Chapter One “Opening Night”

one

" Opening Night "

The thing about the opening night of a Broadway show is that it's supposed to be this glamorous, boozy, buzzy extravaganza. There's a red carpet before the performance for the creative types to pose in front of a step-and-repeat with the show's logo splashed across it. There's usually a huge party after the show, someplace criminally expensive with everyone swanning around in tuxedos and Academy Awards–style dresses. There's insanely loud music blaring so everyone has to shout over their canapés and glasses of champagne. And that's exactly how it is: exhilarating, glitzy, and fun.

Unless.

Unless you're the author.

If you're the author of the show, it's as if you've swallowed a ticking time bomb, but you have to keep smiling and shaking hands and filming interviews about what a magical night it is. When you're the author of the show, there is a very public reckoning coming that could possibly not only destroy your career, but close the show and throw countless actors, musicians, stagehands, dressers, ushers, and so on out of work in the blink of an eye.

It all depends on the New York Times review. Unlike television or film, most Broadway shows need a rave from the Times if they want to keep running. And that review comes out right in the middle of the opening night party. So if you get panned, the magic turns into a nightmare of epic proportions. So, you know, no pressure. Have fun with that.

And I was doing my level best to do just that. Have fun. Celebrate the milestone. Stage of Fools was my first Broadway musical, and I was trying to focus solely on that achievement and not the possibility of a soul-crushing failure. And damn it, it was a milestone. An achievement. I nearly passed out the first time I saw the marquee at the theater. " Stage of Fools —book, lyrics, and music by Noah Adams." How did I go from being a small-town hick in Southern Illinois to having my name plastered across a Broadway theater? So no matter what the reviews were, I was going to have fun.

Fun, fun, fun.

I'd only had two musicals previously produced in New York. Both off-Broadway and both reviewed by the same New York Times critic. Carrie Payne.

The first one was called The Docents . Probably not the greatest choice of subject matter, I'll admit. I'm not sure why I thought that audiences would find people who explain museum exhibits galvanizing. Carrie Payne called the book "sitcom-y" and the score a "nothing burger."

My second show was a slightly pretentious experimental musical about a dying girl lost in a ghost-filled forest called The Jade Corpse . There might have been shadow puppets. Carrie deemed it "an avant-garde rabbit hole, except boring."

But here I am on the great big Broadway. At long last I've moved up from the kiddie table. This is my one and possibly only shot at the big time. If Stage of Fools is a hit, all of my childhood dreams will come true and it will be the kickoff to what I can only hope is a long career as a Broadway writer. If it's a flop, well, there really isn't a plan B. I guess I could start an OnlyFans? Become one of those manically gleeful people who sprays cologne at strangers in Bloomingdale's? No. This musical has to be a hit. But of course, the Times chose Carrie Payne to review it. The woman who vehemently hates every single thing I've managed to get produced. But I'm still trying to be, you know, smiley.

In the midst of all this insanity, I see Chase and my world steadies a little.

Jesus, that man has swagger. Why he's dating me, I'll never know.

He's typing furiously into his phone about God knows what. And he looks exactly like George Clooney if George Clooney decided to be slightly younger and more handsome. And he has this British accent, mainly because he's British. And the accent is there, even when he's just moaning. Which means every time I sleep with him, it's like I'm banging all of the Bridgerton brothers at once.

And he's completely out of my league. And he's my agent.

Stop judging, it's complicated.

With his usual psychic abilities, Chase notices me staring at him and nods to a nearby nook. I follow him, pushing my way through the frenzied throng and smiling at everyone like a brain-damaged idiot. I'm trying to give off an "isn't this just amazing" vibe, but I think it might be coming across as "which way is the electric chair?" at best.

Chase rests his forearms on a high table littered with abandoned drinks, still typing into his phone. "I want you to know that I'm here for you and that I am a very good boyfriend, but I am also trying to close a film deal and if I do, I will be able to buy you many pretty things."

"I don't feel much like talking anyway. I just…I don't know. I keep telling myself that there are wars and famine and hunger running rampant on this planet and I'd be an asshole if I worried about one little musical when there are bigger problems in the world."

