the series of black and white pictures that captured her art. He hadn’t known her at that age, but he loved the idea of her as much as he loved the woman he’d lost. Despite the lavishness of our lives, our countless homes and nannies and drivers, being here in this dingy theater, eating half-stale popcorn and letting our imaginations wander, felt right. It’s what brought Alex back, time and again.
As a teenager, I thought I was too old for these types of performances. I wanted to do the things my friends thought were cool. I wanted to wear high heels and go to clubs and flirt with older guys, not watch homespun productions of The Wizard of Oz and A Christmas Carol. When Alex first broached the subject of reopening the theater, I’d mocked him. He’d ignored me and gone ahead with the plan anyway. Without question, he was the more talented. He got attention for being kind and gifted, if not entirely reliable, his common sense more fleeting than his dreams. I was jealous of his modest success, but I came to his openings, brought friends to the gallery and insisted they buy things. I loved my brother, no matter what they say.
“Do you want to brave it?” I ask Chris, nodding toward the brightly patterned easel with tiny felt puppets indicating the various shows and start times. The afternoon shows are geared toward kids, and already I can feel people glancing at Chris and me, wondering where our children are, and, if we don’t have any, what the hell we’re doing here.
I turn away slightly, my familiar antsy feelings resurging. I want to sit in the dark theater, in the back row, and go unnoticed. I want to observe, not participate. A children’s theater on a rainy afternoon seemed like a safe bet for not getting recognized.
“The twelve-thirty?” Chris pushes a strand of hair off my forehead, the gesture too familiar for someone I can’t get attached to.
I shift out of reach. “Yes. The Power Down Dragon.”
“Did you know that was playing?”
“No.” I can’t help but laugh. “Honest, I didn’t. I used to come here when I was a kid, and I thought it might be fun to come back. I haven’t been in years.” When he doesn’t say anything, I add, “We can see a movie or something instead. There’s a horror movie playing. Kill Glory 4. I’ll hold your hand if you get scared.”
“Let’s go learn about energy-saving dragons,” Chris says, unzipping his jacket. “Sounds fun.”
“Wait.” I touch his arm when he pulls out his wallet and approaches the admission booth.
“What?”
“I’ll pay. This is my idea.”
“You’re not paying.”
“I definitely am.”
He nods at the bemused attendant. “Excuse us.” He tugs me to the side, giving me a mock-stern stare. “You’re not paying. I know you do crazy shit like screw guys on the side of the road and not give out your phone number, but this is just too far.”
“It’s a weird thing for you to take such a strong stance on.”
“I’m old-fashioned.”
“You screw girls on the side of the road and have a paralyzing fear of puppets. You’re nothing if not modern.”
He dips his head, lips brushing my ear. “I’m not afraid of puppets.”
I turn my face so my breath heats his skin. “I’ll give you my phone number if you let me pay.”
He straightens, his expression giving away his surprise. “Deal.”
“That was easy.”
“Was it?”
I return to the booth and buy two tickets, passing one to Chris as we proceed down the dim, narrow hall to theater number three, located at the end of the corridor. It’s small, no more than fifty seats that hold the lingering smell of old velvet, the fabric worn to threads in places. The front two rows are already packed with kids, mothers parked on either end, boxing them in. I lead us down the back row, to two seats set dead center.
“This is as far as we can get from the puppets,” I whisper.
“I’m not afraid of puppets,” Chris whispers back. His whisper is loud enough that the kids hear, and several turn around and giggle. “All right,” he continues, settling into his seat and shrugging out of his jacket. He drapes it over the seat beside him and pulls out his phone. “What’s your number?”
“Oh, you were serious about that?”
“Were you lying, Denise?”
With only inches between us, the dim lighting and the nostalgia and the wishing for everything I’ve lost or left behind, I’m terrified. I’m terrified he