Intermission

August 9th

Present Day

Somewhere between Michigan and Iowa

Tick-tick-tick-tick. Thrum-bum-bum. Tick-tick-tick-tick. Tick-tick-tick-tick. Thrum-bum-bum.

White dashes cut the interstate lanes like staccato sixteenth notes, arguing time signatures with a Rodgers & Hammerstein waltz, the current selection on my Broadway playlist.

Tick-tick-tick-tick. Thrum-bum-bum. Tick-tick-tick-tick. Tick-tick-tick-tick. Thrum-bum-bum.

Ugh. So annoying. At least my car’s iffy power outlet is cooperating with the ancient-but-necessary adapter today. I can ignore background static as long as the tunes flow from my phone to the car’s speakers without interruption.

Tightening my grip on the steering wheel, I press the pedal down. The dashes blur, but only until I glance at the speedometer. Oops. I ease my foot off the gas. The clock confirms what I already know. I’m two hours ahead of schedule, and a working college student’s budget leaves precious little wiggle room for unnecessary extras, like speeding tickets.

Setting the cruise control at an almost-law-abiding number, I turn up the volume, hoping the encompassing magic of Broadway will transport my anxious mind to the stage and speed the hours of this long-awaited trip.

It works. For three or four songs. And then a random pothole euthanizes the show tunes I spent hours arranging into playlist perfection.

The sudden silence pulls two unbidden exhalations from my lips. No-ah. My Broadway illusion shatters on those shallow syllables, yanking deep cords of an aching hope.

He was my Noah once.

Back then, any doubts that arose were quickly snuffed.

Today, they own me.

I pull the adapter from the power outlet and blow on it, though I doubt there’s scientific evidence of why that might help. I stick it back in. Static. I try again, twisting left, right . . . nothing.

My pulse increases as desperation builds in my throat. Music. I need music!

Remove. Blow. Replace. I repeat the process with the end attached to my phone. Nothing but static. With a groan, I unplug both and toss them onto the passenger seat.

My five-year-old Siberian husky mix lifts her gray and white head from the back seat and pants a smile.

Well, Janey, I say, glancing at the blue-eyed beauty in the rearview mirror, looks like we’re at the mercy of the radio.

Clearly, Janey is unconcerned, but her calm does not stop panic from wrapping a chokehold around my windpipe. I was counting on that playlist to distract me from the what-ifs of this long-awaited road trip, from thinking about what may or may not be waiting on the other side of the promise I’m in the process of keeping.

He said he would come.

I repeat the reminder like a mantra as I hit the seek button.

He said he would come.

Janey barks a happy sled-dog sort of sound that seems not only out of place on this hot August day but entirely too optimistic, all things considered. I guess she’s forgotten the part that lets Noah off the hook if he—

No, I can’t think like that. Not yet.

But neither can I handle the twangy country station the radio finds. I hit the seek button again. And again. Do they make another kind of music in this part of the world?

After tapping the button five more times, each tap a little more desperate, a little stabbier than the one before, the smooth caramel croon of an old Michael Bublé song saves me from the clutches of a desolate musical landscape.

Saves me . . . and wrecks me, because it floods my mind with the memory of another crooner—Noah—and his spot-on Bublé impression.

Tears threaten above the smile I cannot contain. I blink away the blur, but it doesn’t clear the view in my mind’s eye.

His eyes, a shade of blue so honest they should have a crayon named after them.

His hands, entwined with mine. His fingers, callused from guitar strings and hard work.

The sound of his laugh, genuine and warm.

Each memory is torture . . .

And bliss.

Memories of him. Of us.

Of hikes. A creek. A waterfall.

A stage. A duet.

A frozen pond. That first kiss.

Our song.

My ribs squeeze around each golden moment of a friendship that expanded, overflowed, stretched, and then leaped . . . into a love cut short.

No, not cut. Paused.

Please, let it be a pause.

In its first act, our romance delivered everything a theatre-lover could hope for: star-crossed lovers, a killer songbook, touches of comedy, a cruel villain, and—of course—an emotional cliffhanger leading into the intermission.

A very long intermission.