Chase freezes. His cobalt blue eyes flood with surprise and then concern. "Oh my God." He actually puts his phone into his suit pocket. His very expensive suit pocket. No matter how much money he spends on tailoring, and it's a lot, his well-toned shoulders and biceps still look like they're trying to fight their way free from the Armani fabric. "Did you just get philosophical?"

"Just in a very selfish, ‘make my problems seem small' way."

Chase looks worried. "You are nervous."

"Of course I'm nervous! Any minute now I could be denounced as a charlatan in The New York Times ."

Chase gives a sexy yet possibly patronizing chuckle. "Relax, Noah. You've got Danielle."

Danielle Vincent. The most prolific and lauded director of musicals since Hal Prince. She could make orchids bloom in the Sahara. She has a string of bulletproof mega musicals under her belt and I'm pretty sure they had to reinforce the floor of her penthouse to support her massive collection of Tony Awards. Chase is right. Truth be told, Danielle and I have a slightly unbalanced working relationship. I'm the newbie and she's the Svengali. So any time I disagreed with her, I never put up a fight. I mean, who the hell do I think I am, anyway? Since the very first read-through my strategy was to smile pretty and let Danielle be Danielle. It had gotten me this far.

Chase, whose phone is inconceivably still in his suit pocket, goes sympathetic around the eyes. Those dreamy cobalt eyes. "You're very talented, Noah. And you work harder than anyone I know. You deserve to take this moment in."

And then he's enveloping me in a much-needed hug and our ears graze one another for a brief second. And though we've been together for almost two years, even ear grazing is still strangely hot. He gives me a brief peck on the lips and says, "Would it calm you down any if you were to give my bum a little cuddle?"

I consider his proposition for a nanosecond and decide it couldn't hurt. So I pretend that I'm putting my right hand around his waist, but secretively slide it down to his unbelievable ass and silently command my knees not to buckle.

"Well done, my lad. Stay above the trousers, though. We are in public."

I swallow a laugh. "How on God's green earth is your ass so fucking awesomely distracting?"

Chase nonchalantly pulls his phone back out and continues typing. "Goblet squats."

There's a sea change in the room. A shift in the vibe.

Everyone is getting a bit quieter and I'm wondering how much it will cost to get my tux cleaned if I vomit all over it. I remove my hand from Chase's ass and ask, "What's happening? Are the reviews coming out?"

Chase is frantically scrolling.

"Chase? Chase?!"

"I'm reading." His face is a mask completely devoid of emotion. I clamp onto the high table so intensely that the abandoned cocktails actually vibrate. They titter like nervous aunts. Chase takes an almost imperceptible swallow of air and looks at me with a renewed expression of Zen-like peace. "Just a couple reviews. From a couple of meaningless outlets. Nothing to worry about."

"But were they good?"

"They're meaningless."

"So they're bad."

"They're…immaterial. And I love you. And you're wonderful. And you just need to be a brave soldier for another hour or two. Then we can go home, and I'll let you reap the rewards of my countless goblet squats."

And his George Clooney lips are on my nose just long enough to make me forget my name for a brief second, but just quickly enough to be annoying.

Then he smirks. Chase is the king of smirks. They're devilishly handsome, like he's promising you that sooner or later you're going to be all his. "Now, I've got to go talk to some people."

I know he means talk to some people about the so-called "meaningless" reviews. But he's right. They are meaningless. The only one that has any sway over public opinion is the New York Times 's. Carrie fucking Payne. Of course her last name is Payne. She's like a Charles Dickens villain with the obvious surname to boot.

Before Chase can abandon me, we both hear an overly loud but gloriously familiar voice.

"There's my super sexy future Tony Award winner!"

I turn on my heel and almost squeal with joy to see Kiara. She's looking totally va-va-voom in a cherry red gown and heels that make her tower over me in a very selfish way. She envelops me in a hug and for a second I forget to be a bundle of twitchy nerves.

"Holy crap, Kiara! The Sharons are present and accounted for tonight!"

For reasons that we both have forgotten, Kiara named her breasts "the Sharons" years ago.

