Chapter Text
23) Flatbush
It was a grey afternoon when Loretta first asked. They were sitting by the window of Oliver’s apartment, sharing the last of their coffee, the rain streaking the glass in long, quiet lines.
“You know,” she said softly, “you’ve told me stories about your shows, your castmates, your college days… but never about your family.”
Oliver, who had been absently sketching something in his notebook, stilled. He looked up, his expression unreadable. “My family,” he repeated, as if testing the weight of the word.
“Yes,” she said gently. “Did you grow up here? Somewhere else?”
He hesitated, then closed the notebook and leaned back. “I grew up everywhere,” he said finally. “Or nowhere, depending on how you look at it.”
He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, and then he turned to look at her with a half-smile. "Come on" he said offering his hand to her "I want to show you something."
They took the subway to Brooklyn that same afternoon. The clouds were low and pale, the air heavy with the smell of rain. Loretta didn’t press him for details; she simply followed as he led her through side streets and across wide intersections until they reached a quieter neighborhood full of brownstones and corner shops.
“Flatbush,” he said, gesturing around them. “Home — or one of them, at least. I lived here from about nine to twelve, with my second pair of foster parents. Sue and Al.”
Loretta listened as they walked. His tone was calm, almost casual, but there was a tenderness in the way he looked at the old buildings — like each one held a small memory tucked away somewhere behind its windows.
“Sue had eight cats,” he said, smiling faintly. “She was nice enough. Always smelled faintly of tuna and lavender. Al… not so nice. He worked nights, drank too much. The kind of man who was angry at the world before breakfast.”
Loretta’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t interrupt.
“I was a quiet kid,” she gave a little incredulous chortle at that. "No, really" Oliver went on. “I thought — if I stayed quiet enough, stayed out of the way, maybe someone would finally want to keep me around. Didn’t work, of course. But I tried.”
They stopped in front of an old brick building with a faded sign that read Mycyn Theatre. The paint was chipped, the windows dusty, but it still stood proudly on the corner, as if refusing to give in to time.
“This is where everything changed,” he said softly. “One day, I wandered in and saw a bunch of neighborhood kids rehearsing for a production of Oliver!” He chuckled at the irony. “They were loud, ridiculous, absolutely fearless. I’d never seen kids like that. I wanted to be one of them.”
He led her to the steps of the theatre and sat down. Loretta followed, watching as he glanced at the dark windows, his eyes distant.
“I auditioned. Got a tiny part — one line. Just one. But I was so proud of it.” His smile wavered a little. “I told Sue and Al. Asked them to come see me perform. They said theatre was for people who didn’t know how to work for a living.”
Loretta felt her chest tighten. “Oh, Oliver…”
“So I quit the play,” he said simply. “Figured it’d make things easier. But…” He paused, his gaze softening. “Every night, I came back anyway. I’d stand at the back of the theatre and watch. Just in case they needed me after all. I’d watch another kid say my line.”
For a moment, the city noise seemed to fade, leaving only the quiet patter of rain.
“I think,” he said after a while, “that’s when I fell in love with all of this. The stage, the stories, the people brave enough to take up space. I wasn’t brave then. But I wanted to be.”
Loretta reached over, taking his hand in both of hers. He looked down at their joined fingers and smiled — a small, wistful smile that carried both the ache of old memories and the warmth of being seen.
“You were brave,” she said softly. “Maybe not in the way you thought. But you stayed. You cared enough to come back. That says something.”
He turned to her, eyes glinting. “You always know how to rewrite the sad bits into something poetic.”
“I’m an actress,” she said, smiling gently. “It’s what we do.”
He laughed, leaning in to rest his forehead against hers. “You’re too good to me, Loretta Durkin.”
“And you,” she whispered, “are not nearly as indestructible as you think.”
They sat there until the rain stopped, the old theatre behind them like a silent witness to a long-forgotten beginning.
For the first time, Loretta thought she could see the boy Oliver had been — small, hopeful, and full of stories waiting to be told.
And for Oliver, it felt like the first time he’d truly told one of them.