But tonight, finally, the curtain will rise. And if Noah—

Hot moisture stings my eyes. Breathe, I remind myself.

The radio plays a different song now, a current Top Forty tune in four/four time. The tempo is swift. The sixteenth-note dashes could pass for eighth notes if I watch my speed.

Tick-tick. Tick-tick. Tick-tick. Tick-tick.

Tick-tick. Tick-tick. Tick-tick. Tick-tick.

Maybe those dashes aren’t so bad. Each series of ticks is one less measure I’ll spend waiting backstage.

Eight, nine. Eight-seventeen.

Two years ago, on the night we said goodbye, today’s date—August ninth—and that time—8:17 p.m.—became the earworm refrain that has held me together since.

Eight, nine. Eight-seventeen.

In just a few more hours, the curtain will rise to reveal the players for Act II.

But it’s been two years.

Two. Long. Years.

When Noah left, my world imploded. I was gutted—in so many ways—but I survived. I’d like to think I’m stronger now, but if the appointed time arrives and he doesn’t . . .

I’m not ready for that script.

I’m not ready to admit Noah could have discarded his promise during the intermission.

I have to hold on. Just a little while longer.

November 5th

Nearly 3 Years Ago

Kanton, Iowa

The blue-black sky squeezes the edge of a nearly full moon as I exit Kanton High School, trading musical rehearsal for the rare luxury of having the house all to myself this weekend. Rehearsal began right after school, but it was tech night—with a freshman at the sound board, no less—and lasted much later than normal for a post-football-season Friday night. A few friends from the cast invited me to go with them to catch the late movie in Sommerton, but for the first time in a long time, I can hardly wait to get home.

I click the remote that lets me into Parre Hills, the gated golf course community I call home. The iron gates open . . . and an invisible vise loosens its hold on my chest.

I draw in a fuller breath than I’ve taken in a long time, envisioning the peaceful night stretching before me. The last few hills and curves often tense up my shoulders, but not tonight. I usually dread going home to my mother’s "How was your day?" greeting. More often than not, that seemingly innocuous question becomes a lecture, complete with verbal bullet points outlining how I could better use my time at Kanton High and how I should channel my energy toward leadership opportunities instead of singing, acting, dancing—the sorts of things intelligent people do not pursue as careers.

"You could be Class President next year, she might say. Or, Remember, every grade counts toward your cumulative G.P.A. Don’t get distracted with your hobbies."

Hobbies. That’s how she interprets the passion that drives me toward the stage. As a hobby. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom.

I am the unexplainably artistic Prescott, the strange child who shies away from nets and bats and balls but hungers for the stage. Academically speaking, I do almost as well in school as my brother did and slightly better than my sister. But it’s never good enough. I never quite live up to my potential—at least not in my mother’s eyes. Call me a slacker, I guess, for being Vice President of the sophomore class with a 3.8 G.P.A. Since I don’t play sports, like my brother and sister did when they were in high school, and my parents did before them, there’s no excuse for anything less than a 4.0.

This weekend, however, Mom went with Dad to one of his medical conferences. I have the house all to myself. No one will be breathing down my neck about homework or complaining about the unnecessary volume of the music seeping out from under my bedroom door.

Freedom.

Since I don’t want the camera-monitored security company to send my parents another warning listing my license plate, I’m careful to follow the artfully posted speed limit. After curving through several paved hills, I reach the private drive that leads to my family’s sprawling Craftsman-style bungalow.

Light breaks through the evergreens lining our long driveway.

What? I slam on the brakes. The house should be dark, but as I inch the car forward, more light breaks through. Too much light.

Mom would never leave more than the porch and foyer lights on, a fact that offers two possibilities. Either Mom and Dad didn’t go to the conference after all . . . or they called in one of my two older sibs to watch the house—and me—while they’re away.

Let it be Ryan. I grip the wheel. Please, let it be Ryan.

Eleven years my senior and in the second year of a surgical residency at the University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics, Ryan already answers to Dad’s title of Dr. Prescott. Regardless of the age gap between us, we’ve always been close. But Ryan is busy being a doctor. He just got engaged to his longtime girlfriend, Danielle. What are the odds he would be able to answer Mom’s beck and call?

