Chapter Four
Lola’s breath caught, sharp and shallow. Her heart jolted hard, like a compass snapping north.
She hadn’t planned on coming back.
But when Lola woke that morning, a sense of responsibility pressed into her chest. Jazz was the first adult who spoke of the future as something that was Lola’s to conquer.
She’d booked a car. A quick trip, up and back, before her event tonight: a launch party for a carbon-neutral shoe brand designed by AI.
(Important to be “out there,” her publicist had emphasized.)
At first, Lola let herself enjoy her return, feeling a swell of pride as the car rolled up familiar old Henry Street. A moment she’d dreamed of ever since she was a kid—returning to her hometown as someone. Not just a girl with big dreams, but a working actor. A name.
But then things started feeling more complicated.
Sadly, the shops had thinned at the far end of town, empty lots and deserted storefronts with sun-faded For Lease signs replacing the friendly mom-and-pop shops and services Lola remembered.
She hadn’t anticipated the impact of seeing the neglected theater—the peeling paint and empty lobby. The silence where there used to be noise and light. It wasn’t just about the playhouse. It wasn’t even about Jazz.
It was about the version of herself she’d left behind.
And now that she was here, standing in the dusty theater, watching Annie Lightfoot’s eyes widen across the stage, Lola realized how badly she wanted that girl back.
“What are you doing here?” Annie blurted, her whole face blanched of color.
Lola drew on every part of her talent and training to appear unruffled, even as she realized what a self-centered idiot she’d been. Jazz hadn’t just invited her. “Jazz wrote to me,” she replied. “Something very important to discuss. You as well?”
Annie gave a dazed nod, the same shocked revelation that Lola was feeling rolling like a summer storm over her face.
In her colorful sundress, cute straw hat, and light blue sandals, Annie looked as simple and pretty as a summer afternoon. Which made Lola feel wildly overdressed. Why was she wearing heels? She hated heels.
Trying not to show her insecurity, Lola gestured lightly at the stage. “That was quite a performance. I didn’t realize you’d turned pro.”
The old Annie would’ve grinned and tossed off a pithy reply about being a back-up dancer for Taylor Swift—it’s all in the hips, babe! But the new Annie walked tight-lipped down the stage steps, pausing at the bottom to fold her arms across her chest. “Well, it’s been a while.”
“Yes,” Lola said. “It has.”
Should they hug? Probably not, but, like a sleeper agent, Lola’s body activated, and she stop-started forward. They embraced stiffly, more accident, less intent, bodies pressing together.
And yet—Jesus—Annie still fit against her in the same way.
Lola’s mind flicked back, unbidden, to a different embrace: the night after their last performance of Rosencrantz, still in costume, huddled under a scratchy theater blanket in the green room.
Annie had pressed her face into Lola’s neck.
“You have to leave, and when you do, I’m going to miss you so much I might die.
” Lola had kissed her, promising, “I’m not going anywhere. ” A promise she had not kept.
Lola’s mind screamed to step back, end the hug.
But her body betrayed her, softening against the warmth of Annie’s bare skin.
She smelled like summer in the country—fresh-cut grass, a hint of BBQ smoke, cherries so ripe the juice runs down your chin.
The past and the present collided at full speed, and Lola didn’t know if she was sixteen or thirty-six or where she lived or what her last name was.
Her mind went static while her muscles softened like butter in the midday sun.
Then Annie let go, scooting back as if she’d just been pushed, and Lola remembered the situation.
“Just us?” Lola glanced around the theater, keeping her voice cool. “Where’s Jazz?”
“No idea.”
“What’s all this about?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Huh.” Lola frowned. “Mysterious.”
The two women looked around the empty theater. Not at each other.
“Jazz?” Annie tried. “Hello?”
Nothing.
It was bizarre to feel so unwelcome in the place that’d once felt like home.
So tongue-tied with the girl with whom she used to talk about everything.
It was like rewatching her favorite movie and finding an entirely new cast, a completely different plot.
The moment lengthened into awkwardness until Lola couldn’t take it.
“So, Annie…where are you living now? What are you up to?”
Annie recoiled, as if Lola had just asked her how often she masturbated. “Just…keeping out of trouble,” she replied. “What about you?”
If Annie wasn’t answering the question, neither was Lola. “Same,” she replied crisply. “Keeping out of trouble.”
They lapsed into a silence so uncomfortable that it made Lola’s ribs hurt.
