The Man I Love (The Fish Tales, #1)(46)

“The way you were coming.” He took her hand off his mouth, entwined her fingers with his. “I’ve never seen you like that.”

“When you had my hands behind my back? And you were just holding me down?”

“It was insane.”

“It was amazing,” she said. “Giving everything up to you. I loved it.” Her voice was a low purr. Her fingers tight with his, her eyes deep in his, her warm weight in his lap. She leaned down, barely a sound as her lips moved. “When will you do it again?”

“Soon as we get out of here.” Happiness flooded his chest as he stared up into her eyes. Long rolling waves of emotion and desire. He wanted her badly, was hard with it. And yet he wanted for nothing. Everything was perfect. Right here. Right now.

“Promise?” she said.

He nodded. “I’m gonna make you forget your name.”

Her pupils dilated, black eclipsing blue. “I swear. I totally want to ditch this rehearsal and go back to bed.” Daisy, who had never missed a rehearsal in her life. Daisy, who went to class whether she had her period or a fever or a nail torn off. Daisy, saying she would walk away from the theater right now. For him.

“Me too,” he whispered.

Then Marie’s voice trilled from the front of the auditorium, breaking the spell. “Where is the man I love?” she called. “Will? Daisy?”

“The man I love all right,” Daisy said, swinging her leg off and getting up.

“I love you,” Erik said, laughing. He caught her hand, holding onto the connection a few more precious seconds.

She ran her other hand through his hair. “I love us,” she said, and kissed him.

“Us.”

He held her fingers as long as possible as she went out the door and down the aisle. She walked a few steps, then stopped. She turned around and pointed at him. He stared back at her through the glass of the booth. Her smile was sweet. Her eyes were wicked. She turned again, leaned gracefully by the seat where her bag was and pulled out her pink practice skirt. Deftly tying it around her slender waist, she walked down the aisle and up to the stage where Will was waiting. Will held out his hand and she took it.

Neil Martinez popped up from behind one of the buildings in the skyline. Cupping his hands he yelled, “Fish, can you bring up the special for the set?” His voice broke and he coughed against one fist.

Erik slid those levers forward. Half the set lit up, the buildings meticulously outlined in tiny lights. The other half stayed dark.

“Dave, I think we got cables crossed back here,” Neil said. “Something’s not right.”

David slapped his clipboard down on the seat beside him and got up. “Leave it up, Fish,” he called back. He took two quick steps, planted a hand and foot on the apron, gracefully hopping onto the stage. He passed Will and Daisy and disappeared behind the set.

A moment later, his head popped up. “Fish, take it out. I need a couple minutes to fix this. Why don’t you guys do your run so you’re not standing around?”

Erik slid the levers and the set went dark. Daisy and Will walked upstage. She gave him a playful shove as they slipped into the wing.

Marie Del’Amici remained in the front row. Kees brought her a cup of coffee. He took his own cup and sat in one of the rear rows. Erik could see his bald head from the lighting booth.

Lucky crossed from stage left to stage right, rolling up an ace bandage. She did a little skip, a tripping leap and a twirl, and disappeared behind the curtain to a smattering of applause. John Quillis then crossed the stage with more impressive moves, and exited into the same wing to a chorus of boos.

“Are we ready?” Marie called.

They were.

Everybody in place.

Everything was perfect.

I love us, Erik thought. All of us.

The music started.

Will and Daisy made their entrance.

Three-quarters of the way through the pas de deux, James Dow walked in.





In My Pocket


When James Dow came into Mallory Hall on the afternoon of April 19, 1992, he was carrying a second generation Glock 17 pistol with a high-capacity magazine. The weapon had belonged to James’s late sister, Margaret.

James entered the backstage area, coming into the wings at the left of the stage where fourteen students—a mix of dancers and tech crew—were watching Will and Daisy in their rehearsal. James opened fire, shooting five dead and wounding six others. The remaining four fled the wings.

Erik didn’t hear the gunfire backstage. Between the volume of the music and the glass of the lighting booth, the sound never reached him at the back of the house.

Will said he was aware of some kind of commotion in the stage left wing. But he had been dancing down on the apron with Daisy, where the music levels were most intense. The commotion was behind him. And it had been right at the moment of the difficult lift on his shoulder, so his concentration was especially focused.

Daisy was facing the wings as she ran to Will, the light from the boom stands in her eyes. James was backlit, in silhouette, but perhaps Daisy did see him, although her memory blacked out long before the shots were fired. The rest of her life, she would remember little from the day.

It would be years before Erik could construct the shooting as a linear event. Until then, his mind only island-hopped from one terrifying image to the next, out of order and overlapping. Within the fragments, only his physical memories were clear and intact. If a true mental narrative had existed, it was gone. Later, in the remembering, and the telling, he felt he was making half of it up.