"I feel objectified and I love it. Although, stage right Sharon needs a little wiggle. My fault for going strapless." Kiara gives a little tug and a shimmy and the Sharons are back in place.

Chase gives her a very showy two-cheek kiss and whispers conspiratorially, "I've got to go work now. Can you babysit our scared little pony for me?"

"I am not a little pony."

Chase turns to me again with that smirk. "You very much are a little pony, except for one very important aspect where you happen to be a horse."

Kiara is not having any of this. "Nope! Uh-uh. I do not need to know these things about my best friend. Go off and be agent-y somewhere."

Another peck on my nose and Chase vanishes into the crowd.

I turn to Kiara and tell her she looks nothing short of a miracle because she does and respect must be paid.

She goes humble, but we both know deep down she's the most beautiful woman in the room. "Well, thanks for the compliment, but I've been mistaken for Audra McDonald twice tonight."

"And you're mad? Audra McDonald is a goddess."

"Audra McDonald is a goddess who is a quarter of a century older than me, thank you."

"Oh, please! She's got the skin of a newborn."

And then I stop, acutely aware that I have been old-fashioned hornswoggled. "Wait, did you just name-drop Audra McDonald so you could humblebrag about the fact that you were mistaken for said goddess twice?"

Instead of admitting any guilt, Kiara pretends to bob her head to the music.

"Also, I might point out that wearing such high heels is clearly a microaggression against me."

Kiara does a gagging face like only she can do. "Noah, you're taller than Tom Cruise and Tom Holland and hotter than both combined, you shameless thirsty queen."

"Okay, so we're both fishing for compliments, and we can both journal about that tomorrow when the pressure is off."

Always a mind reader, Kiara holds up a vodka and soda that she's clearly wrangled to calm my nerves. I take a sip and almost do a spit take. "Damn, that is strong !"

"I told the bartender to pour the vodka until we both felt uncomfortable. So…" Kiara gives me a searching look before she says ever so carefully, "How are you doing?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only I would notice, because I know you so well. But you look about ready to spiral. Don't worry, though. To most onlookers and civilians, you look relaxed and blasé about this major life event."

My forced smile gets even bigger. "Can this review just come the fuck on out, already?"

Kiara wraps her pinky in mine like I'm a six-year-old afraid of my first day of kindergarten. "Don't worry, momma's got you."

And then our gruesome little routine begins.

I start, "I love you so much I would light myself on fire for you."

Kiara pauses, then, "I love you so much I would breastfeed a piranha for you."

I consider this, then counter with, "I love you so much I would throw myself in front of a whirling combine for you."

And this leaves Kiara confused. "What's a combine?"

"It's a farmer thing. They use them to cut down crops."

"Bitch, I was born in Queens. Vet your references next time."

I shrug and manage another huge gulp of booze. And then I quietly thank the universe for Kiara's friendship. She assumed the role of my personal guardian angel on the first day we met. Kiara was an RA at my NYU dorm a million years ago. No, she wasn't an RA, she was the RA. And she set my teetering world right back on its axis from minute one.

Instead of spending money we didn't have on airplane tickets, my parents drove me fourteen and a half hours to the big, scary city. Since they were double-parked, there was only time for a quick goodbye before Mom and Dad piloted their busted Dodge Charger off into a sea of traffic and vanished. I had never felt so completely and immediately alone. I was standing in front of an imposing dormitory building with only a couple of suitcases and a stomach full of roaring anxiety. I was a lost, Midwestern hillbilly who didn't know a single soul. As I was getting pushed back and forth on the busy sidewalk by heartless New Yorkers, someone suddenly grabbed one of my suitcases. Certain that I was being robbed, I screamed out, "That's mine ! That's my suitcase! Hands off !"

And that's when I saw the gorgeous and also obviously offended face that I would grow to worship.

"Bitch, I'm not trying to steal your raggedy-ass suitcase. I'm trying to help you," Kiara bellowed. "Have you been assigned to Brittany Hall? Because if you have, then the only two words I need to hear from you right now are ‘thank' and ‘you.'?"

