The upstairs is open to the theater, with the exception of the walls and doors for the four balcony boxes. We go into one of them, and Owen closes the door behind us. He’s got a picnic blanket spread on the floor, with candles in the middle.
“Owen, this is perfect!”
“Yeah?” he asks as he sets the bag of food on the blanket.
“It’s very much the opposite of our wedding date, and I love it.” I walk over to the edge of the balcony box where the wall is only maybe two-and-a-half feet tall, and I look out over the open theater. Owen steps up next to me, wrapping an arm around my waist, and I snuggle into him as he tells all about the area where the seats will be below, about the stage, about all the ornamentation throughout. The way he talks about it makes it feel almost magical.
“You really do love this place, don’t you?”
“I really do. I think a lot about the people who built it, especially the guy who was in my position originally. I imagine him having a grand vision of what he wanted this place to be and having to figure out how to create exactly what he pictured. And about what he wanted people to feel and experience as they walked inside.
“I’ve read everything on the original designer-slash-project manager that I could find. And I came across pictures of the crew, too—they had all stopped working to gather for the cameraman, tools still in hand. I looked closely at the faces of each of them and wondered what they might be like and what brought them to this project. Was it simply work that was available in their area? Did they seek it out? What were their lives like?”
Owen shakes his head. “I’m standing on the shoulders of giants as I rebuild this. I have thebenefit of largely knowing what the building is supposed to look like when it’s restored. Those guys were building from the ground up. None of it had been created. They just went off this one man’s vision.”
I smile at Owen, soaking in the passion he has for this place.
“And they didn’t even have all the tools at their disposal that we have now. They did everything the hard way, and I have so much respect for those guys. I hope that when I’m finished, this place will be something they’d be proud of.”
I give him a kiss. “I know they will be. Your grandpa, too.”
He smiles, then motions out to the auditorium area. “He was sitting somewhere right down there when he first met my grandma. If it weren’t for this place, me, my sister, my dad—none of us would be here.”
“Well, I hope the original builders know they accidentally created the cutest love story sequel.” When Owen laughs, I add, “And if the building starts randomly playing love songs through the speakers, I’m blaming your grandpa’s ghost.”
We sit on the blanket, and he starts pulling food items from the bag. “This,” he says as he takes the lid off a covered container, “is their Charcuterie-for-Two box.”
It has meats, cheeses, olives, crackers, fancy pickles,and nuts, all arranged adorably. Then he pulls out a mini freshly-baked baguette, a little container of some kind of fancy butter, one of fig jam, and two jars with dessert—a chocolate mousse and a crème brûlée.
We are sitting on a blanket in a balcony meant to watch a musical or an opera in a theater we have all to ourselves, with this cute and fun meal. And we are totally cute and fun as we eat it, too. Feeding each other, laughing, making interesting combinations to test out, all of it. (Some combinations are so tasty. Others… let’s just say that although elements of bleu cheese, green olive, sweet pickled onion, and fig jam might sound like they could pair well, put them all together on a cracker, and it’s pure palate chaos. Zero out of ten, do not recommend.)
And we chat about everything under the sun as we eat. Or, I guess under the candlelight. It’s starting to get fairly dark outside, and since we’re down on the floor in this balcony box, the candles are providing most of the light. It’s so amazing being in our own world inside this little bubble. It’s like no worries exist here.
Well, okay, there are worries. For one, it’s getting dark, and this is a fairly big place with lots of rooms, and it’s not entirely familiar to me, especially in the dark. But I’m with Owen, so it’s okay.
And there’s another familiar fear that arises, and without even meaning to, I’ve voicedit. “You keep doing so many things for me, and I haven’t been doing anything for you.” Why is he even going to want to keep this relationship going if I don’t offer enough?
He gets a really concerned look on his face and sets down the jar he just put the lid on. “Charlie, do you think that you have to do things for me in order for me to like you?” He cups my face with his hands, his eyes focused on mine in that way that makes it feel like he’s seeing right into me, and says, “I love spending time with you. You’re not a Swiss Army knife, Charlie. You’re not a tool that I like having near because it’s helpful. You don’t have to do anything for me in order for me to like you. I like you simply because you’re you.”
He looks so sincere that it chokes me up a bit. I don’t have time to respond, though, because a movement catches our eyes, and we turn to look out over the top of the balcony box wall to the theater below, and we see a man in dark clothes who is moving stealthily. I immediately freeze, but I’m quickly pulled out of it because Owen’s first reaction is to move to get up. I pull him down, shake my head, put a finger up to my lips, and then I blow out the candles.
In a quiet but intense voice, Owen says, “We’re supposed to be safe in here, and that guy broke in! I need to go do something. I have to confront him.”
“No, just stay here.” I can tell that adrenaline iscoursing through Owen, and he’s feeling a strong need to act, but I desperately need him by me. Safe.
“What if he comes up here? I’m supposed to protect you and this place.”
“He’s not going to come up here.Please.” My own heart is beating so fast, and I can’t stop thinking about that time when I was three in the park and a man just picked me up and carried me away. And the time when things looked like they were going to get intense with the man at the café when I was eleven, and my mom told the people in line to protect me.
My breathing is coming fast, and I can’t seem to slow it down. Owen must be able to tell a bit about what’s going on in my mind and body right now, because the intense expression on his face softens right along with his compulsion to get up and go after the guy. He scoots closer to me and wraps his arms around me, pulling me in tight against his chest.
Both my breathing and my heart rate slow, and the feeling of safety returns. Still, I can’t help but keep looking over the top of the wall at the man in the shadows. He came from a side door near the stage that leads to a hallway and the offices. We both watch in silence as he moves along the wall nearest the stage, all the way back to the wall. He silently takes the stairs to the stage and then disappears backstage. He’s only gone for maybe ten seconds before he reemerges and takes the same path back out ofthe theater.
Although it’s fairly dark now, Owen showed me where the cameras were the last time I was here, so I know that the man expertly avoided them all, which means he knows where they are. This isn’t just a random or ordinary criminal.
Neither of us says anything for a full two minutes. We just hold our breaths, listening for any sound. Once I am sure the guy is gone, I turn to meet Owen’s eyes and say in a quiet but urgent voice, “Don’t ever go after a bad guy. Staying hidden is staying safe. I learned that from a young age.” I wasn’t hidden at that park when I was three. I was very easily seen and very much not safe.
Owen cocks his head. “I feel like you know this from more than just hide-and-seek and that experience from your essay.”
