Julian’s blood runs cold. “Who?”

“I don’t know the ending.”

“He doesn’t get it,” Julian says, sitting down next to her.

Lena slaps him. Hard. It’s not in the script. The sound echoes. She’s trembling, eyes wet. “That’s what you think?” she breathes. “That I left?”

It’s the most honest conversation they’ve had in three years. The line between the play and their life dissolves.

Marcus yells “Cut!” but no one moves.

She looks toward the box, then back at Julian. “He’s a wonderful man who deserves someone who doesn’t have a ghost light in her heart. You put that light there, Julian. You never turned it off.”

“You pushed me away first. You wrote our pain into a play and expected me to perform it for strangers.”

“The review in the morning doesn’t matter,” he says. “The only review I care about is yours. Did I get it right? Us?”