“I miss you all the time.” I can barely get through the words. “I don’t talk about you because it hurts so, so much—it’s not because I don’t miss you, it’s not because I don’t care anymore.” My throat is tight and my nose is so congested I can’t breathe through it. “It’s because I’m afraid that if I admit how sad I am, I’ll never be okay again.”

My breath comes in sharp staccato.

She nods, then kneels on the plastic grass in front of me, reaching out and pulling me into her. “I know that.”

I hug her back. Hard.

No matter what is going on here, I am certain that the arms around me right now, the hair I’m burying my face into, the scent of her skin—it’s Aimee.

No one will ever be able to tell me that this moment was not real.

Both of us start to catch our breath and I become vaguely aware of the sniffles coming from the audience.

We break apart and I see the way the stage lights hit her skin. I can see her every tiny pore. I can see the lighter tips of her eyelashes where I missed putting mascara.

She looks offstage and gives an almost imperceptible nod. A cue.

I cover my eyes for only a moment and look up when I hear the back door of the set opening. Antony appears in the doorway. His bit part.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

I stand, blinking, and then say, “Sorry, we were—”

But Aimee has vanished from the stage.

I look into the wings and am relieved to see she’s still there. Both of her hands are on her chest, and her face is blotchy and red, but she’s smiling encouragingly.

“My friend used to live here,” I say to him now. “I’m in town for a reunion and I haven’t been back since … since she died.”

More sniffles in the audience.

“Oh. I’m so sorry.” He looks behind him. “My wife just made dinner. Would you like to come in?”

I hesitate, then walk through the door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The crowd erupts outside and Antony pats me on the back. That’s it, that’s the end of the show. Experimental as hell to dissolve into metaphor for the entire second act, but it was powerful. Sometimes that’s all it takes. Hopefully the critic sees it as daring and not … a complete disaster. Which it sort of was, but also it was kind of daring.

“Bruv,” Antony says, holding his hands up, “that was amazing. So weird! You were on fire.”

I hold my own hands out, and let him smack them.

“Thanks, you too.”

Suddenly there are arms around me, and I know it’s Aimee before I turn to look.