Before We Fall || Sky Flaherty

Chapter 50

Alivia's POV

The San Antonio air was thick and buzzing, and even from inside the theater, I could feel it—summer heat pressing in through the walls, city light pooling in the lobby windows, the sense of ending clinging to everything like humidity.

But it didn't feel sad. Not yet. Just electric.

"Places for top of show!"

The call came over the monitors, and it echoed backstage like a spark catching. Costumes rustled, laces tightened, hats adjusted. The energy in the wings was sharp and alive, edged with something that felt like nostalgia in real time.

I stood just behind the curtain with Sky, arms brushing, both of us already sweating under the lights. He glanced at me and grinned—his nervous grin, the one he got before every show no matter how many we'd done.

"You good?" he asked.

"Good," I said, and meant it.

He reached for my hand, squeezed it quick. "One more, Newman."

"One more," I echoed.

The overture hit, and I swear it sounded brighter than usual. Louder. Cleaner. The orchestra was in it tonight, and we were too.

The opening number exploded like it always did—tight harmonies, stomping feet, the roar of the crowd greeting us like an old friend. I hit my first few lines like I'd never said them before, even though I could recite the entire show in my sleep.

Everything was sharper. Tighter. But looser too, in that weird way that happens when you finally stop overthinking. We weren't trying to prove anything tonight. We were just doing it. One more time.

Josh nailed every one of his tricks. Ben ad-libbed something ridiculous to the Delancey brothers during a scene change that made the stagehands lose it. Sky's line delivery in Act I had the front row in tears.

By intermission, my chest felt full—like joy and ache were bleeding together under my ribs.

Act II was different.

During "King of New York," I looked out over the audience and felt the swell of the tap break like a wave I didn't want to come down from. Sky met my eye mid-dance and winked. I laughed on beat.

Even "Once and For All," which always felt like climbing a mountain, flew by. My voice didn't crack on the high note. My knees didn't shake. I barely noticed the sweat in my hairline or the ache in my calves.

And then we were at the end. Curtain call.

I stood beside Sky, hand in his, fingers laced together, and we took our bow to a standing ovation that sounded like thunder in my bones.

The applause didn't feel like it was just for tonight. It felt like it was for all of it—every rehearsal, every breakdown in a dressing room, every too-tight shoe and missed bus call and dumb inside joke and burst of joy that hit out of nowhere in the middle of a show.

We bowed. And bowed again. And again.

When the curtain finally dropped, the cast let out a collective breath—half-laugh, half-sob.

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Backstage was chaos after. Hugs. Flowers. Someone popped sparkling cider in the hallway. Joey was crying. Ben was crying. Alex kept saying "four months, four months, it's not goodbye," like a prayer.

I made it to the dressing room somehow. Peeled off my costume piece by piece, blinking hard as I hung it up for the last time—for now.

Sky came up behind me, arms sliding around my waist. He rested his chin on my shoulder, breath warm against my neck.