In Harmony(87)

Martin called us altogether on stage in a circle, and my eyes sought Willow.

She stood across from me, stunningly gorgeous in a simple white dress, square cut across her chest to reveal the swells of her breasts. Her hair was tied in a loose braid, tendrils escaping a gold circlet on her forehead. She was perfectly Ophelia, and I was perfectly Hamlet, and onstage, we were going to destroy each other.

But offstage, our story won’t be a tragedy.

She flashed me a small smile, then looked away, her cheeks coloring.

My blood stirred. Now that I had my plan to be with her, I wanted all of her, all at once. My hands itched to touch her, to hold her, have her beneath me…

Calm the fuck down, I told myself, grateful the material of my costume trousers was thick.

Marty, in his Polonius costume of a purple robe with gold trim, gave us his usual pep talk, then led us through vocal warm-ups and breathing exercises. The tech crew had been in over the weekend loading lights and filters, the sound crew testing levels. The set was done but looked deliberately unfinished. Marty never used elaborate sets for his classic plays. He claimed he preferred keeping things simple and letting the words do the work. I knew his visions were thwarted by lack of funds. Ticket sales and concessions all went to handle rent and back taxes.

I’m going to fix that too, Marty.

An artist friend of his had painted a beautiful watercolor backdrop of Elsinore Castle. A local antique dealer donated a pair of elaborate, throne-like chairs. Everything else was easily brought off and on by a single crewmember in black, and props were minimal.

Including the love letter Hamlet wrote to Ophelia.

The props team designed the piece of parchment, tied with a red ribbon and affixed with a wax seal. Martin, always wanting things as organic as possible, had me write the words myself:



Doubt thou the stars are fire,

Doubt that the sun doth move,

Doubt truth to be a liar,

But never doubt I love.



The words were ours now. Mine and Willow’s.

“Never doubt,” I told her, always leaving out the rest of the line. My heart crashed against my chest again because that was something left to tell her too. How I would come back and live here with her, if that’s what she wanted.

Frank called places. I waited backstage, watching the two armed guards take their places on the apron. Willow was somewhere in the dark of the opposite wing.

I closed my eyes and sucked in a deep breath. I didn’t push away thoughts of Willow, or Justin, or my father, or anything else. I let it all in. Let my life’s experiences meld with Shakespeare’s words so I could give them life with my life.

The play began.

My scenes with Willow were exactly as Marty had envisioned: layered with pain beneath the mocking jokes and wordplay Hamlet used to confuse and outsmart everyone around him.

The love was there first…

Willow was astounding, but it was her scene toward the end of Act Four that blew the house down. When Laertes came back from Paris, ranting about avenging Polonius’s death, only to find Ophelia unraveled by madness.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

Her hair, out of its braid, was wild and unkempt, hanging in her face. Her dress was gone, leaving her in a white slip smudged with dirt and grime.

Like the night in the cemetery when she told me her story.

This night, she told her story through Ophelia.

My heart raced, my eyes nearly squinting at the talent radiating out of her. The second she was offstage, I raced around behind the set, nearly tripping on a coil rope to get to her, following her white shadow into the women’s dressing room.

My blood was on fire, my hands clenching an unclenching because they were empty of her. I was thirsty and hungry for her. Watching her onstage had ignited an entirely different kind of lust. One that had nothing to do with my need and everything to do with giving her whatever she wanted.

I threw open the door to the dressing room a few seconds after she’d stepped inside. She was alone.

Thank fuck…

Willow whirled around, pressed herself back against the dressing table. Her eyes widened and her lips parted as I shut the door behind me and locked it. We only had one other female cast member—Lorraine—and she was going to be tied up for at least five pages. I had eight or more pages before my cue.

Plenty of time.

“Can I help you?” she asked, pretending calm amusement, though her breathy voice gave her away.

I strode to her, kissed her once. Twice. And then we fell into each other desperately, kissing as if we were each other’s food and water, and the air we needed to breathe.

“We shouldn’t, not here…” she moaned, even as her hands tugged at me as if she couldn’t get me close enough to her body.

“I want you,” I said, backing her against the small dressing table. “God, I want you so fucking bad…”

Desire was in her every touch and kiss, twined with an edge of nervousness. I could feel it in her ragged breath.

“Not that,” I whispered. “I just want you to feel good.” I ran my mouth along her neck, biting the delicate skin there. “I want you to come. Hard…”

Her body loosened like water in my arms.

“Christ, Willow, you were incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

I lifted her and set her on the dressing table, stood between her knees to kiss her again, long and deep. My hands plunged in the tangle of her long hair, messy curls spilling over her shoulders and down her back. The eyes staring up at me were wide and dilated.