I could barely muster enough oxygen to whimper, "I'm sorry, I don't know anyone and…and…and I already hate it here!"

And then, to my eternal embarrassment, I exploded into a thousand tears. And with that, Kiara's cold scowl melted on the spot. And right there on the filthy sidewalk, she pulled me into an embrace and cooed into my ear, "Oh, you're just a lost little hummingbird of a thing, aren't you?"

And all I could do was cry into her magnificent hair and nod.

"That's all right. Let's get you all set up in your dorm room and then we can discuss why you showed up to your first day of college wearing acid-washed jeans."

And with that tiny act of kindness, Kiara and I practically became fused into one human being. While watching Wuthering Heights in Film History that year, I understood exactly what Catherine meant when she said, "I am Heathcliff!" I was so instantly enamored with Kiara that I told her I felt the same way. Before Christmas break I blurted out to her, "I love you so much, I am Kiara!"

Kiara grinned and took my little chipmunk-cheeked face in her hands and said, "I love you, too, baby boy. But never say that again, because it's weird as fuck."

She was right. It was weird as fuck. But she loved me, too!

Years later when Chase and I moved in together, he was a little taken aback by my Kiara shrine. Rows upon rows of framed pictures of Kiara and me popped up like toadstools on every flat surface available. Kiara and me on spring break riding a tacky banana boat down in Key West. Kiara's graduation photo from Columbia Law, her tam cap at a jaunty angle on her head. The two of us at the opening night of every musical I ever wrote. A candid shot of me as "Man of Honor" at Kiara's wedding, kneeling like a Disney footman as I straighten her elaborate train.

I'm not sure how our gruesome little game of one-upmanship began, but I absolutely would prove my love to her by throwing myself in front of a whirling combine. I also wonder how the rest of the world gets by without having a Kiara in their lives. Those poor, unfortunate souls.

"Hey, where's Stephen?"

Stephen. Wonderful, friend to the world, Stephen. I used to think he was lucky to have Kiara. Then I thought she was lucky to have him. Now they're in a dead heat and if I didn't have Chase, I would be riddled with envy.

Kiara pulls a sad face. "Oh, he's so bummed he can't be here. He's showing a penthouse on the Upper West Side, and the owner is this really kooky gazillionaire who only lets the apartment be shown after sundown. We think he might be a vampire."

I narrow my eyes at her. "So that's how it's going to be? You're going to lie straight to my face at my first and possibly last Broadway opening?"

Kiara's sad face turns dismissive. "You know he loves you, he just hates theater more. I told him I would take one for the team. Besides, we don't need him hanging around and stinking up the place with his uselessness."

"That's fair." I pause to consider not bringing it up, but self-control has never been my strong suit. "Tell me again about Thursday night."

Kiara throws her head back and stares at the ceiling in very dramatic frustration. Carrie Payne came to see the show on Thursday. In the old days, critics would come to opening night and then run back to their offices to type up their reviews for the morning newspapers. There are all these glorious stories of the days of yore where a bleary-eyed producer would read the rave reviews to the trembling opening night partygoers as the sun came up and the stars started to fade over Manhattan. Nowadays, critics come a few nights beforehand to write their reviews in advance because, I don't know, laziness?

I'd sent Kiara to spy on Carrie to see if there was any response to the show written across her face. I knew there was none, but I couldn't stop asking.

"Noah, she's like a professional poker player. Next to her, the Mona Lisa looks downright frantic . I don't know what to tell you. Her face is a locked safe. And I don't have the combination. And you know what? I don't even care! And neither should you. You wrote a kick-ass musical and people love it."

"I'm skeptical."

"People love it. Your score is fantastic and Danielle's staging, with all of those special effects? When you told me you were writing a musical based on King Lear , I was like, SNOOOOZE! I don't even get the show's title. I mean, Stage of Fools ?"

"It's a quote from King Lear . ‘When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools,'?" I explain.

"Well, I wasn't crying, I was in ecstasy! I mean, when I realized that you set the show in the far-off future and on a spaceship, I was like, mind officially blown. And when Cordelia's ghost hovers upstage during the last few scenes—"

"That was Danielle's idea."