“Let’s explore,” Annie said, abruptly about-facing and heading back up the stage steps.
“Good idea,” Lola said, because anything would be better than pretending they barely knew each other.
Switching on her own phone light, Lola followed Annie to the wings, her heels clicking over the stage. Stacks of painted plywood—makeshift sets—lined the dusty walls backstage, alongside bins of old props.
The door to the green room was open.
“Whoa,” Annie breathed. “It’s all exactly the same.”
A few years ago, Lola did a movie that featured a set of her character’s childhood room.
The production designer used some of Lola’s own memories of her childhood bedroom, for authenticity.
Walking on set the first day of filming, Lola was stunned to see the same posters she had of Ghost World and Mulholland Drive.
A CD collection filled with Sheryl Crow and Norah Jones and the Indigo Girls.
That same sense of past-present surreality enveloped her now as she took in the green room.
Their zigzagging phone lights illuminated half a dozen chairs tucked under the long wooden bench that abutted the wall of mirrors, framed by dozens of light bulbs to illuminate performers putting on their makeup, fixing their hair.
The ugly orange plaid couch was still pushed against the far wall, scattered with the mismatched cushions Jazz picked up from secondhand stores.
The air was musty but the smell was recognizable: cedar and hairspray and dreams. Lola found her own reflection in the mirror, startled to see an unrecognizable woman in a Stella McCartney dress and heels, not a guileless teenager in cutoffs and kicks.
Why was she red-carpet-ready for a casual meeting in an old theater?
“Oh my goodness,” Annie said in awe. She was crouched under the wooden bench in front of the mirrors, aiming her phone light at its underside.
Curious, Lola knelt down to follow Annie’s gaze.
Annie’s chipped lime-green-painted nail pointed at four names scratched in black pen, each in their own distinctive handwriting. Annie Lightfoot. Lola Wilson. Vicky Fang. Dylan Rogers.
Lola remembered the way the pen tip had dug into the soft plywood. How had it been twenty years?
Squished this close to each other, Lola could just make out the tiny freckles sprinkled over Annie’s ski-jump nose.
The faint lines around her powder-blue eyes that weren’t there two decades ago.
The choppy-chic pink bob that curved around her cheek was both cute and cool, a disorientating combination.
Three gold stud piercings curved up her lobe: a croissant, a smiley face, and a heart.
“I can’t believe they’re all still there,” Annie murmured, glancing at Lola.
Their eyes locked and the feeling hit Lola’s sternum like lightning.
She swallowed a gasp. What was happening?
Why was she here, pretending innocent-looking Annie hadn’t broken her teenage heart into a million pieces for no good reason at all?
Panic sprang up like a sprinkler on a summer lawn. She had to get out of here.
Lola scooted out from under the bench. “This was fun,” she lied, brushing dirt off her now-marked dress, “and it was good to see you.” Another lie. “But actually, I have to go.”
“Already?” Annie said, following her up. “But Jazz isn’t here yet.”
Lola backed up, resisting the urge to run. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Give Jazz my best. Tell her—”
“Girls!”
They both jumped.
A woman in her seventies stood in the green room doorway.
She was wearing oversize Iris Apfel–style glasses, a boldly patterned muumuu, and colorful bracelets stacked up both arms. Her pale skin was flushed with excitement and her short hair was a brilliant snow-white.
Her voice was warm, raspy with age but brimming with enthusiasm.
Jazz Whitaker still knew how to make an entrance. “You’ve found each other. Again!”
· · ·
After exchanging hugs and hellos, the pair followed Jazz up the circular staircase to the director’s colorful, overstuffed office on the second floor.
The walls were still crowded with framed posters and black-and-white stills from past shows.
The office was windowless, but a few candles and an oil lamp cast the room in warm, yellow light—Jazz assured them she’d get the electricity back on in a jiffy.
“I thought you were still in California,” Annie said, as they all got settled.
“My renters gave notice and I couldn’t get anyone else in,” Jazz said.
“As much as I’d loved the Wild West, I decided it was time to come home.
I missed the seasons. Missed Rhodes. Even if it has changed a little since I left.
Which,” she added, “is why I asked you to come.” She focused on them each in turn.
“The truth is, I don’t have many years left. ”
Annie stiffened. “Oh god.” She exhaled in horror. “I knew it.”
Panic seized Lola’s chest. She kept her tone even. “What’s the diagnosis?”