Page 47 of Broken Romeo
I stop myself from giving a self-deprecating snort and saying what strengths?
Amy tugs the sheet music from my hands and points to the center of the stage. “Go stand over there. Don’t look at the notes and the rhythms and the time signatures. Just… sing from here.” She presses her palm to her heart. As she tilts her head center stage, her knotted bun of jet-black hair bounces. “Go.”
I swallow and clutch my water bottle in my hands, both of us sweating profusely.
Don’t look at the notes and rhythm? Sure, I’d already memorized my lyrics for the song, but asking me to sing it without the words in front of me is like asking me to recite a poem without prompts… in a foreign language.
She plays the intro, and I close my eyes, trying to block out the room, ignore what I know about the song, what I think she wants to hear, and just feel the music.
I start singing, hearing her tone, matching it. Not because I know I’m supposed to, but because it feels right. Like a dance, Amy is leading and I’m following, but I get the sense that she’s ready to hand that power to me whenever I want it.
I blink my eyes open, and when I look out into the audience, I focus on the circle of light at the back of the theater, imagining it’s the setting sun.
The beat pulses against her fingers hitting the piano keys and the vibrations thrum up my body from the floor like an electric current. I feel the syncopated rests and the swell of harmony that sits below the melody in chords.
I don’t even know if I’m singing the right verse, the correct words, but it doesn’t just sound good… it feels right. I finish the final note, suspending it, holding it longer and building to a crescendo that leaves the theater ringing with overtones when I stop singing.
I blink, coming back to myself and glance at Amy whose surprised smile warms me from the inside. “There it is,” she says.
The acoustics of the theater carry her whisper.
Spinning on her piano bench, she calls out, “Holden, I’m going to need a few minutes to jot down and transpose what she just did! If you want to start without me, go ahead.”
Holden?
I follow her gaze to where it’s directed at the light booth and sure enough, there’s his angular, muscled silhouette standing dead center between the two spotlights.
“No problem, Amy.”
My feet stick to the floor like it’s made of some sort of rapid drying cement. That is, until I’m being lifted off the ground… in Nolan Brooks’s arms.
I’m stunned as he hugs me and swings me around like a ragdoll. “That was fucking incredible! Holy shit, this show’s going to sweep the Tonys!”
Finally, I snap out of my fog and smack Nolan lightly on the back. “Put me down!”
I try to channel my serious voice, but he’s so damn excited, it’s contagious. And soon, I’m back on my feet, but leaning into his arms and laughing, too.
Nolan’s grin widens and his gaze lands briefly on my mouth before shifting to my eyes.
“A bunch of us are going out tonight,” he says. “You should join us.”
I scrunch my nose. “I can’t. I rehearse later than you guys.”
He waves me away. “No, no. We’re all going out later. Like much later after curtain call. We’re meeting up with some other actors. Seriously, you should come. Meet the gang.” He leans in close, whispering, “You’re one of us now, New Girl.”
“Nolan.” Holden’s voice booms, suddenly somehow directly in front of us. He must have taken the stairs from the light booth two at a time.
Even though he only said a single word, it’s a warning and a challenge all at once.
Nolan puts his hands up in surrender and steps back from me. “I know her name, Holden, I swear. But New Girl’s sort of our thing. Like a cute nickname.”
He punctuates the sentence with a wink at me and my face goes hot. Not because I’m particularly attracted to Nolan… Okay, yes, the man’s hot. You’d have to be blind to not see how gorgeous he is. But the goofy, Labrador-esque jovial dude has never been my type.
My gaze swings to Holden. Tall, commanding, striking—
“Katherine,” he barks.
Pretentious.