In Harmony(97)

“Shh.” I moved her to a dark corner, dimly lit by an emergency exit sign.

“I can’t talk to you,” she said again, her voice rising.

“Willow…”

“I can’t.” Her gaze darted around the darkened area. I’d never seen her so frail and nervous. She’d blow away at the slightest wind.

“You can. Tell me what happened.”

She shook her head, her eyes wide. “I can’t. I promised I wouldn’t.”

“Promised who? Your dad?” I gently took her shoulders. “He’s making you do this. Why? For what?”

Her mouth opened and shut. She looked almost panicked as she pulled from my grasp. “I have to go. I’ll miss my entrance.”

“Fuck the play,” I said. “Talk to me.”

“Don’t say that,” she said. “You have casting agents out there. This is your night to—”

“Is this about the money my dad owes?” I said. “If it is, forget it. I’ll take care of it.”

“No, you don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head miserably. “It’s so much more than the money.”

“Then tell me.”

“He’ll destroy you…”

“Fuck him too,” I said. “I’m not afraid of him—”

“You should be.”

“Why?”

“Because you have no idea what you’re up against.” She was calmer now, stoic and resigned, which was worse than the frantic fear. “I’ve seen firsthand what privilege can do when it wants something.”

I ran my hands through my hair. “You don’t trust me to make this right? Is that it?”

“You can’t do anything,” she said, her voice breaking down to a whisper. “And he’s taking us away.”

“Away.”

“He’s been transferred to Canada. We leave Harmony in four weeks.”

The words hit me in the chest. She couldn’t go to Canada. She was just finding her way out of the cold. She needed Harmony to heal.

“He can’t do that,” I said, rage burning in my throat.

“He can. I’m not eighteen and even if I were—”

“You’ll be eighteen in a couple of months.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter to him.”

“So what are you saying? It’s… It’s over? We’re done? Forever?”

In the dimness, her eyes shone large and soft. “I hope not. But…”

“But what? We wait? Months? Weeks? How long? Goddammit, Willow…” I grabbed her hand, making her flinch. “Stay. Stay with me. Or Marty. He’ll take you in.”

“No, Isaac. You have to go too. Tonight is your chance for success.” She struggled to pull her hand out of mine. “You’re hurting me,” she whispered.

I let go immediately. Pain whipped my skin. She was giving up. Choosing him over me.

I was losing her.

“I have to go?” I asked. “For what? To prove myself? What’s it going to take, Willow? How much money do I have to make until I don’t stink of the junkyard anymore? How much is good enough for your father? Good enough for you?”

“You know that’s not true,” she said. “You’ve always been more than good enough for me.”

“Then why aren’t you fighting?” I said through the wall of my teeth. “You’re giving up. You’re letting him win.”

“He’s already won. If I don’t…”

“If you don’t what?” I took her hand again, trying to squeeze from it the answers she wouldn’t speak. “What’s in this for him?”

“Isaac, don’t.”

“Tell me, Willow. Tell me now. What did you trade me for?”

“I have to go.”

I pulled her close to me, inhaling her, feeling her body one last time. “I would’ve done anything for you.”

“I know,” she said, her tears wet on my neck. “I’m sorry.” She took a step away. Then another. “Goodbye, Isaac.”

Then she was running toward the stage. Bursting like a comet under the lights and falling into her father’s arms.

“O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!”

As her lament poured out onstage, my old armor of silence locked around me.

Never again.

I’d never show myself like this again.

I told Willow things I’d never told anyone else. I gave her my best self. And for what? She wouldn’t fight for us. Now I stood here, alone, helpless. I couldn’t help her. I couldn’t fight for us alone.

Part of me hated her. But a truer part of me loved her. Understood her. I knew the truth of what was happening: it was all the wounds Xavier marked on her. They’d just begun to heal, and then her father unknowingly ripped them all open again.

It wasn’t her fault.

My mother dying wasn’t her fault either. But the loss was there. The yawning void of a life without Willow.

I lost her and so my own words meant nothing.





Willow



Act Three, Scene One. The end of Ophelia and Hamlet.