Exit Stage Left Read online

  Something I’ve never really allowed myself, I now realize. My life was Ian. I don’t regret a moment. I'm grateful every day for him. But this feels right. Moving on, my amazing love at my side whenever I need him.

  Susan knew it. Dwight. I wonder if they’d worry knowing how I linger over their dead son’s memory.

  I push back my sunglasses, ponytail hitting the headrest as I smile into the blue sky and the road ahead, not really caring. I’m moving on. And I’m taking Ian with me.

  Love you, babe, he says.

  “I love you, too.” My whisper disappears in the volume of the song.

  I’m so lost in the music I almost miss my exit, tires squealing softly as I cut across two lanes and nearly side-swipe a van full of kids. I wince my apology, wave to the cursing driver and scoot forward, down the off ramp, still driving too fast. Adrenaline pumping, heart skipping, Ian laughing in my head—he loved it when I played the daredevil—I merge yet again into more traffic, the skyline now dominated by a bridge and high rises in the distance.

  It’s almost six o'clock by the time I follow the bumper-to-bumper line of cars across the Hudson River and onto Manhattan Island, leaving the mainland behind me.

  I follow the parkway around the island. The river glitters on my right, the city growing from residential buildings to taller apartments and on toward the center of New York, towering over the rest on my left. I can imagine Ian rubber necking to get a good look. He loved coming to the city, though he rarely had the chance.

  I’m going to explore it for him. With him. Make it our home.

  I take a left on West 54th, spotting a little marquis on the side of a large brick building faced by lovely trees. The sight stirs a thrill in my stomach and I’m grinning all over again.

  Going to be a star, Riley James, Ian’s voice whispers.

  While looking into colleges is one possibility while I’m here, I’ve been suppressing my real hope.

  That I’ll be able to start acting again.

  Aunt Vonda did mention she lived on the outskirts of the theater district. I think I forced myself to forget. Just in case I didn’t get the chance to step on a stage again.

  Dreams are made for living, babe, Ian says.

  I shrug off the memory. Time will tell. For now, I can smile at the chintzy blinking lights someone set up, the hand-painted sign proclaiming the show is “The best in town, says the Chelsea-Clinton News.” And dream.

  I glance at the post-it note I plastered to the dusty dash of my car, squinting at my own handwriting while dodging a yellow cab that jerks to an abrupt halt in front of me. I make a right turn and drive for several blocks, liking the neighborhood already, the steps up to the doorways, the old trees shading the street. Finally, I pull up to a towering, old apartment building.

  My phone is already ringing when I slip it out of my pocket. Aunt Vonda’s face smiles back from her avatar when I hit answer.

  “Hey, Auntie,” I say with a smile in my voice. “I’m out front. I think.”

  She laughs, a little high pitched, ending in a soft snort. “I’m looking right at that miserable excuse you have for a car,” she says. “I’ll be right down.”

  I hang up, still grinning. Exit the driver’s seat to a blast of cooler air, realizing only then the inferno I’ve been sitting in. Not that it matters when Aunt Vonda comes bouncing out the big wooden front entry and down the steps, her generous boobs bobbing as she rushes to the sidewalk. She leaps over the curb into traffic, gives the guy who honks the finger before dashing to my side and crushing me in her arms.

  I hug her back, shaking for some reason, feeling every emotion possible as my old hurt wells up in my throat and tries to expel itself all over her. It’s tough to hold back despite the hope of my drive. Seeing her makes me think of Dad. Mom. And the fact Ian really is gone, my fantasy bubble shattered yet again.

  I manage to hold it together. By the time Aunt Vonda lets me go, beaming as she grips my face between her hands, I’m smiling again, if barely.

  “Darling pet,” she says. Kisses my cheek with her pink lipstick. Dad got all the height in their family, my aunt at least six inches shorter than me. But she kept all the heart. I think it is a better trade all around.

  “You look more like your mother every time I see you.” Aunt Vonda hugs me again before sighing happily while I struggle with more tears. It’s fine, I’m used to pretending everything is fine, only losing it after the illusions fade and I’m confronted with reality. There have been times in the last year I’ve broken down, unable to stop for what felt like days. But I am really hoping this move will mean the end to those events.

