Chapter 21
21
“When are you going to admit that you and Theo are finally fucking?”
Evie’s eyes snap up from the pottery wheel in front of her, the already precarious lump of clay collapsing in her hands. “ Gen .”
“Are you not?”
Her nonanswer is the answer.
“I knew it.”
Evie ignores her, re-forming the wet clay in her hands before slapping it onto the center of the wheel. They’re at Green & Bisque, a pottery studio just around the corner from the bungalow that’s no longer theirs. If Miss Stella’s was Evie’s second home during their adolescence, Green & Bisque was Imogen’s. Her sister has braved the 110 on a regular basis, returning to pottery. Evie’s positive there must be a closer studio, but she’ll never complain that Imogen has found a reason to be in Pasadena more. It’s not lost on her that Imogen’s pull toward home grows stronger and more frequent as her countdown to Denver begins.
“ Ev .” Imogen is pulling handles for a set of mugs that she just threw on the wheel like it’s easy . Her knack for ceramics is undeniable. “How long?”
Evie lifts her foot from the pedal. “Since New York.”
“What? But… that was over a month ago .” Hurt flashes in her eyes. Evie hasn’t told her sister, has actively avoided telling her, because of this reaction. With the slightest quiver of Imogen’s lower lip, her big-sister brain activates, and she’ll do anything to make that expression go away. Imogen knows this. Evie knows that Imogen knows this. Still, she’s powerless to it. “I thought you were mad at me.”
“Mad at you?”
“About Denver. You sort of disappeared after I told you.”
Disappeared?
“What? I’ve just been busy with work and—”
“Fucking Theo.”
“Gen.”
Imogen lays out her handles to dry with a shrug, then cleans up her station and heads to the sink to wash her hands as if she didn’t just accuse Evie of disappearing so casually. If Evie’s hands weren’t covered in clay, she’d scroll through her text history and read their near-daily correspondence out loud. Disappeared? Evie doesn’t disappear. She stays.
Is staying.
Really, it’s everyone else who disappears.
“This makes so much more sense.” Imogen dries her hands, then returns to sit at the wheel next to Evie’s lopsided bowl. “God. Finally.”
“It’s casual.”
“Is it?”
Another reason Evie has been avoiding this conversation? Imogen is the only person who can get away with calling bullshit. “It has to be casual.”
“Why?”
“I—” Evie swallows. Attempts to regain control of the conversation, control of her emotions. “Because it’s Theo.”
Imogen rests her hands on her shoulders. Applies gentle pressure. It’s something she’s done since they were small, whenever Evie’s anxiety lifted her shoulders to her ears. “I never need to do this when Theo’s around,” she says. “Do you even know that? I noticed when I was, like, ten maybe? Ever since, I’ve been searching for that kind of ease. A best friend. My Theo.”
This observation?
It’s so disarming.
“I still don’t want marriage.”
“And yet you are married.”
“I don’t want to stay married or be married. Theo does. So.”
“You’ve talked about it? You know that?”
No.
They haven’t talked about it recently, but she remembers their high school debates. Hurling words at him about the institution of marriage and patriarchy, how she never wanted to be bound to anyone with a piece of paper. Using her grandparents as an example. Look at Pep and Mo. Never married and the healthiest couple we know. Theo pushing back, so gently. It’s wild enough to choose someone and for them to choose you back… but to commit to that choice? To believe in it, despite logic and data and statistics? I don’t know, I think that’s pretty cool.
So.
She does know.
“Ev.”
Evie doesn’t mean for tears to ricochet off wet clay, never means for her little sister to see her cry. “I don’t want to do it again.”
“Love?”
“Trust.”
Hanna only loved her so long as they wanted the same things. Evie believed they did, when all along Hanna thought she just needed time to come around on the idea of marriage, to come around on relocating to Atlanta, to come around on building a life on her terms. At first, the nudges were so gentle, she couldn’t see them. Didn’t notice the pressure building with each question, every offhand comment.
Isn’t, like, half your team remote?
Did you know that Emory has a dedicated Crohn’s and Colitis research center?
My parents are getting older, Evie. We could buy a house. Well, at least a condo? It makes sense.
