Songs of Willow Frost by Jamie Ford

Then she handed them to Asa, whose arms were quickly filling up. He pretended to collapse under their weight.
    As Willow turned to leave, William blurted, “Wait!” He waved frantically from behind the velvet rope, standing on his tippy-toes, desperate to make eye contact with the woman who turned and smiled knowingly, as though comforted to see a young Chinese fan with flowers. “Aw, morning glories are my favorite—how did you know?”
    She was inches away, but he couldn’t speak. I’ve always known. Don’t you know who I am? The words stuck in William’s throat. He could barely think. This was his moment, but he stood paralyzed by the thought of rejection. Was it better to keep hoping,dreaming, than to be disappointed forever? He looked up with desperate eyes, watching as her wide Hollywood smile, her perfectly painted face, shrank into an aspect of stunned, devastating sadness. William offered the flowers, and she took them slowly, raising them to her nose, staring back at him over the wide, bluish petals.
    A reporter interrupted. “Miss Frost—can I ask you one more question?” He spoke as he scribbled in a small notebook. “How’s it feel to be back in Seattle?”
    Willow didn’t answer. She didn’t move. She closed her eyes, tightly, then opened them and looked toward the sky as tears traced her soft cheekbones. She wiped the wetness away and sniffled, half-hiding behind the flowers.
    Everyone, even the chattering newsmen, fell silent, all of them hanging on her answer, as though this dramatic pause were merely the foreshadowing calm before a typhoon of song and melody and heartrending drama—as if her entire life were an act.
    “It’s …” She seemed to be searching for the words. “All so, unbelievable … ”
    “And how is that, Miss Frost?” another reporter asked.
    William stared into her eyes as she gazed back. He was close enough to see his hopeful reflection in the murky hazel. The rope was all that separated their two worlds.
    “It’s the people,” she said. “Not just the fans, but the familiar …”
    “When did you leave?”
    “Five years ago.”
    “And do you still have family in the area?”
    You do, Ah-ma. I never left. I’ve been here all this time .
    William watched as she slowly, almost absently, shook her head and whispered something so softly that he almost didn’t hear her say, “How could I …”
    “Miss Frost,” the reporter said.
    “Could you repeat the question?” she asked, wiping away more tears.
    “I was asking about your family. I know you grew up here. I was wondering if they were planning to come to any of your performances—I was curious as to what they must think—family, friends, relatives. I’m sure they’re incredibly proud of all of your success and how far you’ve come. Miss Frost?”
    Charlotte whispered in William’s ear, “Get her autograph.”
    As though waking from a dream, William blinked, once, twice, and then took out the folded, dog-eared photograph and handed it to the movie star whose likeness it bore. He watched, spellbound, as she held the paper, regarded it for a moment, and then quickly scribbled her signature with an ornate fountain pen. She handed the autograph back and paused for a moment as a reporter snapped a picture of the movie star and the young boy, staring at each other from opposite sides of the plush red velvet rope. He took the photo with both hands, then looked up as the woman stood gazing back at him. She didn’t let go until a taxi driver blared his horn and revved his engine. William sank beneath the padded shoulders of his jacket as Asa flashed Willow his wristwatch and pulled her away.
    She hastily said, “This was the best performance of my life. One I will never, ever forget—for as long as I live. And if there were any friends or old fans in the audience, I hope they can forgive me … for being away so long.”
    William found his voice as she turned her back toward him. “Ah-ma?”
    She