  Considering I’ve spent the last three hours pretending Ian is alive and with me, I know it’s not a very good beginning.

  Aunt Vonda squeezes herself into the passenger seat of my car and I almost snap. She fills Ian’s place, grunting as she shoves the remains of my junk binge aside. I didn’t notice the black box in her hand, only spotting it when she waves at the alley beside the building.

  I follow her directions, pulling across the street and into the back lot as she chatters at me while I do my best to control the unreasonable anger I feel she’s broken the last of my connection to Ian.

  “I hope you like your room, I made it up special. I know how much you love daisies, so I bought a quilt with daisies on it.” Her bubbly chatter prods me out of my temper and into amusement. I almost laugh as she rushes on. “Okay, go down here.” She points at the ramp, guiding me to a pair of steel doors. “You can park in my second spot as long as you want.” I’m not planning on using my car much, hoping to get around on foot or use public transit as much as possible. My hatchback is known to quit now and then, and after the long drive we’d just had, I don’t want to risk it.

  Besides, it’s a perfect chance for Ian and me to—

  For me. For me to get to know the city.

  I pull down into the darkness of the underground, following Vonda’s pointing, finally slipping my little car in next to her minivan. Fleur de Vonda glares back with a huge, smiling image of her face, her website and phone number in flowery letters beneath.

  “The pimpmobile,” she rolls her eyes and laughs. “Johnny talked me into it.” Her oldest son’s job as an IT guy for the government must be stifling his creativity, because he is always at Aunt Vonda for something. New website, social media. She is more hooked up than I am.

  “It’s hot,” I say with a wink, forcing myself to be normal and not a freak who fights an endless battle in her head with remembering her dead boyfriend is dead. The van really is atrocious. I just pray she doesn’t want me to drive it.

  Aunt Vonda is already out, the passenger door squealing as she shoves it open, the hinge protesting such abrupt behavior. I pat the dash and whisper thanks for the car’s faithful service before climbing out, stretching. The air of the garage is cool, tainted by the smell of oil and mustiness, but a welcome change from the heat of the car.

  With Aunt Vonda’s help, it only takes one trip up the cranky old elevator to the sixth floor and her apartment. We giggle together as we stuff ourselves in the tiny box, crammed with the two giant suitcases, and wave off a young couple who smile and let us go.

  The hall on Aunt Vonda’s floor is quiet and clean, much nicer than I expected from the outside of the building. And her door is painted a lovely deep green to match the rest in the hall. Shining gold numbers sparkle in the light as she breathlessly keys the lock.

  Smiles at me over her shoulder.

  “Welcome home, pet,” she says. “I’m so happy to have you here.” And opens the door.

  ***

  Chapter Three

  I slip the dozen roses into a paper liner and staple it shut as the man in front of the counter nervously fiddles with his phone, barely looking up as I set them between us. My fingers straighten the little packet of preserver dangling from the top as I wait for him to notice me.

  He doesn’t even comment when I tell him he’s laying out over
a hundred bucks for flowers that will die in a week, his credit card out before I can repeat the price showing on the computer’s readout. My perky smile doesn’t register with him at all as he hustles out, scrawled signature crooked and off center on the slip of paper I slide into the drawer.

  Aunt Vonda laughs over my shoulder into the quiet of the empty store as he leaves, bell jingling behind him. “He’s in trouble,” she says.

  I turn from the aromatic and greenery-laden front to frown at her, though I’m half-smiling, too. “You’re a flower whisperer, are you?”

  Aunt Vonda winks at me from the back over the giant mound of wedding blossoms she’s assembling, deft hands tucking ferns and leaves in a space I didn’t even know required it until I see how awesome it looks placed there.

  “You work in this business long enough,” she says, “you get to understand people and their motivations.”

  “All through flowers.” I turn as the doorbell rings again, brushing bits of rose ends from my pink apron and smile at the couple who wander through, looking at arrangements.