Slim to none.

When my headlights illumine the U-shaped driveway in front of the house, there are at least six cars crammed around the curve, leaving no doubt as to the identity of my Zen-breaker.

Gretchen, I growl my sister’s name like a curse word. Great.

So much for solitude.

All I want is an empty house where I can relax. Maybe even practice my songs and lines somewhere other than behind my closed bedroom door. Instead, I have the pleasure of dealing with my party-crazed sister and her obnoxious friends. Again. Yay, me.

My headlights catch on a six-pack of silver and blue-labeled bottles awaiting retrieval on the roof of one of the cars, which means there must be enough alcohol flowing inside already that its owner hasn’t missed his beer yet.

At least I know what I’m walking into.

Gretchen will be twenty in January, but her pre-law major is a tad ironic considering the level of respect she gives certain laws. Such as the legal drinking age.

And I’m the one who needs supervision?

As I pull around to my assigned parking spot, a single-bay carport by the garden shed, I’m glad it’s a safe distance from the other vehicles. Mine is a hand-me-down car, but it’s mine. Besides, I don’t want to have to try and convince my parents it’s not my fault if a dent shows up overnight. Again.

I clench my teeth and shove the gearshift into park. Even if Mom and Dad are aware of their middle child’s abuse of their trust, they’ll never let on.

When I open the car door, my ears are assaulted by a thumping bass beat. If the neighbors complain about the noise, my parents will assume it was me, the music lover. I won’t bother correcting them. Neither will Gretchen.

Gretchen is the golden child. Literally. Whereas Ryan and I take after Dad’s side of the family, Gretchen inherited Mom’s blue eyes and the entirely unfair combination of blonde bombshell femininity and athletic prowess. Her gilding is figurative as well, at least according to my blind, deaf, and really dumb—as in ignorant, not mute—parents, because Golden Gretchen can do no wrong.

Muttering a few choice words, I slam the car door, but my temper fizzles when a cold wet nose presses into my palm.

Hi, Janey. I kneel and kiss her fluffy gray and white head. Looks like Gretchen’s at it again, huh?

Janey makes a throaty sound. Affection. Agreement. Solidarity. She doesn’t much care for Gretchen or her loud crowd. I don’t want to make her go inside, but . . . maybe we don’t have to. At least not yet.

Whaddya say we hike up to the waterfall? It’s November, but not really winter yet. And even a cold hike through the woods beats subjecting myself to Gretchen’s drunk and handsy friends in the house.

Janey’s warm tongue wets my face from chin to hairline. Okay, okay. I laugh. We’ll go.

I pull out my phone and send my sister a quick text.

Faith:

Got home at 8:45. Taking Janey for a hike. Be back later.

I don’t expect a response, but because someone around here needs to be responsible, I send a follow-up.

Faith:

Be safe, k?

Before stowing my phone in my pocket, I pick a playlist and put my ear buds in. The November wind has taken the night off, and although its absence keeps winter’s coming chill at bay, it is far from warm. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt from beneath my insulated vest and grab my gloves from the passenger seat. Okay, Janey. Let’s go.

Four miles west of the small town of Kanton and fourteen miles east of Sommerton, the closest city big enough to have a decent hospital, the Parre Hills subdivision includes over a hundred wooded acres with manicured trails for walking, running, and biking. The location appeals to professionals like my parents who make their living in Sommerton but prefer the relative peace of rural life, the social status of living in a golf course community, and the quality education afforded their children in the smaller Kanton school district.

What I like about Parre Hills is how the west and north sides of those carefully kept woods are bordered by a not-so-tidy nature preserve. This is where Janey and I usually trek. Our most frequent destination is, of course, the waterfall—my secret stage. It’s not much of a waterfall—this is Iowa, not Oregon—but it’s mine.

As we wind our way up through the woods, I silently review the night’s practice of Annie. Earlier this fall, against the warnings of my Drama Club friends, I tried out for a named part—a daring deed, virtually unheard of for a lowly sophomore. The underclassmen of Kanton High are almost always relegated to the chorus. But . . . my risk paid off. The drama coach broke tradition and cast me as the bimbo airhead, Lily St. Regis.

