Chapter 33 Vespera
thirty-three
Vespera
I've been avoiding Ben.
Not hard, considering he's been avoiding me too. We pass each other in hallways with careful distance. In Scene Study, we work on our assigned scenes with professional courtesy and zero eye contact. At lunch, one of us always has a convenient excuse to be somewhere else.
Stephanie notices. Of course she notices.
"You two have that post-hookup awkwardness," she observes on Wednesday, watching Ben hurry past our café table without stopping. "Except you didn't actually hook up."
"We tried," I mutter into my coffee.
"And the bonds said no." Robbie's voice is sympathetic. "How are you doing with that?"
"Fine." I'm not fine. I'm mortified. The memory of trying desperately to feel something—anything—while Ben touched me, and my body refusing. Like it had forgotten how to respond to anyone who wasn't pack. "It's fine."
"You've said 'fine' three times," Stephanie points out. "That's never a good sign."
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with a reminder notification.
HEDDA GABLER AUDITIONS - TODAY 2PM - STUDIO 3B
My stomach drops.
Right. Auditions. Where I'll be trapped in a small room with Ben and twenty other students, all of us performing our carefully prepared monologues while Professor De Scarzis judges our worthiness for the fall showcase.
The fall showcase that could make or break my standing here. The role that could prove a scholarship student belongs in the same room as legacy admits. The production that talent scouts actually attend, looking for the next generation of professional actors.
This isn't school. This is my entire future.
"Fuck," I say eloquently.
"You'll be fine," Robbie says. "You're the best actor in the program. Everyone knows you're getting Hedda."
"That's not what I'm worried about."
What I'm worried about is seeing Ben. Really seeing him, not passing in hallways. Having to sit in the same room for two hours while we both pretend nothing happened. While we both pretend we didn't try and fail to have sex three nights ago.
While we both pretend the bonds didn't win.
The holding room outside Studio 3B is packed when I arrive.
Students sprawled across every available surface, some running lines under their breath, others doing physical warm-ups.
The energy is electric with pre-audition nerves and competitive desperation.
Charlotte Reeves—junior, Alpha, legacy admit whose mother played Hedda on Broadway—is holding court in one corner, surrounded by admirers.
Her confidence is palpable, practiced. She knows she's competition.
I sign in on the sheet outside—fifteenth in line—and find a corner to claim. My monologue is memorized perfectly. I've run it a hundred times. Nina's final speech from The Seagull, about endurance and faith and bearing your cross.
About surviving when survival seems impossible.
Ben's name is three slots after mine on the sign-up sheet. I try not to think about that.
"Vespera."
I look up to find Maya from Movement class settling beside me. "Hey."
"Nervous?"
"Terrified," I admit.
"Please. You're going to kill it." She stretches her arms overhead. "I'm hoping for ensemble at this point. Maybe Thea if I'm lucky."
"You'll get more than ensemble."
"Not with Charlotte in the room." Maya's voice is matter-of-fact. "She's been training for this since she could walk. Her mom's been coaching her. She even looks like Hedda—that cold, beautiful, trapped thing."
I glance over at Charlotte, laughing at something one of her friends said. Maya's right. She has the look. The breeding. The training.
Everything I don't have.
"But you have something she doesn't," Maya continues, reading my expression. "You have hunger. Real hunger. Charlotte wants this role because it's expected. You need it."
The distinction lands hard. Because she's right. For Charlotte, this is another line on an already impressive resume. For me, it's proof I belong here. Proof the scholarship wasn't charity. Proof I can compete with people who've had every advantage.
We chat about the play, about casting predictions, about whether De Scarzis will be merciful or sadistic in her choices. It's normal. Comfortable. Exactly what I need to keep from spiraling about Ben.
Until he walks in.
He looks tired. Dark circles under his eyes, hair not quite as carefully styled as usual. He signs in—eighteenth, I note—and his eyes sweep the room.
They land on me.
For a stretch, we stare at each other. Three days of avoidance crystallizing into one loaded look.
Then someone calls his name—another student from our Scene Study class—and the break happens. He turns away, joining a different group on the opposite side of the room.
Message received.
"Okay," Maya says quietly. "What happened between you two?"
"Nothing."
"That was not a 'nothing' look. That was a 'something very complicated' look."
"We're scene partners. It's... professional tension."
