadway in your life!” he yells at my back as I head for the exit.

“That’s the plan,” I say, before walking out the door.

PARTTHREE

Ever After

CHAPTER11

Leif

ONE YEAR LATER

“Here you are, sir.”

The ice clinks as the airport bartender slides me my drink. He’s dressed impeccably in his black suit and a holly-print ascot. He’s even got a waxed mustache.

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