Yes, it’s a smaller part, but playing a character role is crazy fun, and even though I did make temporary enemies of a few junior and senior girls by snagging the role away from them, most seem like they’re over it now.

I duck under a low-hanging branch, smiling as I mentally replay how I vamped it up at practice tonight, scoring a wink from the senior boy cast as Daddy Warbucks.

At the top of the hill, I veer to the left, following a familiar deer trail rather than the carefully maintained Parre Hills paths. Without needing my command to know where we’re headed, Janey crawls under the dilapidated wire fence separating our gated community from the county nature preserve. I follow, climbing over it. A few moments later, the steep bank of the creek welcomes us to follow it to my favorite perch.

Glad for the moon to light my path, I find a few outcroppings of rock to use as footholds, and I descend the creek bank. Tracing the water’s path, I don’t need to think about where I’m going, but it’s nice to have that ambient light to point out fresh obstacles that have fallen in the creek bed since the last time we were here.

Several yards ahead of me, Janey stops, on point—or as much on point as she can with that tail curling over her back.

I creep forward. What is it? A deer? Wild turkey? Bobcat? Coyote? We’ve seen or heard all of those around here, but we’ve never come too close.

I pull out my ear buds. What is it, girl?

Her low growl jolts me to a halt, but it’s a different sound that shocks me into clumsiness.

No, not a sound. A song.

I catch my balance in time to avoid dipping my shoe in the shallow water. I know this tune. It’s a song not from the radio but from a Broadway musical. In the Heights.

I lean forward, tilting my head as if that will help the words I know align with the words I’m hearing. It doesn’t. The tune is right, but whoever this guy is, he doesn’t know the lyrics at all.

Still, I can’t help but listen. Even sung with the wrong words, the delivery is incredible. Almost . . . painful. But in a good way.

Wow. As I breathe out the word, one of Janey’s ears perks slightly back toward me, but the rest of her remains in complete stillness.

I almost don’t care that this guy is murdering Lin-Manuel Miranda’s lyrics. He’s emoting those wrong words with such . . . truth, it’s almost as if he’s changing them up as he goes, improvising the lyric around his heart.

Curiosity takes wing. I feel a little like a Peeping Tom, but without the skeeve factor.

This is private. I should leave.

Instead, I move forward stealthily, so as not to spook the singer.

Janey slinks forward as well, staying just ahead of me. After we round the final curve of the creek, revealing the waterfall, she growls again.

It’s a longer sound this time. Louder.

The guy stumbles to his feet. My gloved hand fists at my lips. I’m sure he’s about to go right over the edge, but he doesn’t.

Janey braces herself between me and the stranger and inhales saliva through her snarl, accenting it with a deep bark before continuing the rumbling threat.

Nice doggie, the guy says, glancing over the ledge as if he’s considering it as a possible escape route. He backs toward the creek bank instead. "Niiice doggie."

Janey lets out three tonal barks and resumes her slobbery snarl. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was kind of scary. Maybe borderline rabid.

That’s my girl.

With her by my side, I’m not afraid.

It’s kind of satisfying, actually. But . . .

Janey, hold.

Oh! The guy startles. "Uh . . . hi. I didn’t see you behind the—Is that a-a wolf?"

Siberian husky, mostly. With a little Akita mixed in. Janey, heel.

A dog. Good. Wow. I thought I was alone out here, and then . . . He chuckles, but it’s a nervous sound. I won’t lie. Your dog almost scared me over the ledge.

"Why did you come all the way out here at night anyway? To my waterfall?"

This is your—? I’m—I am so sorry. I didn’t realize this was private property. I’ll leave. That is, if your dog isn’t opposed to the idea. He clears his throat. I apologize, sincerely. I didn’t mean to trespass. I thought this was part of the nature preserve.

It is. I cringe, glad my embarrassment won’t be obvious in the color-cancelling moonlight. "It’s not really my waterfall, I just . . . well, I’ve been coming here for years, and I’ve never seen another person here after dark. I bite my lip. Probably because the sign posted at the entrance says the preserve closes at dusk."

Not that I used the actual entrance.

