Chapter 6 Vespera
six
Vespera
Columbus looks different through fever-bright eyes.
Dad pulls up to the dormitory entrance, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The three-hour drive was mostly silent, both of us pretending I didn't have to stop twice to dry heave at rest stops, pretending the marks on my neck aren't still inflamed despite being two weeks old.
"You sure about this?" he asks for the fifth time.
"I'm sure." My voice sounds stronger than I feel. The registration packet in my lap lists eighteen-hour days, intensive physical work, professional expectations. My body can barely manage eighteen minutes without reminding me what I've lost.
What I've rejected.
"I can stay," Dad offers. "Get a hotel nearby, just in case—"
"I need to do this alone." I squeeze his hand, noting how cold mine feels against his warmth. "I'll call every day."
He helps me with my bags, and I'm grateful when he doesn't comment on how I have to lean against the wall while he carries them up to the third floor. Room 314, northeast corner, with a view of the theater district and a fire escape that my paranoid brain immediately catalogues as an exit route.
My roommate hasn't arrived yet. Two beds, two desks, one window. The bed nearest the door gets claimed—closer to the bathroom for when the nausea hits.
"Vespera Levine?"
We turn to find a man in his forties, sharp-eyed and elegant, clipboard in hand.
"I'm Marcus," he says, and this is Dad's friend, the one who got me in. "Your father's told me so much about you. We're thrilled to have you joining us."
They exchange pleasantries while I sit on the bed, trying not to look like I'm about to pass out. The room spins slightly, but the drive gets blamed for it.
"Callback for Medea is tomorrow at ten," Marcus tells me. "I've seen your tape. You're exactly what we're looking for. Raw, powerful, uncompromising."
Raw. If only she knew how raw.
After Dad leaves—reluctant, worried, trying not to show it—unpacking happens slowly.
Each item finds its place: leotards and tights in the drawer, character shoes lined up under the bed, makeup kit on the desk.
The three dresses brought for presentations hang loose now.
Fifteen pounds lost in two weeks. The rejection is eating me alive, but from the outside, I probably just look like a dedicated actress who forgets to eat.
My phone buzzes. Stephanie again.
Please just let me know you're okay
I saw your dad's car. I know you're in Columbus
I'm so sorry
The guilt is killing me
Please
Delete them all without reading the rest. Her guilt is not my problem.
"Oh good, someone's here!"
A whirlwind of energy bursts through the door—a guy about my age with artfully messy brown hair and the kind of smile that suggests he's never met a stranger. His scent hits me a moment later: Beta, warm and uncomplicated like cinnamon toast.
"I'm Ben," he announces, dropping his bags in the hallway.
His hands are already moving—gesturing, punctuating, creating shapes in the air like he can't help but perform every sentence.
"Ben Rosen. Acting track, with a minor in making terrible life choices.
" He does a little flourish with his fingers that somehow makes the self-deprecating joke land better.
"You must be my neighbor—I'm in 312. Please tell me you know where we're supposed to be for orientation because I'm already lost and I've been here exactly three minutes. "
Despite everything, I laugh. His hands never stop moving. It's like watching someone conduct an invisible orchestra while they talk.
"Vespera. And orientation's in the main theater in an hour."
"Vespera," he repeats, hands tracing the syllables in the air like he's tasting the name.
"That's beautiful. Unusual." He leans against my doorframe, and even standing still his hands gesture conversationally, adding emphasis to thoughts he hasn't even voiced yet.
Natural performer's presence radiates from him.
"So what's your story? Why Columbus instead of, I don't know, enjoying summer like a normal person? "
"Normal's overrated." Standing tests my balance. Steady enough. "Plus, Medea doesn't cast itself."
His eyes light up, hands spreading wide. "You're going for Medea? That's incredible. I'm reading for Jason tomorrow, the absolute bastard." He makes a theatrical gesture like he's being stabbed. "Maybe we'll get to destroy each other on stage."
There's something in the way he says it—playful, flirtatious but not aggressive, punctuated by those expressive hands. He's interested but not pushing. After months of Alpha intensity, it feels like being able to breathe.
"We should head to orientation," I say, grabbing my bag.
"Lead the way, evening star." His hands sweep forward in an exaggerated courtly bow.
The theater is a five-minute walk that takes me ten, though I hide it by stopping to "admire" the architecture.
