I actually slap him.

Clarence stumbles but regains his balance. He glares at me, dusting off his blue jeans with loud, forceful pats. The hurt in his eyes is a different hurt than mine: embarrassment mixed with frustration. I don’t blame him. I’d still slap him again.

“I made a mistake. Sorry,” he mumbles, yanking his yellow flannel jacket straight. His indignation is genuine this time, at least, but I stop myself. Not the time for coaching.

I shrink back, gripping the top rail of the dining room chair. My shoulders are hunched over. I’m hurt and I don’t understand why he’s going away. I think maybe he’s going with Francine. I feel the need to speak before he leaves. “You can’t save everyone, Kurt.”

He’s supposed to wait a few beats before leaving, but I can tell he wants this to be over. He storms out the door. I look down and away, recoiling, like I discovered a piece of my heart is missing, and I’m wondering whether it was Kurt or if it’d been there all along.

The lights go down to black. With only the dimmed pot lights encircling the stage to guide me, I pick up the chair and carry it offstage.

Techies brush past me, dressed in all black. The props on stage glide away, and the next scene grows in its place as all the pieces, props, backdrops assemble.

I set the chair down in its taped-off section by the exit door. Then, I fold my arms. I pretend I have x-ray vision as I watch Clarence storming through the green room, all the way around to the other side of the stage.

Almost on cue, Clarence opens the side door, the handle making a tiny click that’s louder than a gunshot in this auditorium.

Figures, his hair’s still the same. He’s a goddamn moron.

“Go back to makeup,” I hiss, shooing him away.

“You ruined my career, Trace,” he hisses back.

“Jesus, show’s not over yet, Clarence. Go back to makeup. Oh, thank God.”

Wendy from makeup rushes in with a gray-tipped brush. “There you are, you goddamn moron.”

“What were you thinking?” Clarence asks me.

“ ‘Morgan slaps Kurt’,” I say. Wendy ruffles Clarence’s hair and applies a touch of gray powder.

“You’re supposed to pretend to slap.”

“You’re supposed to be Kurt, but you swing your arms around like a helicopter, or wait two beats when you’re supposed to wait one or none instead of two, or forget how to finish a line. You make me look bad too when you do that.” I took a breath. Maybe slapping him was too much. “I’m sorry. But it’s true.”

Avoiding his gaze, I point to a coat rack behind him, a light green flannel jacket hanging from it. Wendy undoes a button on the jacket he’s currently wearing.

He pulls away from Wendy, giving her a look she didn’t deserve. He unfastens the buttons on his shirt himself. “I’m trying my best, Trace.”

“I can tell, man. We all are.” I sigh, waving thanks to Trina as she scampers away. “You’re just trying too hard.”

He looks out on stage. The setting is a bar, two years after the last scene. Kurt’s friends are excited about the new hockey rink being built on the west side of town, but little do they know that Kurt the wet blanket is on his way.

Clarence watches as the scene starts. His eyes are watery, shimmering with the reflection of the stage lights turning up.

I see myself in him. Every production I did was always the biggest production yet. Every show was one stepping stone away from my Broadway dream. Every botched line was its death, for about two weeks.

And here stands the old Tracy in front of me, face-to-face with what feels like the biggest mistake of her life, which in reality is one of the smallest.

“Clarence, this is a learning experience,” I say, putting my hand on his shoulder. “Don’t try too hard. Just try again.”

“Thanks, mother,” he mumbles, brushing my hand away. Kurt drags his feet onstage, heavy with guilt. Hell, at least he’s in character now.

But in time, Kurt will move on from his mistakes. He may not have a car anymore, or friends that trust him, or even what he thought was his true love, but he’ll find a life that’s almost as good.

The show goes on. So did Morgan, and so will Kurt.