It wasn’t dark when I got here. Unfortunately, the night crept up on me pretty quickly once I ventured off the marked trail.

His almost-an-accent elocution proves he’s known a bigger world than most of the people in my little town. His diction is too perfect to be a local boy, but his speaking voice is vaguely familiar. As was his singing, now that I think about it.

A face pops into my mind, and with it, a memory of the rest of him, doing a little soft-shoeing on the Kanton High stage.

You’re Noah Spencer.

I’m sorry? The words of apology carry a bewildered tone, making them seem more like a greeting. Tilting his head, he takes a step forward. When my dog growls, he stops. Er . . . do we know each other?

No. At least, I don’t think we’ve met. He graduated with my sister, and I did go to all three performances of Guys and Dolls that year, so . . . maybe? "Sorry. I saw you perform in Guys and Dolls. And some other stuff at Kanton High. I recognized your voice."

"Wow. Guys and Dolls, huh? The smile of a memory filters through his voice. That was a long time ago."

Uh . . . not really. It was, like two years ago.

Yeah. I suppose you’re right. Huh. Seems like a lot longer.

Yeah. I guess.

I take a deep breath. I don’t want to go home, but he was here first, so . . .

Look, I’m sorry we bothered you. We’ll go. Janey, come.

Wait. You don’t have to leave if you don’t want to. There’s a dry spot here by the ledge. We could share the rock, if you’d like. If your dog isn’t going to kill me, that is.

I laugh. Janey’s not going to kill you.

That’s a relief. But since you’ve hiked all this way, you might as well enjoy the view. Noah lifts a hand to gesture toward the sky. It’s a beautiful night. And there might not be too many left before winter.

He’s right. And I really do not want to go home to Gretchen’s beer fest.

Noah has the reputation of being a good guy—which is more than I can say for the collection of douche-canoes that usually show up to Gretchen’s parties. I think it’s safe. If Noah Spencer turns out to be bad news, I’m betting it wouldn’t take much for Janey to rip out his throat.

But I’m hoping that isn’t necessary, because the loss of that singing voice would grieve the world.

I toe off my shoes and remove my socks to cross the stream. Several achingly cold, wet steps later I arrive on the only dry spot of the overhang.

Smart. Noah nods at my shoes. I got my boots all wet. He offers his hand. Hi. I’m Noah. But I guess you already knew that.

He wants to shake hands? Odd, but . . . okay. It’s kind of charming.

I tuck my shoes under my arm and meet his hand with my own. Nice to meet you. I’m Faith. And this is Janey.

Noah offers an open palm to my dog and is rewarded with a deep-throated growl.

Be nice, Janey. I stroke a hand over her head but speak to Noah. Don’t worry. She’ll warm up to you.

Janey growls again.

I laugh. Or not.

Protective, is she?

That’s the Akita in her. She’s a good dog. I sit down to put on my socks and shoes. We’re not used to running into anyone up here. Not a lot of people come to the preserve this time of year, you know? Especially after dark. You’ve messed with her routine.

So it would seem. Noah sits as well. But like I said, it wasn’t dark yet when I hiked in. I guess I lost track of time and then I . . . well, I got lost. He shakes his head. It’s kind of silly, actually. I was nearly ready to write this waterfall off as an urban myth—

"Or a rural myth, as the case may be."

Right. He laughs. Anyway, I finally stumbled—and that’s a literal statement, he says with a slight groan in his voice, upon the creek. I decided to follow it. I figured I’d discover either a trail out or the elusive waterfall I’ve heard so much about.

You’re not injured or anything, are you?

No, no. Nothing like that. Well, unless you count my pride. I’ve been sitting here for the past hour wondering if I’ll be able to find my way out . . . or if I need to channel my inner survivalist and construct some sort of short-term shelter.

Your rescue service has arrived. I give an abbreviated bow, tilting my head. I know the way to the entrance. Just say the word when you’re ready to go.

Really? Thanks. I feel like an idiot for getting lost, but I’m not stupid enough to turn down an offer of help. And even though it was something of an accident, I did find the waterfall I guess, so . . . He shrugs, smiling. Mission accomplished?