  Aunt Vonda comes to my side, leans in, hands full of fern fronds. “Those two are buying for a funeral, my guess.” I can see it then, the tightness around the woman’s eyes and mouth, the way the man hovers over her. “Long illness,” Aunt Vonda whispers. “Expected.” She flinches a little, meets my eyes with her own sadness. Only then do I think of Ian.

  And squeeze her arm. “Cool superpower,” I said, smiling so she knows her remark doesn't bother me.

  It really doesn’t. Because he’s with me all the time.

  She sets aside her burden of ferns and goes to the couple, speaks softly to them while Ian’s phantom leans over the counter, smiling sadly at them.

  Mom looked like that, his ghost says. When I died.

  She did, too. I remember Susan’s tight, pinched expression, as though the tension in her face was the only thing holding back the torrent of tears. I knew from experience they wouldn’t stop once they started or until she ran out of the will to cry.

  I watch in shock as the strange woman’s face crumples and she nods, allows Aunt Vonda to take her hand, the crushed whiteness of a wadded tissue appearing as she does.

  And I realize my aunt is amazing.

  I’ve already learned so much from her and it’s only been a week. Hard for me to believe, really, seven days have gone by. I feel like I’ve been here forever, in a good way. Walking the streets of New York, exploring Broadway and Time’s Square with Aunt Vonda on Sunday afternoon while Ian’s memory trailed along, prodding me to ask questions and pay attention. To live. Layering memories over a life I knew I lived once.

  In Clifton.

  With him. And now here. No different, except I can’t really hug him. And he’s just a figment of my imagination.

  Moving on, the change of scenery everyone said would do the job?

  Did the job. At least as far as I’ll allow.

  Right from my first night, Aunt Vonda made me feel like her own daughter, though my cousin Caroline, her husband, and newborn son lived in Dubai.

  “Really,” Aunt Vonda moaned. “Stupid oil jobs. Why couldn’t they have gone to Texas?” I grinned as she rolled her eyes, leading me through her spacious living room and open concept kitchen, down the hall to the back of the apartment. “At least then they’d still be in the U.S.” She hesitated by my door, smiling at me, blinking away moisture in her eyes. “I hope you like it here, pet,” she said, one hand settling on her cleavage. “I’ve missed having a girl around.”

  The room was small, but she wasn’t kidding about the daisies. Comforter, pillow shams, even a cute decorative pillow in the shape of a daisy. I looked around the freshly painted blue walls and large window overlooking the street and smiled. Aunt Vonda squealed softly at my expression.

  She steered me toward a narrow white door and into the small, but complete, bathroom on the other side.

  “Not the princess suite,” she said, voice quivering, “but it should be okay?”

  I spun and hugged her on the spot.

  “It’s perfect,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

  And, a week later, it still is. I love my room and the breeze blowing in the window. My privacy for talking to Ian, who my mind sees laying on my bed more often than not, his quirky smile pulling at his mouth, closing over one eye almost all the way. Just like home.

  The fact I can climb to the roof and the deck shared by the whole building, look out over Hell’s Kitchen and the towering core of Manhattan not so far away is just an added bonus. Not to mention the easy three block walk to the flower shop and my job.

  Perfect. Everything. Even more so when, three nights ago, Aunt Vonda dropped a magazine on the table beside me while I finished dinner. Sat with a hopeful smile pulling at her round cheeks, the lines narrowing her sparkling eyes. She nervously patted her curly red hair as I read the cover, Ian’s phantom leaning over my shoulder to whisper the title in my ear.

  “Backstage?”

  A trade magazine for the theater and film in New York, Ian said while my stomach flipped over.

  “You mentioned acting classes,” Aunt Vonda said, hands fluttering, her multitude of gold rings catching the light. “I thought you might want to have a look.”

  Since that moment, the magazine has been my best friend, as much as Ian’s memory. I carry it with me everywhere, hear his voice talk about the hope living between its pages. There are times he distracts me with his excitement over it so much I’m lost for hours.

