Singing in front of Dare got easier every time. I didn’t have to pretend he wasn’t there or that I didn’t care what he wanted to hear. I needed him to hear. He was the only person I’d been able to sing in front of since my dad died. Out on my back steps I was supposed to be alone. All the houses were dark, but he’d been there, and he’d listened, and I’d kept going. My throat hadn’t closed up. My vocal chords hadn’t frozen. I’d kept going for a few more notes, and I’d do even more now.

He wanted to talk to me and play whatever game he was playing, but I wasn’t taking the bait. I’d let him know he wasn’t scaring me off, but part of me knew there was something he’d unlocked. I didn’t like it one bit.

I needed him near me to burst through the block on my fingers on the strings and wrench the words from my chest.

We burst through the auditorium doors and others from the cast and crew flew in through the other doors to our soundproofed refuge.

“People.” Our director, Mrs. Tripp, clapped to get everyone’s attention. “There’s a lot happening out there, but we need to focus on what’s happening in here.” She took a deep breath, clasping the clipboard to her chest.

“There are less than ten days until our first performance. Our first full dress rehearsal will be in a week and the orchestra will be here then. Everyone, we need you on your queues. Andrea, I can tell you’re not wearing stockings. Please, we need those on or it looks like you’re walking on uncooked chicken legs up there.”

“Stage crew. We need those set piece transitions tightened up.” She squeezed her fists and her whole body, maintaining her bright-red lipsticked smile. Mrs. Tripp rarely yelled, but it didn’t mean we weren’t all waiting for the inevitable blow up where she’d storm out of a rehearsal announcing the whole thing had been cancelled before being cajoled into returning by the assistant director, Mr. Rourke, and the stage crew wrangler.

* * *

I walked out my back door, but didn’t stop even though I could feel his eyes on me from the second I’d opened it. He wasn’t even pretending he hadn’t been waiting to hear me as much as I’d been waiting to play. A private concert was much easier when I didn’t have to look him in the eye.

He disappeared from view once I got closer to the fence that separated our yards. With every step, I was equal parts wanting to break out into a sprint or turn back around. There was no coming back from this or pretending I wasn’t playing for him anymore. He’d know.

I leaned against the fence. It shook and shuddered, steadied by the weight of my back against it. The ground was still cold and wet, but I played. My fingers moving kept the numbness from creeping in too deeply.