"Who cares? It's brilliant. The whole thing is brilliant. And you deserve a hit. Do you know why? Because you're a very good person."

"We both know I'm a bitch, but I thank you for that very unfounded swing for the fences."

Kiara gets very solemn, which is not a usual look for her. "You saved my husband's life."

This again. "Kiara, I referred him to a therapist. It's not that big of a deal."

"No, no, no. I will not have you rewriting history here tonight. I told you I was worried that he was depressed, and you came over and threw me out of my own apartment so that you could talk to Stephen alone. You assessed the situation, which, technically speaking, you aren't trained to do, but we'll skip that. Then you called a therapist you used to see and not only got Stephen an appointment two hours later, but you went with him and sat in the waiting room and then brought him home to me."

"I was, I don't know, worried. He's still doing okay?"

"He's doing great. In fact, he's so confident and self-assured that he was able to ditch your big night. That's progress."

Kiara clocks Chase talking to someone in a pink blazer that is very attention grabbing, but maybe not in the right way. "Um, is your boyfriend trying to sign Aleister Murphy?"

Aleister. Blech. "I wouldn't be surprised. He's had two hit shows. One at the Public and one at Playwrights Horizons."

Their conversation ends and Aleister hurries to catch up to a cater waiter and his tray of free chardonnay.

Kiara watches him, then says, "Is it me, or is Aleister's walk not cute?"

"Oh, it's the opposite of cute. I have no idea why he has such a weird walk. It's like he slinks."

"He one hundred percent slinks. And the eyebrows are a little too curated for my taste. And I'm sorry, but who names their child Aleister?"

"Satan worshippers," I respond.

We both know what we're doing. Aleister's star is rising and mine could implode at any second. And my boyfriend is clearly trying to get on board the Aleister Murphy train. So Kiara is being the best friend ever and reading Aleister for filth.

Maybe I'm too paranoid about my star imploding. I was chosen as one of Variety 's "30 Creatives Under 30" list. Although, having just turned twenty-nine, I was cutting it pretty damn close.

"Oh no." My eyes have landed on Chase, who's now with his assistant, Anna Wong. "Chase is berating Anna Wong again." Chase doesn't yell when he gets angry. His eyes narrow and he talks quickly and quietly. Anna Wong nods her head so fast it's moving double-time to the blaring music.

"Maybe go stop him. That looks like some Scott Rudin shit."

"I agree." I push my way through the crowd toward a very chagrined looking Anna Wong. No one ever calls her Anna. It's always her complete name: Anna Wong. I asked her about this once and she simply shrugged and said, "Even my own mother calls me Anna Wong. I can't explain why things gain traction."

I'm close enough to hear Chase hissing, "You're in charge of transportation! My boyfriend and I are not going to end this night in a filthy New York City taxi!"

Anna Wong doesn't look Chase in the eyes. "I misunderstood. I thought you just wanted the car service to take you from the theater to here."

"Why would I want that? How does that even make sense?! How did you think we were going to get home? Did you think we were going to, oh, I don't know, levitate and float home? Do I look like Peter Pan to you?"

Chase sees me approaching and immediately switches back to the Chase I know and love. It's like a magic trick. Any trace of anger has evaporated. But the three of us obviously know that he was being a complete asshole seconds earlier.

I try to pull my most affable attitude. "You know, there's something really romantic about a filthy New York City taxi. It's like riding in a little piece of history."

Anna Wong gives me a relieved look, but mutters, "No, no. I'm on it. Sorry about the confusion." And she's on her phone and off into the crowd as quickly as possible. I turn to Chase and I can tell he already knows what I'm going to say.

"You have to be nicer to her."

His expression goes stone-cold. "I don't tell you how to write musicals, please don't tell me how to agent."

We both pretend to be interested in the ceiling.

But I can't let it go. "Chase. You know I'm right."

Chase is silent for a couple of ticks. Then he tries, "It's kind of an industry thing. A lot of people think they want to be agents and so they start as assistants. I like to make sure that if my assistants do get to move up the ranks that they can take a little toughness. I don't believe in hand-holding. It's as simple as that."

