Dogwood

Prologue

27-year-old Rory Colin rushed into the theater with only minutes to spare. Trails of sweat licked the sides of his face as he staggered down the dimly lit aisle. Ever since he'd seen the poster outside, he could feel himself slipping. A trembling anxiety coursed through his body in waves, pumping useless thoughts into his brain.

You need to leave, a familiar voice said inside his head. You shouldn't be here.

At the front of the theater, a spotlight emerged over the velvet curtains. It beamed from way up in the rafters. A golden halo irradiating the center of the stage. Time was wearing thin, he needed to find his seat.

Rushing down the walkway, Rory scanned the little seat numbers, holding his ticket up for reference. He came to a stop at section F and started the awkward shift through the narrow passage of slender legs and bony knees.

Apologies spilled from his mouth as he clobbered a foot here and tumbled over a leg there. Eventually, he reached the only empty seat in the row and collapsed into it with an exhaustive sigh. This was supposed to be a vacation, maybe one of his last, and he still felt the drills of stress twisting in his brain with every beat of his heart.

All around him people chattered. They spoke in hushed tones, their collective voices coalescing into a powerful tsunami that flooded the theater. It was maddening, to say the least. The constant talking flared his social anxiety, but the ambience seemed to suffocate his nerves of loneliness. It felt odd to him, to be so convolutely indecisive.

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the seat. He thought maybe he could fall asleep if he tried. Despite the avalanche of voices. Despite the heat generated by over five hundred human bodies. He really thought he could do it. But then, he remembered her. He remembered all those years together at North Ridge, and suddenly, his resolve was crumbling. He was wide awake again, leaning forward in his seat anticipating the coming show.

A screeching hiss of metal against metal rang throughout the auditorium as the curtains divided. At this, the audience fell into a lulling hush. Overhead lights dimmed. Spot lights clicked on, and from the darkness of the stage came an ensemble of actors. They wore casual clothes, denim blue jeans and plain T-shirts. Behind them was a city-like set with streetlamp props and false storefronts that resembled a conglomerate of every generic small town across modern-day America.

Once they were in place, they froze. Some pretended to be engaged in conversation, mindlessly ambling around while others held firm athletic stances as if participating in a game of frisbee.

From backstage came a slim figure that snuck through the crowd of static actors. The cast members turned toward her, watching intently as she slipped by. She refused their gazes though with a head hung low, eyes glued to the floorboards. They were mere shadows to her, and she an unwelcome brightness to them.

She walked straight to the edge of the stage, hovering there like an angel in the light of divination. Her name was Maria Schuyler, and at the sight of her, Rory's breath caught in his throat.

His knee jostled in place, fostering a complaint from the person adjacent to him. He apologized without looking away from the show, too mesmerized to give anything (or anyone) his attention.

"What is a dream?" Maria asked in an elegant voice that reverberated through the room. "Who am I...what am I supposed to do...what does it take?" She grimaced as if ruminating on these very questions before finally looking up to the audience. Her eyes shined. "Isn't it just wonderful, this little thing we call life?"

The rest of the cast broke out into song about life and roads and choices. Their dancing bodies fluttered around Maria, cementing her at the center of the hurricane. The introduction number ended with a great pause as every head turned toward her again, and this time, she acknowledged their presence with a timid, uncertain smile.

"They say the candle that burns twice as bright only burns half as long. If you ask me, I say it's better to burn bright than never burn at all."

Rory felt himselfswallow. The heavy lump in his throat plummeted deep into his intestines like anatomic missile. Of course she would say that. Of course she would call back onone of their most intense moments together as two people merely trying tosatiate the longing for companionship. Of course she would swoon his heart inthe most Maria-way possible.