I don’t think very many people know it’s here. The county’s website has a map that lists it, but since there’s not an official trail that leads to the waterfall, it’s not easy to find unless you’ve been here before.

A map. Now that would have been handy. I wish the guy who told me about this place would have mentioned there was a map.

I’d guess he doesn’t know about it. Most people probably don’t even realize the county has a website.

True. And nature tromping isn’t really Mr. Barron’s style. Do you know him? The KHS choir director?

Sure.

I guess one of his vocal students comes out here a lot to practice, and she said the acoustics were really good.

Uh, yeah. That would be me.

I have to say, she’s on to something. It’s like God’s own amphitheatre out here. If I’d known about this place sooner, I would’ve been out here all the time. I’m glad you mentioned the map, though. I doubt I’d be brave enough to try to find it again without one.

A ping of possessiveness slides through my brain, tensing my muscles. This is not my waterfall, but I’ve thought of it as mine for as long as I can remember.

When Noah sighs, however, an odd weariness seeps through the sound, and compassion replaces my selfish emotion. I’m just about to ask if he’s all right when he breaks the silence with a question of his own.

What brought you to the waterfall tonight?

Me? Oh, too many people in my house. I thought I’d use the stage—er, the waterfall, that is—to practice.

Noah tilts his head.

That vocal student Mr. B told you about? I tap my gloved hand against my heart. Yours truly.

Ah. Of course! And you’re practicing for . . .

"I’m in Annie. The performance is next weekend."

You go to KHS?

I nod.

Huh. What part do you play?

I’m the dumb hotel.

The dumb . . . ? He barks out a laugh. Lily St. Regis.

Yep.

A grin stretches my cheeks. When I used that line on my parents, Mom consoled me, believing I had been cast as a building. A building! I tell Noah the story.

His laugh is softer this time, a sound of genuine amusement. Your parents aren’t big fans of the theatre, I take it?

No. They’re all about sports, as are my older siblings. I’m something of an anomaly. The artsy one. The family oddball.

Lily St. Regis must be a pretty fun part to play.

It is.

Have you seen the version with Kristin Chenoweth?

"I own the movie. I’ve watched it so many times, it might be permanently burned into our TV screen."

He chuckles. "Annie isn’t my favorite musical, but it’s a good one. And Chenoweth is fantastic in that role."

Which musical is your favorite? No. Let me guess. I put my hand on his arm and then pull it back. "In the Heights. Wait. If that were his favorite, wouldn’t he sing the correct lyrics? Or . . . is it?"

I like it okay, but I wouldn’t say it’s my—Oh. His head drops, and his shoulders jump. You heard me singing ‘Inútil.’

"I heard you singing something that sounded like the melody of ‘Inútil,’ but the lyrics? Not so much. Er, sorry. That sounded rude."

Not at all. You are . . . one hundred percent correct. I— He breaks off. Clears his throat. I do know the correct words. Sometimes I . . . Well, I adjust lyrics to fit the mood of the moment.

Okay . . . I guess I interrupted a pretty dark, mournful moment, then. Wow. Awkward much, Faith?

His knees are raised, his feet crossed at the ankles, and his gaze is glued to the rock. Surely he’s not insecure. Is he? With that voice?

Hmm. Maybe I’m not the only one feeling like the poster child for awkward right now.

You sounded great, I offer. Your vocal was spot-on.

Thanks.

So . . . I’ve embarrassed him. I should change the subject. What were we talking about? Oh! Right. "We’ve established that you like In the Heights, but you haven’t told me your favorite."

There are so many elements that make up a good musical. Noah absently rests his hand on Janey’s back. She pants happily. It sure hasn’t taken her long to warm up to him. "Wicked is funny. And it has some really poignant moments, too. A good message. The special effects are cool."

Not to mention the music. That last bit of ‘Defying Gravity’? Iconic.

Yeah, Noah agrees. "I love that show. And Hamilton. I mean . . . wow. Everything about it is just so revo—"

It takes me a second, but . . .

Oh, no. I laugh. "You were not going to call it ‘revolutionary,’ were you?"

Guilty. He ducks his head. "But it wasn’t on purpose. I