“Wherever,” he says. “With me.”

“Okay,” I say.

I wipe my nose on my sleeve.

“How are we going to make this work?” I ask, thinking of the logistics of our lives.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says. “At least, we owe it to her to try.”

I look down at Teddy, whose mouth opens and unfurls her tongue in the perfect doggy grin. She barks and nudges my hand.

“That’s true,” I say.

Gabe puts his hand on my cheek, his thumb rubbing the drying lines of tears, flaking away the salt there. He kisses the spot, softly. Then, with his hand on my chin, he kisses me. My arms go around his neck and it’s not so cold anymore.

“Chani,” he says.

I love the way he says my name. And this time, there’s a question there. A question I finally have an answer for.

“Yes,” I say. “Yes.”

BROAD SHEETS

Bringing the Big Show to the Big Sky
[EXCERPT]

BY GABE PARKER-HOROWITZ

I’ve been given this article, this space on a page, to promote the theatre I’m launching in my hometown. I know I’m supposed to talk about the season we have planned for the fall, starting with a production of Angels in America. I’m supposed to write about things coming full circle and second chances and new starts and all that. Maybe toss out a brilliant metaphor or life lesson or something.

But it’s fair to say that I’m not much of a writer. And yes, I’m aware that there are people who would argue I’m not much of an actor either.

I’m also not going to talk about my drinking or my recovery or even my latest movie and how well it was received. Okay, maybe I’m going to talk a little bit about that.

Mostly, though, I want to write about a question.

It’s a question my wife asked me when we first met. About success. How I defined it.

I didn’t have an answer for her then, but I think I do now.

It was easy, when I was younger, to think of success in terms of the roles I was getting, the money I was being paid, the perks that were being lavished on me. I was successful because I was famous. Because I was known.

It’s a funny thing when the world thinks it knows you. Or, when you think what the world knows is who you are.

Acting, for me, was an escape. When I stepped onstage or in front of a camera, I knew who I was. I was more comfortable playing pretend than I was being the person that existed when the lights were off.

I felt safer in the fantasy.