Then Hanna proposed and, for the first time, it occurred to Evie that maybe the woman she loved didn’t understand her at all, and she tried to explain, she tried .
I love you, Han, but I don’t need to marry you.
I want to do life with you, Han, but I can’t marry you.
I won’t marry you.
Hanna accepted a job offer in Atlanta the following week.
Love wasn’t enough for Hanna.
She wasn’t enough.
Imogen’s expression softens. “Theo isn’t Hanna.”
“What if it doesn’t work out?”
“What if it does?”
“Seriously? Did we even have the same childhood?”
How is Imogen so optimistic? Evie is baffled. Jealous, even. Hanna is the last person Evie trusted, but she wasn’t the first. No. The first person she trusted with her entire heart was her mother. Naomi, who told Evie and Imogen that she loved them. Every night before bed. And then, one day, just left.
“No.” Imogen’s eyes meet hers. “We didn’t have the same childhood, because I had you .”
Oh.
How is Imogen so optimistic?
It’s because Evie took the emotional blows, absorbed the pain, and stayed. Of course. Her staying is the reason Imogen can go. She wraps her arms around her sister. Digs her fingers into her shoulder blades, hoping to absorb some of Imogen’s bravery, her ability to trust her heart, to trust Sloane, to follow that terrifying feeling into the unknown, completely forgetting that her fingers are covered in clay.
Work is a welcome distraction. An afternoon with Theo’s students made Evie brave enough to put a lunch invite on Sadie’s calendar for the following week. That day has arrived and, for the first time in over three months, they talk—really talk —about this magical and difficult art. Sadie discloses that it took a decade of working multiple jobs until she could afford to Foley full-time. Shares how demoralizing it can be to work in a male-dominated industry. Admits she doesn’t get attached to fellows anymore, that she poured her heart into one too many who quit the moment the realities of freelance life hit.
“If you want this, there isn’t room for much else. At least, not at first.”
Evie nods.
She understands.
Wants to be consumed by this passion.
“Your work on Ginger ? It’s sublime,” Sadie continues. Caught so entirely off guard, Evie responds by choking on a grain of rice. “You need to stop asphyxiating every time I compliment your work.”
“Sorry,” she sputters.
“You’re a dancer?”
“Was.”
“Our next project is a movie adaptation of Save the Last Dance: The Musical .”
She cannot process a single word in that sentence. “Oh.”
“Can you learn the solos?”
“Yes.”
Her answer is enthusiastic, spoken without hesitation. It’s desperate. She is desperate.
“It’s no wonder Ross took advantage of you.” Sadie’s expression remains neutral, her lips pressed together in a thin line. “I understand the impulse to be eager. It’s how we’re conditioned. As women. As people in these so-called passion careers. But when someone offers work that’s beyond your pay grade…” Sadie shoots her a pointed look. “… like learning the solos for a big-budget film? You need to ask follow-up questions. About overtime. About credit.”
Evie’s silent.
After a beat, she asks, “Will I get overtime? Credit?”
Sadie’s smile lines are triggered. “Yes. If you deliver Ginger -quality Foley, you will absolutely be credited. And Next in Foley isn’t going to pay you overtime, but I will give you ten percent of my contracted rate as a bonus.”
“Yes. I’m in.”
“ No .” Sadie laughs. “This is where you negotiate . And ask for this in writing.”
Evie’s rattled by this entire interaction. Time. How many times had Charlie told her to give Sadie time? In this moment, she feels like she’s beginning to understand her mentor. Sadie Silverman either cares too much or not at all. It’s an on-off switch. Has Evie proven that she’s worth turning on for? She asks Sadie follow-up questions. Negotiates for twenty percent of her rate. Notes this is the first time in her professional life that someone—anyone—is encouraging her to advocate for herself. By the end of lunch, Evie has a project that she won’t start working on until Sadie sends her the terms they’ve agreed on in writing.
Finally, Evie feels like an actual fellow.
Her first thought after she and Sadie part ways for the day?
I can’t wait to tell Theo.