Before I can argue back, glasses are being clinked. The music is cut off and it appears that our fearless leader Danielle is going to make some sort of a speech. Statuesque, pantsuit-wearing Danielle. Once during rehearsal I asked her if she thought we needed another reprise of a ballad from Act One. She turned to me and apropos of nothing, told me that she and her wife, much like Annette Bening and Julianne Moore in the movie The Kids Are All Right , sometimes enjoy watching gay male porn. Lost for an answer, I could only mutter, "Good for you! Now about this reprise…"

Even though Chase and I are possibly in a fight, I need answers immediately. "Do directors usually make big speeches on opening nights? Is this normal?"

"Absolutely not. I think she might be drunk."

Danielle does seem a little wobbly. And she's got lipstick on her teeth. But that might just be because she's not used to wearing lipstick.

"My fellow partygoers…" She starts off very grandly, sweeping her massive hands across the crowd. "I believe the musical we have opened here tonight is a truly groundbreaking work of art. With a top-notch cast, design team, and, of course, Noah Adams's soul-searing script and score." And there's a little smattering of applause as people look uncomfortably at me and I look uncomfortably back. Thankfully, Danielle thunders on.

"But as is true with most groundbreaking works, it may take the passage of time to reveal the piece's profundity."

I don't like where this is going.

"Now, I know it might be considered…" And Danielle looks, for once in her life, lost for words. I look around and realize Kiara has reappeared. We're doing the pinky-holding thing. Chase is wearing an expression of complete horror.

Danielle has unfortunately found her train of thought again. "It might be considered déclassé to speak of reviews, especially when they are unkind."

Ice water shoots through my veins. The floor beneath my feet feels precarious and unreliable. I turn to Chase desperately. "Is it out? Is the Times review out?!"

Chase swallows with difficulty. Kiara's pinky grip tightens.

"But Noah." Danielle is trying to drunkenly hold my gaze. "No matter what Ms. Payne says about your work, no matter how much she dismisses your talent, just know that everyone in this room believes that one day in the not-so-distant future, Stage of Fools will be considered a seminal addition to the musical theater canon!"

And then I run.

Well, first I drop my vodka soda on the floor, and then I pick up my proverbial petticoats and run.

There's a door with an exit sign and I beeline for it. It's embarrassing and cowardly, but I can't stop myself. I can't take the humiliation. I find myself on a gray stairwell and I start descending as fast as I can. Behind me I hear Chase and Kiara hot on my trail. Flop sweat is dampening my expensive shirt collar and I accidentally slip and fall a couple of steps onto the nearest landing. When Chase and Kiara catch up, I'm sitting on the ground like a sad, abandoned ventriloquist dummy in a tux.

Kiara sits down beside me on one side and Chase sits on the other. They both lean their heads onto my trembling shoulders. No one talks for a very long time.

Finally, I muster up the truth. "So. My career is over."

Chase's tone is more adamant than I have ever heard. "That. Is. Not. True."

My voice is pathetic and quivery. "Oh, come on, Chase. What producer is going to put money behind anything I write now? I'm done. And there's nothing anyone can do about it."

"Well, I'm gonna do something about it," Kiara says, fuming. I love it when Kiara gets all tough and defiant. "I'm gonna find out where this Carrie Payne asshole lives.

"She's going to find out how we handle little bitches like her in Jackson Heights, Queens!"

I laugh and pretend tears aren't spilling out of my eyes. "Oh my God, you would destroy her. She's like a million years old."

"I will destroy her. I will take her out at the knees. I will perform some mafia shit on her."

And we all three share a sad little laugh. And then my cell rings.

Ugh. It's Mom. I stand up to take the call, pacing the landing while I consider letting it go to voicemail. She's probably read the review and now I have to go through the embarrassing act of being consoled.

When I answer, she's crying. "Noah!"

"Mom, it's just a bad review. Those are the rules of the game. That's the gig. Wanna be a writer? You've got to get reviewed. Them's the rules."

"No, honey. It's your dad. He's had a heart attack."

And to my complete confusion, my legs give out and I'm falling into blackness.