Chapter Eight #2
The table read wasn’t technically a performance, but it was the first chance the actors had to bring their characters to life—to show their take on what the production could be.
Lola prided herself on being a team player.
She was prepared for the read not just as a performer, but as the assistant director, too.
But as they got into it, something shifted.
The words on the page weren’t just dialogue; they were music, a melody she hadn’t sung in years but somehow still knew by heart.
Rather than stay safe with a performance designed to please, Lola took risks.
She experimented. She had fun. She’d never been cast in a comedy before, but the play was funny and her comic timing worked.
People laughed. That sound, warm and intimate, hit her like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Oh, she realized, I’d forgotten how much I love this.
As they all got into it, she found herself listening differently, too—making mental notes on how the others could nudge, calibrate, build on their tentative first steps.
The rest of the cast was raw but game. Vicky was bold and wily as the Player.
Dylan played watchful Hamlet with quiet intensity.
Deborah’s Polonius oozed with self-serving charm, and Clyde, true to his word, had memorized every one of Gertrude’s lines.
Jamie and Mikki were both solid, and more important, they were having a blast.
But Annie…Annie was floundering.
She missed her cues. She stumbled over her lines, butchering the delicate rhythm. Each mistake made her shrink in her seat, as if she were trying to disappear inside her own skin.
Lola knew what Annie was feeling—the panic of failure. She tried to catch her eye. It’s okay, she wanted to telegraph. We’ve got this. But Annie wouldn’t look at anyone. By the final act, she’d given up any pretense of effort, speed-reading her way through in a dull monotone.
“The play fades out,” Jazz read the final stage direction aloud, and then, at last, it was done.
No one said a word. The air in the theater felt strained and lightly traumatized.
Lola sat breathless, caught between exhilaration and sympathy.
Annie’s breath had gone shallow. She pushed back her chair. The screech of metal on wood made everyone flinch. “Excuse me.”
And then she was moving, crossing the stage, running up the aisle.
Jazz’s voice rang out behind her in surprise. “Annie—”
But she was already gone.
Lola exhaled sharply, rising from her seat. “I’ll go.”
· · ·
Outside, an avalanche of blinding sun dazzled Lola before her eyes adjusted and she spotted Annie hurrying for a yellow Volkswagen Beetle parked out front. “Annie!” she called after her. “Wait!”
Wedge sandals wobbling, Lola dashed across the lawn to where Annie was desperately trying to unlock her car with a trembling hand, swearing under her breath.
“Hey,” Lola said, catching up to her. “Wait a sec.”
Annie spun on her, both cheeks splotchy, her blue eyes glittering with tears. “Why? So you can tell me it doesn’t matter and we’ll get there? Well, it does matter and we won’t get there.”
Lola held out a placating hand. “Annie, no one expects perfection on the first read.”
“Says the girl who did it perfectly. God!” Annie threw her arms up. “What was I thinking saying yes to this? Why did I think this’d be fun?”
“It can be,” Lola said, “if we work at it. If we keep trying.”
“We?” Annie gave a short, manic laugh, a tear streaking down her cheek.
“We are not a we, Lola. You and I will never again be a we.” Her voice rose, impassioned and pained.
“For fuck’s sake: You won. Okay? You won.
You left Rhodes in search of your dream life and you got it.
And that’s why you, and Vicky and Dylan, are out there leading big, bold lives and I’m still in a small apartment in my small town running a small business.
That’s why you’re living the dream, and I work six days a week washing dogs.
I should obviously just stay in my lane. My small lane.”
Lola was momentarily speechless. Nothing about Annie’s life seemed small. It seemed meaningful and manageable. Idyllic. “So—what? You’re quitting?”
“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Annie wrenched her car door open.
Lola caught it before she could slam it shut. “I absolutely would not,” she said, unable to keep an edge out of her voice. “I’m putting myself out there, too, Annie. I’m only doing this because we’re all doing it—Vicky, Dylan, and you.”
Annie stared back at her, wet eyes full of pain. Behind that, shame. “Well, I’m doing this for Jazz and the town, so no, sorry, Lola: I’m not quitting. I’m going home to eat a month’s worth of ice cream and read the fucking play. Okay? Okay?”
She tugged on the door. This time, Lola let it slam. Without another word, Annie peeled off, the sound of screeching tires tearing through the peaceful afternoon.
Lola stared after her, stunned. Her pulse was still pounding from the argument, her brain trying to catch up to what had just happened.
You won. You’re living the dream.
Annie believed that, and why wouldn’t she? That’s what Lola had said. Exactly the life I wanted to live.
It fit the story. The one where Lola got everything and Annie got left behind. Because admitting the truth would mean what? That she’d made a decades-long mistake? That the dream she’d chased wasn’t what she thought? That it hadn’t been worth leaving?
Panic reared inside Lola. No. No. She was not conceding that. Her life may not be perfect but it was perfectly fine.
She squared her shoulders, bristling, feeling a familiar hardening of her exterior.
Annie Lightfoot did not get to hurt her again.