Her life for the next two weeks revolves around rehearsals and prep and somehow, it’s now 1:00 a.m. the night before she’s due on a Foley stage. Evie can’t sleep. She’s always been restless the night before a performance because if she allows her brain to shut down, obviously every step will seep out of her skull. It’s irrational. Anxiety is irrational. But if she can’t sleep, she may as well practice.
She runs the routines again.
And again.
Two high-energy, extremely technical dances. One hip-hop. The other a contemporary choreographed by Sonya Tayeh. She kept her cool during their session, then called Imogen sobbing in the bathroom afterward because holy shit she just learned choreography from Sonya Tayeh . When Evie defined herself as a dancer first and a person second, she could’ve performed these routines in her sleep. Now? Her body needs to be eased into the movements. Now? Her joints ache after three run-throughs. Now?
It’s hard.
Over these last two weeks, she’s been noting her limits— learning when to push and when to rest. She’s also reminded that Theo is a fantastic masseuse. If he applies just the right amount of pressure to her arch, it’s almost as good as an orgasm. And Evie can’t deny that it’s nice when he interrupts a rehearsal with a blueberry banana protein smoothie, that she hasn’t had to worry about meals, that she could focus on the work. Every night, she crashes on the couch, her feet on his lap, and wakes in her bedroom cocooned in her duvet and feels so cared for.
Supported.
Loved.
Evie arches her back, then bends into a forward fold.
Replays her conversation with Imogen. What if it doesn’t work out?
What if it does?
Her body is screaming at her to rest. But her brain cannot because she wants this to go well so bad. It’s not just a chance to prove herself to Sadie—but a credit that she desperately needs to legitimize her career, to validate her union application, to file for divorce. It’s the plan. It’s always been the plan. So. Even if reverting to platonic soulmates feels impossible right now? She isn’t that selfish.
No .
Theo deserves his white picket fence of a life someday, with someone else.
If you want this, there isn’t room for much else.
Sadie said that.
Sadie—
A knock on her door interrupts this spiral. Theo pokes his head into her room. “Why are you still awake?”
She removes her earbuds. “Can’t sleep. You?”
“You.”
Evie wipes sweat from her upper lip. “Sorry.”
Theo opens the door all the way and steps into her room. “Ev. You’re ready.”
“I’m just—”
“You’re ready,” he repeats. Firm. Steady. “Go shower. Get ready for bed.”
“ Bossy ,” she teases. “Will you be joining?”
Theo leans against the doorframe. Shrugs. Evie calls his bluff. Pulls her tank top over her head and throws it at him. Slips out of spandex bike shorts. Revels in the way eyes that once would’ve averted their gaze don’t just look but linger. She expects him to follow her into the bathroom. Into the shower. Is way too disappointed when he doesn’t. After, she tosses on a vintage Billy Joel concert T-shirt that used to be Lori’s. It’s soft and stretched out, the shirt Evie always sleeps in before an important day. In bed, she stares at the ceiling. Counts backward from one thousand, so aware that she needs to sleep.
Cannot sleep.
“Ev?” Theo whispers.
“Yeah?”
A moment later, Theo’s shadowed silhouette is above her, a mug in his hand. She isn’t sure when he started shortening Evelyn to Ev , why Ev became the default, how her heart can have such a wild reaction to one syllable. Evie presses her palms into the mattress and sits up. Leans against the headboard as he sits on the edge of the mattress and holds the mug out to her.
“Chamomile tea.”
Evie takes the mug. Has a small sip, then places it on her night table and scoots over to make space. Once Theo is lying next to her, she presses her mouth against his because she’s still a little selfish. He responds with a soft, quick kiss.
“Theodore.”
“Good night.”
She rolls onto her side. “You’re such an ass.”
“You need to sleep,” he whispers against her hair, nestling in and wrapping his arm around her.
“Yeah.” She grinds her ass against his crotch. “So. Make me tired.”
He groans. “ Ev .”
“Theo.”
“You need to sleep,” he repeats, his breath tickling her ear. “So I’m going to hold you until you fall asleep.”
“You think that will work?”
“It’s always worked for me.”
Silence.
Tears prick her eyes.
Evie swallows the emotion in her throat. “It won’t work.”
“Okay.”
“It won’t ,” she insists.
Then, obviously, immediately falls asleep in his arms.