Even when the dark comes crashing through

When you need a friend to carry you

When you're broken on the ground

You will be found

"You Will Be Found", Dear Evan Hansen

Part Three: Oh My God, I Think I Like You (Reprise)

July 25, 2020

"Eat the fry."

"No."

"Come on, we have been emotionally obliterated and it's time to eat our feelings," Rebecca insists, dangling a french fry in front of Nathaniel's mouth.

"I do not eat my feelings, first of all," Nathaniel protests, pushing her hand away, "And my emotions are just fine. Not obliterated in any way."

Rebecca rolls her eyes and pops the fry into her own mouth.

Nathaniel stabs at his salad. With a forkful of bibb lettuce, he gestures with the utensil for emphasis, "Plus, do you know how much weight I've gained since I've been back?" When she continues to chew, showing no signs of guessing, he supplies the answer, "Five pounds."

She sucks in an exaggerated breath and cries, "Gasp! How will you ever survive?!"

"I'm just saying," he adds, finally taking a crunchy bite of his salad.

With her mouth full, she says, "We're going to need sustenance for the rest of the walk back to your car."

"It's a mile, at most. It's not going to kill you. And no one told you to wear those high heels. Did you really expect me to park my Ferrari on that busy street where hordes of people are constantly walking by?"

She swallows. "I could never be with someone who treats their car like their baby. It's so gross," she says casually, plucking a few fries from her plate with her fingers and shoving them into her mouth.

He pulls a face that's equal parts disgust and horror. "Yeah well I could never be with someone who eats fries like that. Talk about gross," he fires back.

"Shut up," she mutters and elbows him in the ribs with a playful grin.

The entire establishment is gross, he thinks as he shifts uncomfortably in the fire-engine red trying-to-be-vintage corner booth. The floors of the diner have a sticky sort of sheen and the food has a greasy sort of sheen, both of which makes his stomach crawl. This little hole-in-the-wall Rebecca spotted on their way back to the car is trying way too hard to be a hole-in-the-wall with its overuse of kitschy decor and overhead lighting that's a touch too dim.

"OK," she says with purpose, wiping her fingers on a napkin, giving the plate of fries a reprieve, "Now it's time to unpack the emotional devastation that is Dear Evan Hansen. Tell me blow-by-blow what you liked and disliked and how every part made you feel."

He opens his mouth to say something, but she cuts in before he can speak, "I'll go first. Can we talk about how cruel it is to put intermission immediately after You Will Be Found? There I was, ugly crying all my makeup off – a complete mess – and that's when they decide to bring the lights up?!"

He chuckles, remembering how she fished a packet of Kleenex from her purse and loudly blew her nose into one of the tissues. While people got up from their seats and milled around, rustling and shuffling and causing a dull roar, she remained firmly planted in her seat. Unsure how to respond, he wrapped his arm loosely around her shoulders while offering apologetic looks to their seat-mates who had the unfortunate task of trying to sneak by in the cramped space between the two rows.

Nathaniel takes a sip of his black coffee and nods for her to keep going. Though he has an inkling why the song elicited such a powerful response from her, he wants to hear her verbalize it.

"I've done terrible things to people. Some truly fucked up stuff. Worse stuff, worse lies than the ones Evan told. To people I consider close friends. And then, when I," she pauses to check his reaction before continuing, "tried to kill myself, everyone was still there for me. They found me, like the song says. Despite everything."

Thinking she may cry again, he puts the mug down and leans toward her to show he's attentive and listening.

"There are so many times I felt like I didn't deserve that amount of support," she admits. Her eyes are unfocused, lost in thought, as she reminisces, "One of my first nights back from the hospital, the girls were so worried about me they slept in my hallway outside my bedroom. On the floor."

"You have great friends," he murmurs, wishing he were as gifted as Rebecca at building lasting friendships. He has woefully little experience in that soft-skilled area, and Rebecca's fiercely loyal girl mob is his best guess at what it looks like in practice.

"It wasn't always like this. Before I came to West Covina, I lost almost every friend I ever had. The closest thing I have to a childhood friend is Audra and she's more of a frenemy than anything," she says.

"Really?" he asks, surprised. He can barely fathom a time she wasn't the extraverted, outgoing ray of sunshine she is now, constantly attracting everyone to her like moths to a flame.

"Even you," she says, completing a thought in her head he isn't privy to.

"Even me what?"

