But there was no real tomorrow, at least not in terms of Max coming around. For the first few days after Jeremy was home from Boston, Max avoided him.
It wasn’t that difficult. Sword of Dawn was in dress rehearsals, which meant Max had to be at the theater to do the makeup. Because the show had so many magical creatures, Max had to hire three additional makeup artists to get it all done in an efficient manner, although the makeup for the goblins still took almost three hours. So he had to be at the theater four hours before the rehearsal, and an hour after to help the actors get out of the makeup.
Max knew that Jeremy was tied up with rehearsals, too, in preparation for previews to open, so the odds of them running into each other at home were pretty slim. Max was pretty much only there to sleep.
But he came home one night and found Jeremy wasn’t there. It was after midnight, and Max was dead on his feet from the long rehearsal and training his new staff to do the creature makeup. Without even turning many lights on, he walked through the kitchen, drank a big glass of water, then stalled, hoping he’d catch Jeremy before he went to sleep. Lingering like this made no sense, but he didn’t interrogate himself too closely. Instead he took his time getting ready for bed, and then when he could stall no more, he went to his room and closed the door.
He lay there for a long time, unable to sleep. He listened for Jeremy to come in while glancing at the clock. His heart fluttered too fast. Maybe Jeremy had gotten stuck at rehearsal late. Then he wondered if Jeremy really was hooking up with someone from the cast or crew, as Max had told him to do. Then he started to wonder if something terrible had happened to Jeremy, and if anyone would think to call Max to tell him about it.
He lay awake, his heart pounding, the anxiety paralyzing him, until around two a.m., when he finally heard Jeremy’s key in the lock.
The thing was, they weren’t talking to each other. Before Boston, Jeremy would have texted Max if he got stuck somewhere late. Max would have texted Jeremy with his ETA at home, too. But neither of them had done any such thing since they’d gotten back.
And there was something more akin to a relationship in that—someone calling his spouse to let him know he’d be home for dinner by six—than a simple roommate situation. Although Max didn’t view Jeremy as just his roommate, and this was anything but simple.
He listened to Jeremy move around in the apartment. A heavy sigh, some banging around in the kitchen, and the unique squeal of the hinge on the bathroom door.
What was it that Max really wanted? Did he want Jeremy out of his life? Did he want Jeremy as a friend? Did he want Jeremy as a lover? As a partner? As a husband? And had Jeremy hooked up with that guy in Boston? His heart ached at the thought, even though he’d been the one to tell Jeremy to do it.
He loved Jeremy. Nothing would ever change that. And he was dealing now with the practicalities of a relationship, with the fact that finally getting together with Jeremy wasn’t the unadulteratedly blissful experience he’d been expecting. But their relationship falling short of unrealistic expectations wasn’t a real reason to throw it away, and Anthony had been right, he did fear success. Or he feared that he’d get what he wanted and then he’d be the one to fuck it up.
Which is what had happened.
He almost groaned aloud, realizing how stupid he’d been, and he probably could have left his room and gone into the hallway and confronted Jeremy right now, but his head was spinning. Instead, he lay as quietly as possible to make Jeremy think he was asleep. He watched the strip of light under his door, waiting for the moment when Jeremy finally settled back on the sofa.
And then, finally, exhaustion overtook him and he fell asleep.
The whole cast of See the Light sat on the stage of the Hammerstein Theater the day before previews were supposed to begin. Alex paced back and forth as if gathering his thoughts, so Jeremy stared out at the rows of chairs in front of him.
Previews were a show’s soft opening. They had to be on their game to impress critics, but still had some wiggle room to make changes to the show if needed. But these days, preview audiences weren’t that different from any other audience, and Jeremy was mindful of that, too. That even if the real opening night were still a few weeks in the future, in one day’s time, he’d be walking out onto this stage and singing, acting, dancing, and giving his everything to this performance for a live audience.
The newly renovated theater was gorgeous, though. The seats had been reupholstered and the soft red fabric had a sheen to it under the glow of the house lights. Those rows of empty seats seemed to stretch on forever, both in the orchestra section and the two mezzanines above.
“The feedback from Boston was very positive,” Alex said. “Audiences there seemed to really like Jeremy’s performance, they thought the songs were catchy, they got emotionally invested. The critic reviews are very stoic, but my assistant has been trolling social media, and there were mentions of theatergoers shedding some tears. The end of the first act seems to be a particularly emotional experience.”
Talk about stoic; Alex’s tone registered very little emotion. It wasn’t terribly reassuring, but then, this was how Alex usually spoke.