  In fact, the magazine sits behind me right now as I wait for Aunt Vonda to handle the mourning couple and reach out absently to touch Ian’s hand. Feel cold glass and remember he’s not really there.

  I hate those moments most of all, the ones when I forget it’s not real and Ian is just an apparition. Something I’ve constructed in my head to keep me from falling apart. To block the sudden sting of tears and reality, I spin and grab the magazine. I finger through it, absorbing myself in the write-ups, the images of actors and scenes frozen in time highlighting reviews of new shows. I love the listings, the articles. Everything about it feels magical, a portal to another world. To my dreams, the place where Ian lives. Silly how a classified ad for a sound technician could make my heart sing. Or a sprawling spread for a theater production could almost make me swoon.

  This is my passion. And the last thing Ian spoke to me about. Just before he sank into the coma he never woke from.

  “Rye,” he said. “Go live your dream, now. I’ll be cheering you on from wherever I am.”

  A tear hits the open page, spreads on the semi-gloss surface. Damn it, do I have to remember his death when I just want to cling to him as I have this past week? Doesn’t matter the memory, really. Ian’s wish—alive or imagined—is my command.

  Now I just have to muster the courage to act instead of living inside the fantasy.

  The doorbell rings. Aunt Vonda is still busy with the grieving woman and I shake off my imaginary moment under the lights, Ian clapping in the seats, to do my job.

  I look up as four people stroll in. And catch my breath.

  He is tall, lean, t-shirt faded, though it looks like it’s on purpose. Dark blonde hair hanging in waves around his cheekbones, shoved back by one long-fingered hand. His jeans hang low on his narrow hips, but it’s his eyes. Blue, so blue, like a summer sky just after it rains. And his smiling mouth.

  He’s smiling at me.

  Aunt Vonda bumps into me, breaking my moment of awkward staring. I feel myself flush, hating it, knowing I’ll be all blotchy down to my collarbone and suddenly wishing I could just let her handle it, handle him.

  What the hell is wrong with me? He’s just a guy. I’ve seen cute guys before. And he’s not Ian. That truth slaps me with so much guilt I have to lean against the counter to stay upright even as my mind hunts for Ian’s phantom.

  Who remains absent, for once.

  When I look up again, knowing I have to at least try to act normal, I realize han
dsome isn’t alone. A stunning black girl, her full hair held back in a gold scarf, smiles at me, teeth a stunning contrast with her dusky skin. She leans over the free side of the counter, cleavage showing, and winks at me.

  The two guys behind her laugh, one of them slapping her ass. She spins on him, shaking her finger before rolling her eyes at me.

  “Can I help you?” I feel suddenly shy at her familiarity, the way she leans in again, bangles singing against the glass counter, dark eyes huge and framed in the thickest lashes I’ve ever seen. Tiny gold sparkles glitter on the outside edges of her huge eyes, her generous mouth slick with gloss. The little denim jacket cuts off at her ribcage, a flowing yellow dress beneath.

  “Of course you can,” she says in a voice like butter and velvet poured over spiced chocolate. Winks again. “Though I have a feeling, as sad as it makes me, you’re not my type.”

  My flush returns. Did she just hit on me? She laughs, a rich and engaging sound and I laugh too, unable to stop the nervous giggle escaping. I’ve never met anyone so charismatic in my life.

  “Girlfriend,” one of the guys, a stunning Hispanic almost too pretty for his own good, says in a softly effeminate voice, “you tell her she’s wasting her time.”

  His companion, lithe and skinny, black hair slicked, eyes dark with liner, cocks one hip and hums a tune in a clear, crisp voice, vocal training obvious to my ears. “I think there’s a show tune in there, sugar.”

  The pair of them break into an improvised song, snapping their fingers and dancing in place while the stunning girl laughs at them and joins them in her deep contralto voice.

  I look up. He’s watching me. Their friend. The one I noticed first.

  The kind, open smile on his face makes me shiver and look away. And think Ian’s name over and over like a mantra. One handsome face and I’m forgetting him already? What kind of girlfriend am I?

  And then I remember. Ian’s dead. He's been dead for a year.