"Uh-huh." She doesn't believe me, but mercifully drops it. "Well, good luck with your professional tension."
The door to Studio 3B opens and Professor De Scarzis emerges, clipboard in hand. "All right, people. First five, come with me. Everyone else, stay quiet and stay warmed up. We're running this efficiently."
The first group files in. The rest of us settle into the waiting.
This is going to be a long afternoon.
By the time my name is called, I've watched twelve students go in and come out looking various degrees of shell-shocked.
Charlotte went in the last group. Came out looking satisfied. Confident.
Ben's in my group.
Of course he is.
We file into the studio where De Scarzis sits behind a table, two other faculty members flanking her. The space feels smaller than usual, more intimate. Five chairs are lined up against one wall for those waiting their turn.
"Levine, you're first. Center stage."
I take my position, finding my light. Breathe. Focus. Become Nina.
The words come automatically. Nina's final monologue about faith and endurance, about bearing crosses and finding meaning in suffering. About loving someone who destroyed you and somehow surviving it.
I'm not acting. I'm confessing.
Every word is about the pack. About being claimed against my will. About learning to endure. About finding faith when faith seems impossible.
When I finish, there's a beat of silence.
"Thank you, Ms. Levine," De Scarzis says, her expression unreadable but her pen moving rapidly across her notes. "Morrison, you're next."
I take my seat, still vibrating with the performance. Ben is two chairs away, not looking at me. His jaw is tight.
Three more students perform. Then it's his turn.
He stands, moves to center stage with that easy confidence I've always admired. Finds his light.
And delivers the "I wish I was an octopus" speech from Angels in America.
The monologue about wanting more arms to hold someone, about love being inadequate, about human limitation in the face of impossible desire. About watching someone you care about suffer and being powerless to help.
His voice cracks on the last line. Slightly. But enough.
When he finishes, I've been holding my breath.
"Thank you, Mr. Rosen," De Scarzis says. "Everyone may go. Callbacks will be posted tomorrow morning."
We file out in silence. The holding room has thinned—most people are done, heading back to their dorms or the library. I grab my bag, intent on escape.
"Vespera."
Ben's voice stops me at the door.
I turn slowly. He's standing five feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, looking anywhere but at me.
"Can we talk?"
No. Absolutely not. I want to run.
"Yeah," I hear myself say. "Okay."
We end up in one of the small practice rooms on the fourth floor. Neutral territory. The door closes behind us, and suddenly the space feels too small.
"Nice audition," he says, because apparently we're starting with pleasantries.
"Yours too. The Angels speech was perfect for L?vborg."
"Thanks."
Silence. Painful, loaded silence.
"We should talk about what happened," he says finally.
"Do we have to?"
"Yeah. I think we do." He runs a hand through his hair, that nervous gesture I've come to recognize. "Because we're scene partners. And friends. And this awkwardness is killing me."
"It's killing me too," I admit.
"So let's say it. Address the elephant in the room." He takes a breath. "Three nights ago, we tried to have sex. Your body wouldn't let you. Because of the bonds."
Hearing it said out loud makes it worse somehow. "Yeah."
"And I'm not... I don't blame you. Or your body. Or the situation." His eyes finally meet mine. "But I need to know—was it the bonds? Or was it also that you didn't actually want to?"
The question lands like a punch.
"I wanted to," I say quietly. "I wanted to want you so badly. You're... you're everything they're not. You're kind and funny and you see me as Vespera, not an Omega or a pack member or a problem to solve. I wanted it to work."
"But?"
"But my body made the choice my mind couldn't." I sink into one of the chairs against the wall. "The bonds are stronger than I thought. And I hate that. I hate that I don't get to choose."
He sits too, not touching me but close enough that I smell his Beta scent. Still pleasant. Still familiar. But it doesn't make my pulse race anymore.
"Can I tell you something?" he asks.
"Please."
"When I transferred here, I knew it was stupid. Knew you were bonded, knew the pack would hate me, knew it was probably hopeless." He stares at his hands. "But I had to try. Because you're... you're amazing, Vespera. And what we had in Columbus felt real."
"It was real."
"Past tense," he notes.
"The person I was in Columbus isn't the person I am now." The truth of it settles over me. "The bonds changed me. Whether I wanted them to or not."
"So where does that leave us?"
Good question. I think about the audition room, about performing Nina's speech about endurance. About Ben delivering his monologue about inadequate love.