“Anyway,” Alex continued, “I just wanted to say that, given how little time we had to pull this off, you all have done exceptionally well, and I couldn’t have asked for a better cast and crew.”
Wow. Jeremy glanced around, and everyone else seemed just as astonished that Alex had paid them such a compliment.
“I know I yell a lot, but I just want this show to be the best it can be. I think we have something really special here. So go home and get some rest. I’ll see you all for the first preview tomorrow.”
After some small talk with his costars, Jeremy got on the subway and headed back to Brooklyn. He arrived at an empty apartment, which wasn’t a surprise. Jeremy knew Max was working on Sword of Dawn, though he also suspected Max was avoiding him.
He didn’t see Max before the first preview.
He must have fallen asleep before Max got home on Preview Eve, because the next thing he knew, Max was leaving for work the next morning.
This awkwardness had to stop.
But he couldn’t think about that now. He either had to push his feelings about Max aside or had to channel it into his performance.
And then one Tuesday night, he stood in the wings of the largest theater he’d ever performed in, waiting for the opening music cue. He was in his Act 1 costume, which was a gray shirt and khakis, the sort of clothing someone trying to blend in would wear.
Jeremy had posed for photos for the official artwork for the show the previous week, which obscured his face so that future Benjamins could slip into the role. The official artwork on the Playbill showed the outline of a group of student protestors outside a state capital building with a large dome, and then Benjamin standing off to the side in his full color Act 2 costume, looking toward the black outline of his friends. It was a compelling image, and one that made clear Benjamin was the star of the show.
They’d had to mobilize quickly to get tickets on sale. The show had a flashy website with Jeremy’s headshot right there on the front page. Most of the previews had sold out already, thanks to the advanced buzz from both the show’s pedigree and the Boston reviews.
Jeremy was a nobody, but people wanted to see the next Mark Taupin show, and the advertising promised a show that was both emotional and relevant to the times everyone lived in now.
And so, the opening piano notes played, and Jeremy walked out onstage. Then he opened his mouth and sang.
The first reviews were glowing.
When Jeremy showed up at the Hammerstein a week into previews, Keenan handed him a newspaper with a big grin on his face.
“What?” Jeremy asked, registering that he held a copy of the Arts & Leisure section of The New York Times in his hands.
“I dog-eared the page.”
Jeremy flipped to the page and there was a headline: See the Light a Real Delight.
“The rhyme is unfortunate,” Keenan said. “But read the review.”
So Jeremy did. The first few paragraphs were a description of the show’s premise that didn’t give away too much.
Then: “Mr. Reynolds’s performance is both big and nuanced. He leans into the campier elements of the production while also playing Benjamin as a realistic teenager. It doesn’t hurt that his tenor has an angelic quality and he’s easy on the eyes.”
“Well,” Jeremy said. “That’s some review.”
“Did you read all the way to the end?”
“No...”
The last paragraph of the review read: “In a time when so much of Broadway is dominated by repurposed material, it’s nice to see an original story, and this one has music compelling enough to endure. It’s timely, romantic, and inspiring. Get your tickets now, before the rest of New York discovers this show.”
“Wow.” Jeremy didn’t know what else to say. If The Times was going to recommend their show so strongly, they were bound to have full houses before the previews were over. “This is amazing.”
Keenan slapped Jeremy’s arm playfully. “Dream come true, right? I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to have a part in this show.”
“God. How do you think I feel? No pressure, though.”
“You’re a natural, Jeremy. You can do this.”
What was that line from 42nd Street? “You’re going out a youngster, but you’ve got to come back a star.” Right. No pressure at all.
Perhaps the advantage of being on the normal path to Broadway instead of in the speed lane—some shows took years to make it to Broadway—was that one had time to get used to the idea that one was about to star in a show on Broadway. This fact kept punching Jeremy in the face. He left the theater that night feeling overwhelmed and lightheaded and...
All my dreams are coming true.
But were they?
He sat on the subway and leaned back, closing his eyes. He tried to remember how he’d pictured his life when he’d been a kid. He remembered wanting the acting career, the fancy apartment in a New York City high-rise, and, well, and a husband to thank in his Tony acceptance speech.
Back then, it had been a faceless, generically handsome man he’d pictured in his fantasies, not his neon-haired best friend, but now all he could see was Max in his dreams.
He loved Max. And not just as a friend. Not in a now-that-we’ve-slept-together-there’s-potential-for-more way. He fully loved Max and wanted to be with him for the rest of his life.
Now he just had to convince Max of this fact.