"You were there for me too. We barely even knew each other then. But there you were, at my door. And after everything I did to you."

He tilts his head to the side, searching his memory banks. "What . . . what did you do to me?"

She scoffs, as if the answer should be obvious. "Well, let's see. First, I manipulated you with sex to do my bidding in my misguided revenge scheme against Josh. Then, after the aforementioned sex, I basically ghosted you. Then, I was fully prepared to use you for your private jet to escape the giant dumpster fire I created. Any of this ringing a bell?"

"Oh," he utters. He supposes if you put all those things together, it doesn't sound great. "I guess I never held any of that against you," he says with a half-shrug, adding, "And it's not like I was a saint."

"Oh no, you were a perfect angel," she snarks with a twinkle in her eye.

Is it friendship if you want to kiss her when she smiles like that? When her face scrunches up and she gets that cute little wrinkle above her nose?

But the smile is ephemeral and fades as quickly as it sparked.

"That song brought all those memories back to me," she says, her voice choking up, "My friends have found me so many times. I hope someday I can be the one doing the finding. And I hope someday I can write a song like that. A song that moves someone, even one person, this much."

He has not one clue why this thought is making her so sad, but he rubs her back and says hesitantly, "You will. I know you will."

"Oh my god," she groans, rubbing her eyes, "I'm sorry. I'm so emotional lately."

"It's OK."

She points at his chest and vehemently asserts, "It's not a period thing, if that's what you're thinking."

"I wasn't thinking that," he quickly says, defensive.

He was absolutely thinking that.

It's day three of her period. Not that he intentionally learned her cycle. He didn't. But she's on hormonal birth control and it comes like clockwork every four weeks. He'd have to be an idiot not to pick up on it and she isn't exactly shy about announcing its arrival.

Three days prior to her period is when he makes himself scarce. That's when she's irritable and moody and everything he says seems to be wrong. (Though he'll never, ever utter the deadly acronym "PMS" again after an incident involving a gluten-free pretzel being hurled at his head.)

Usually, on the first day of her period, the pain is so excruciating she skips work in favor of curling up into a hedgehog-like ball under her blankets. On those days, he swings by with a bottle of red wine and chocolate around six o'clock. Rebecca always remarks that his peace offering is such a stereotypical male idea of what women want during their periods, but it doesn't stop her from being coaxed out of bed for a few hours to imbibe half the bottle. The rest of the three-to-four days of her red friend are not as painful physically, though she tends to be much more sensitive and teary.

"You are totally thinking that, but I swear to god it's not. And it's not just the show either."

"OK, enlighten me."

"I'm switching meds."

"Again? Why?" By his mental math, this must be the third time in the past year or so.

"Besides making me tired all the time, let's just say there was an incident last week where my blood pressure was so high I was one diastolic number away from my doctor sending me to the ER for heart attack symptoms."

He raises his eyebrows in shock. How did he not know about this?

As if reading his mind, she says softly, "I didn't want you to worry. You had that big deposition."

"What does this mean exactly?"

"I'm withdrawing now, which honestly is somehow worse than when I was actually on the damn drug. I'm nauseous. Dizzy. But the worst of it is how panicky and anxious I feel all the time. I'm having panic attacks almost daily. It feels like I'm not in control of my own body, which is the scary part."

"Oh. Wow. Is that normal?"

"Not normal, but it happens to some people. It's happening to me!" she says, forcing a light-hearted tone, though it has a cutting undertone she can't hide.

Knowing he cannot truly understand what she's going through, he simply says, "I'm sorry."

"Sometimes I just get so tired of all this," she says, weariness in her voice, gesturing generally at the air in front of her.

"I know," he whispers.

She clears her throat, announcing a change of subject, "I know why I was emotional in there. But what about you?"

"Me?"

"Oh, drop the act. Are you telling me those weren't tears I saw during So Big/So Small? That's the first time I've ever seen you come close to crying."

He's caught. They were, in fact, tears he mistakenly thought he hid from her during the devastating refrain of Your mom isn't going anywhere, your mom is staying right here. He had anchored his elbow on the armrest and propped up his chin, discreetly turning his face away from her.

Taking in his hurt expression, she backtracks, "Never mind."

"No, you're right," he says with earnest, "You got me."

Rebecca's eyes widen and she stays silent, waiting for him to elaborate.

Is it friendship if you want to tell her everything, to show her every part of you? Even the deepest, darkest parts? Especially the deepest, darkest parts.

