In his notable absence from gathering supplies with the stagehands, I envision varied possibilities of our confrontation. To allay my simmering guilt, I remind myself who instigated this tug-of-war, one that has assuredly run its course. By the time the stage is cleared, I’m prepared to mitigate an eruption or endure a scolding. I’m hoping for a meager lecture.

Still in costume, I enter Charles’s dressing room and try for a light tack. “And with that, I hereby declare a truce.”

Charles doesn’t so much as pause while buttoning his white collared shirt, standing before the illuminated mirror. “A truce…” He repeats the phrase as if sampling a foreign flavor. Suspenders hang loose down the sides of his slacks. His unfastened necktie lines his collar. “Funny. Didn’t know we were at war.” His tone is pure nonchalance, a scenario I find oddly unsettling.

“Listen, Charles. We’ve both had our fun. After tonight, well, I figure we’re square.”

He moves on to the ends of his sleeves, applying his cuff links.

“Charles?”

“Hmm?”

His room, indeed more spacious than mine, lacks a window, compelling me to leave the door open a crack. I advance inside for privacy’s sake and address his reflection. “Did you hear what I said?”

A brief glance upward. “Sure. I heard ya.”

“And?”

“Haven’t caught a question.”

“I’m…trying to say…”

It dawns on me that his impassivity is but a facade, a demonstration of my inability to affect him. I brush aside a needling of resentment and continue. “My trick with the locks, I just thought it would add some pizzazz. As you saw, or must’ve heard at least, the crowd really responded.”

“Ah. So that’s why you did it.” His tone, though revelatory, makes it clear he’s not fooled.

The repercussions of our respective schemes don’t strike me as equal. Yet I suppose I can muster the gumption to come clean for my part. “All right, I confess. It was a small act of revenge, and…for that I’m sorry.” And I genuinely mean that.

Even if I did enjoy showcasing my own special skills.

Charles begins fastening his necktie without looking my way. Without even a courtesy of acknowledgment. Good grief, he expects me to grovel. How convenient of him to forget all about last night’s finale.

Refusing to lose my composure, I merely pivot and start for the door.

“I don’t think so.”

The remark stops me cold. Plausible meanings riffle through my head: a command not to leave, a rejection of my apology. Against my better judgment, I turn with arms crossed, a silent demand that he elaborate.

“Way I see it,” he says, still facing the mirror, “it wasn’t so much revenge. It was jealousy.”

I suppress a laugh, barely. “Of?”

“The rave review. My feature in a major paper.”