Ben chatters the entire way, hands painting pictures in the air as he tells stories about his hometown (Austin), his three sisters (all bossy—he demonstrates each one's signature hand-on-hip stance), his decision to pursue theater (scandal in the family—complete with dramatic hand-to-forehead).
The orientation room is packed with fifty other summer intensive students, all radiating that particular theater kid energy—too loud, too emotional, too much. A seat in the back appears, but Ben drops beside me without hesitation.
"Nervous?" he asks, fingers drumming on his knee.
"No." Yes. But not about the program. About whether my body will hold up. About whether the rejection sickness will get worse. About the constant feeling of being pulled northward, toward Northwood, toward them.
Marcus takes the stage, welcoming us to six weeks of intensive training. The schedule she outlines is brutal—voice and movement at 7 AM, scene study, audition technique, combat training, dance, rehearsals until midnight or later.
"This program is designed to push you," she says. "To break you down and rebuild you as professional artists. Not everyone will make it through. That's by design."
Every detail gets written down, ignoring the way my hand shakes slightly. Ben notices, but doesn't comment.
"Partners will be assigned for scene study based on tomorrow's callbacks," Marcus continues. "Those cast in Medea will have additional rehearsals on top of the regular curriculum. I hope you're all prepared to give everything."
Everything. The largest mark on my neck gets touched, hidden under concealer and a strategic scarf. I've already given everything. What's a little more?
After orientation, there's a mixer in the lobby. I should network, make connections, establish myself. Instead, the wall gets leaned against, the room spinning slightly.
"You okay?" Ben appears with two water bottles, offering one. His free hand punctuates the question with concern.
"Just tired. Long drive."
He studies me with those warm brown eyes. "When's the last time you ate?"
Thinking about it takes effort. "This morning?" Maybe. Everything blurs together lately.
"Come on." He takes my elbow gently, nothing like the possessive grips I'm used to. "There's a diner around the corner. Best grilled cheese in Columbus, according to the extensive research I did on the drive here." His hands form a rectangle, framing an imaginary research document.
I should say no. Should go back to my room, rest, preserve energy for tomorrow. But he's already steering me outside, and the cool evening air helps the dizziness.
The diner is exactly what you'd expect—red vinyl booths, black and white tile, the smell of grease and coffee. Ben orders for both of us without asking, somehow knowing I need someone else to make decisions right now.
"So," he says, stealing one of my fries with exaggerated stealth, "what's your tragic backstory?"
"What makes you think I have one?"
"Every Medea has a tragic backstory." He grins, hands spreading wide. "It's like, required for the role. Plus, you've got that look."
"What look?"
"Like you're carrying ghosts."
The accuracy makes me freeze. He notices that too.
"Sorry," he says quickly, hands raised in apology. "Theater people, we're all about the oversharing. You don't have to—"
"Bad breakup," I say, which is both true and wildly inadequate. "The kind that leaves scars."
His eyes flick to my neck, where the edge of a mark might be visible despite the scarf. "Alphas?"
"How did you—"
"I'm a Beta, not blind. Plus, you smell like..." he pauses, considering, fingers pinching the air like he's trying to grasp the right word. "Like you're in withdrawal. Rejection sickness, right?"
A nod. Too tired to deny it.
"That's rough." He doesn't press for details, doesn't ask what happened. "My ex was an Alpha. Not fated or anything that intense, but when it ended, I felt like I was detoxing from a drug. Can't imagine what it's like with an actual bond."
"It's killing me," I say, the honesty surprising us both. "Literally. My body is shutting down because I refused them."
"Them?"
"Three of them. A pack."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Damn. And you walked away from that?"
"Ran, actually. Barely made it out conscious."
He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine. The touch doesn't burn like theirs did, doesn't make my body light up with unwanted need. It's just... warm. Human. Kind. "You're the strongest person I've ever met," he says simply.
"You just met me three hours ago."
"Still true."
We walk back to the dorms slowly, him matching my pace without comment. At my door, he pauses.
"Callbacks tomorrow. You're going to be incredible."
"How do you know?"
"Because anyone who can walk away from a pack bond can certainly handle a Greek tragedy." He grins, hands spreading in a ta-da gesture. "Plus, I have excellent taste in scene partners."
After he leaves, collapsing on the bed happens fully clothed. My phone has seventeen new messages from Stephanie, all deleted unread.