He swallows. With no easy transition, he bluntly states, "My mother tried to commit suicide when I was ten – with pills – and I was the one who found her passed out on the floor."

Rebecca's mouth drops open. "Wh - What? What? You f-found her? At ten years old. Oh my god," she rasps, "I can't even imagine. Oh my god."

"We were never allowed to discuss it. It wasn't until a few years ago she finally told me the truth. She has bipolar two. It went untreated most of her life and that was her worst depressive episode," he replies with a quiet calm, "It's why I didn't visit you in the hospital. I . . . I couldn't."

Rebecca goes still as she processes the information. He imagines that behind her eyes every gear is turning, every synapse firing as she reframes their entire history of interactions with this new context.

The reason he knows this to be true is he did the same thing when he found out about his mother. He spent months re-contextualizing every childhood memory with the newfound knowledge, everything suddenly snapping into place and making sense in a way that was both comforting and sad at the same time. So many things he experienced as a child he normalized over time, having no frame of reference to prove otherwise.

There were days his mom would wake him up, filled with boundless energy, and treat him to an extravagant shopping spree for new toys or a spontaneous drive all the way to San Diego just to visit the zoo or an all-day Frank Sinatra dance marathon in the dining room. As a kid, he saw those as the good days. But then there were the bad days. The days she wouldn't get out of bed. The housekeeper would send him in with her breakfast and she would cry, so touched, and affectionately call him my little sweet pea. That's when the au pair would swoop in and his mother would tell him to run along and play. He felt slighted, at the time, and angsty about it as a teenager. But now, with the wisdom that comes with adulthood, he sees with crystal clarity that she always made sure he was taken care of when she couldn't do it herself.

And there were rare days when she let him see her at her most vulnerable – when she broke down under the weight of her illness. He would comfort her the best he could, wrapping his arms around her waist and squeezing hard. That always seemed to help. And afterward she would brush the stray locks of blonde hair off his forehead and smile down at him through grateful, teary blue eyes. She made him promise not to tell his father about those days, to act like everything was normal. It would only worry him, she said.

Finally, after several elongated moments of silence, Rebecca says, "Why didn't you ever tell me? I mean, all the times we've spent talking about my own diagnosis and treatment and all of it, you never said a word."

"I've never told anyone about this. It's not exactly an easy thing to bring up. And when you told me about your BPD, it wasn't the time to pile on with my own issues."

She scoots closer and puts her hand on his thigh. "Finding her like that must have been traumatizing. I'm sorry."

He waves her concern away. "It's OK. I'd rather not relive it. She, um, she did her best. I know she did the best she could."

"Thank you for telling me. For trusting me with this."

He nods and feels himself getting choked up all over again. "OK, I think I'll have a fry now," he jokes, flashing her a grin and trying to tamp down the emotions he feels churning in his stomach.

"There you go," she says enthusiastically, "Eat your feelings like the rest of us."

He's relieved for the mood shift and realizes he already feels lighter from telling her the truth. Maybe some secrets are too heavy for one person to carry around alone.

Rebecca picks up a fry and teasingly pokes it toward Nathaniel's mouth. Playing along, he catches her wrist to steady it and takes the entire fry into his mouth, unintentionally catching the tips of her fingers with his tongue. His eyes flicker up to hers, worried he's crossed a line. But her gaze is fixed on his mouth, her eyes a little darker than they were a few seconds ago. Or is he imagining that hungry look in her eyes? He must be. He abruptly releases her wrist and she lets out a nervous laugh, picking up a fry and putting it into her own mouth.

Is it friendship if you want to suck on her bottom lip and kiss her so hard it takes her breath away? Is it friendship if you want to know what she tastes like with all the grease and salt and smudged lipstick around her mouth?

No matter how platonic their relationship, he still notices her as a woman. And, in moments like these, he wonders if she notices him in return. With both of them fairly solidly on the same end of the Kinsey Scale and being members of the opposite sex, it seems impossible not to. Not when he can close his eyes and remember all the times she was sprawled out naked on his bed or on his desk or riding his lap in an office chair. He can never forget all the melodious sounds she made (and the prickle of her fingernails through his hair) when his head was between her legs and he applied just the right amount of pressure to send her into orbit.

To add insult to injury, she's wearing the same purple dress as when they kissed in the elevator. That in itself leads him down a path he can't seem to avoid.

Is it friendship if you think about her every time you take yourself into your own hand at night? God knows he tries not to. He really tries. He uses visual aids of escalating intensity. He tries to imagine anyone else, but his mind always gets pulled back to her. After, he feels guilty. Like he's committed some kind of disgusting thought crime against her. After, he vows he'll never think about her that way again. Yet, every time he touches himself, he's back to imagining she's on top of him, surrounding him, filling up every lonely place of him.

Whether he's attracted to her or not, it doesn't matter anyway. That closeness he confided to Heather about on a roadside in the middle of nowhere – that closeness he cried about wanting so badly – he has it. Boy, does he have it. And he'll be damned if he jeopardizes that closeness over some dressed up nostalgia for times they fucked, back when he fruitlessly pined over her with no reciprocation in immediate sight. Nothing is worth the risk of losing her again. Consequently, he's become an expert at suppressing those pesky, intrusive physical impulses when he's in her close proximity.

"So, um, how's Melissa's case going?" she asks, as if they're back to being two colleagues, making small talk at the coffee pot.

"Good. We're close to setting a trial date. Once they see the footage from the store, they'll have to let her go free."

"Great," she says, lackluster, "I know that case is important to you."

"Yeah, it's great. It really is."

A tense silence lingers. It feels familiar, the way the air used to crackle between them until one of them gave in (usually her) and pushed the other up against a wall or door or any other available hard, flat surface.

"Let's get out of here," he finally huffs, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

On the walk back to his car, Rebecca clicks a step behind him in her cursed high heels and he slows to accommodate her pint-sized stride.

"Bachelorette Monday? Are you coming over?" Rebecca asks, slightly out-of-breath.

Truthfully, he's a little sick of the show, in particular the way it manages to be utter garbage yet simultaneously calls out all his most deep-seated romantic insecurities.

He shrugs, "I think I'm done with that."

"But Jenna! You love her," she pleads, grabbing onto his forearm.

"I'm sure she'll be just fine without my watching."

"Then let's do something else."

"Like what?"

"Hmmm," she hums. "Oh! You know what we always said we would do but never actually did?"

"What's that?"

"Word games! Boggle. Scrabble," she lists excitedly, managing to put a little skip in her step.

He quirks his head to the side, "If I remember correctly, I think we were using those as a metaphor for something else."

"Still. I am formidable at word games. I got an almost-perfect score on the verbal portion of the SAT."

"So did I."

"Braggy."

"You are," he teases. "OK fine, you're on."

"Yesss," she hisses.

Click-click-click. Click-click. Click.

Her stride progressively slows as they walk until she's trailing a full step behind.

She groans, "My feet hurt. This is torture. And don't tell me to take off my shoes. I learned the hard way in New York that you, under no circumstances, walk barefoot in a city."

"Trust me, I would never advise you to take off your shoes here," he says, stopping to let her catch up.

In a stroke of inspiration he stoops down in front of her and glances back at her over his shoulder.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm sick of your complaining. Hop on."

"Wait, you're offering me a piggyback ride?! Aren't you worried I'll hurt your back? I did just eat about a pound of fries back there."

"I can squat three hundred pounds."

"Braggy," she mutters.

"You are. Are you getting on or not?"

She bites her lip, a sly smile blooming, and does a little bunny hop onto his back. She wraps her arms tightly around his neck and, as promised, he straightens up to full height with little effort.

"Thank you," she says softly, resting her head down on his shoulder.

"Don't lose your shoes," he says and hoists her up higher on his back, securing her in place.

As they walk farther away from the bustle of the theater district, the cacophony of the street gradually dies down. The streetlamps become more sparse so the street is bathed in a muted, yellow glow. It's comforting somehow – the dark and the quiet. There's something about the weight of her on his back, all four of her limbs wrapped tight around his body. There's something about the tiny puffs of breath on his nape, the tickle of her hair, the vibration of her throat as she quietly hums the songs from the show.

My little monkey, he thinks with affection.

"It's like I'm your Yoda," she says with a giggle.

Or that.

"Thank you for taking me," she says, nuzzling his shoulder in such an endearing, childlike way it makes his heart clench. "The best birthday gift, maybe ever. Two friends on a perfect day," she talk-sings just behind his ear.

He grins, wider than he would if she could see him. "Yeah, a perfect day," he agrees.

"Even if it emotionally obliterated me," she adds.

"You mean us."

"Yeah, us," she murmurs.