Chapter Seventeen
Eighteen days till the show
Dylan Rogers was not okay. They’d had crushes before.
They’d even been in love—twice, in fact.
And they’d definitely fucked a lot, particularly in the last few years.
But this—this felt different. More dangerous.
More permanent. Vicky Fang was doing something to them, like, on a genetic level.
Their kiss was playing in Dylan’s brain like a YouTube clip on loop, and yeah, they’d most definitely liked and subscribed.
They’d long held a candle for Vicky, one that burned quietly but steadily through the zigs and zags of life.
But now that they knew Vicky was equally into it, that little candle was an out-of-control wildfire, growing hotter and hungrier with every second.
Seriously, the townsfolk needed to evacuate.
The idea of Vicky Fang becoming the one who mattered most was as thrilling as it was terrifying.
But okay, they were also imagining getting that sticky red gloss all over their face as they humped like horny bunnies.
In the green room of the Rhodes Playhouse.
Tangled up in Vicky’s sheets. Or—in one particularly nostalgic fantasy—facing the mirrors in the pink-tiled bathroom of Rock Around the Clock while Chip Chadwick was forced to watch.
And on top of their one-kiss-to-rule-them-all, Dylan was also processing that Vicky had had a fucking heart attack.
What if she hadn’t woken up? What if she wasn’t here, bossing Dylan around in those seersucker shorts?
Now that she was back in it, it was impossible to imagine Vicky not being in their life…
“Ugh.” They thumped the side of their head. “Focus!”
It was Tuesday at lunchtime during the one-hour break between morning and afternoon rehearsals. Dylan sat outside on the Rhodes Playhouse lawn waiting for a call from the real estate agent who was lining up viewings of potential retail spaces for Marlowe’s Upstate location.
The sun blazed in the blue summer sky, heating Dylan’s bare arms and legs. They slipped on a pair of aviator sunglasses, partly to reduce the glare but mostly to disguise what they were pretty sure was a look of raw-yearning-slash-extreme-horniness. Focus.
As they waited for the call, Dylan nibbled the first test batch of Hot & Sweaty.
They’d spent Vicky’s two-day absence—a doctor’s appointments in the city—distracting themself in Jazz’s kitchen.
It…wasn’t good. The raspberry compote was too sweet, the cloves overpowered the whole flavor profile. The popcorn was fun but not enough.
What would make it work? Where was the balance?
“Hey, Dyls!” It was Mikki, who was with Clyde, Zoe, and Jamie. “Want anything from the diner?” she called.
“Thanks, I’m good,” Dylan called back.
“ ’Kay!” Mikki waved as the group headed in the direction of Henry Street.
Dylan felt a wave of warmth at the easy way the oddball group was chatting. Theater bonds were so real.
Across the lawn, Orchid and Kat sat together in the shade, Kat’s combat boots scuffing a lazy rhythm in the grass while Orchid, all graphic eyeliner and trending gloss, listened intently, twirling a lavender-streaked strand around her finger.
Emery emerged from the theater, white-blond hair flopping into their eyes, oversize tee swallowing their frame.
They clocked Orchid and Kat, took one cautious step their way, then stopped, pulled out their phone, and slumped onto the theater steps—every inch of them broadcasting don’t notice me but maybe do?
Dylan got up, wandering over. “Hey, Emery.”
Emery sounded more guarded than Fort Knox. “Hey.”
Dylan leaned against the railing, trying not to sound like a camp counselor. “Having fun?”
Emery shrugged, their attention on their phone.
Dylan remembered Emery was their understudy. Zoe was already attending most of Lola and Annie’s rehearsals, devoted to learning Annie’s part. “Need any help with Hamlet’s lines?”
“I’m okay.”
How did one converse with a teenager? Dylan had no idea. It’d be easy to peace out, but they felt a tug of responsibility to a fellow enby. “I think it’s so cool you’re out, like, with your pronouns,” they tried. “I was way more clueless when I was your age.”
Emery looked up again, the tiniest flicker of interest visible beneath their white-blond shag. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Dylan took the chance to sit a few feet away. “Didn’t figure it out till I was almost thirty.”
“Thirty?” Spoken with unchecked horror.
Dylan chuckled, remembering feeling that thirty was ancient. They nodded in the direction of Kat and Orchid. “Those guys seem cool.”
Emery glanced over, watching Kat and Orchid laugh at something. They made a noncommittal noise and pulled their knees to their chest.
“I met Vicky and Annie and Lola through the theater,” Dylan tried. “And they’re, uh, low-key iconic?” How did the kids talk these days? “High-key serve. Big rizz. No cap.”
Emery didn’t look up. “Never say any of that again.”
“Noted.” Dylan didn’t want to be the annoying adult who didn’t understand when to quit. “Okay, well…If you ever, like, need to talk—”
“I don’t really have any friends,” Emery said quietly. “Not who know all my shit.”
“Oh,” Dylan said, trying to parse their words. “Like…you’re not out at your school?”
Emery shook their head.
“Oh,” Dylan said, getting it. “Wow. Well, it’s awesome you’re out here. That took a lot of guts. Theater’s always been a refuge for the gays,” they added. “A place to meet like-minded people.”
They both looked over at Kat and Orchid who were looking back, expressions open. Orchid waved, smiling.
“I’m not gonna tell you how to live your life,” Dylan said, “but I’ll tell you that my life got way better when I made friends. Friends matter, especially for us queers.”
Their phone rang. The real estate agent.
“Sorry—work call,” Dylan said, standing back up. “Go hang with Kat and Orchid. They seem dope.”
Emery hesitated. “What’ll we talk about?”
“Start with the play,” Dylan said, “and take it from there.” They gave Emery a final, reassuring smile before hitting Accept and focusing on the call. “This is Dylan.”
There was a pause. Then the caller spoke in a slightly enunciated feminine voice. “Dylan, hello.”
Not the real estate agent. Dylan frowned in confusion. “Sorry, who’s this?”
Another pause. “Dylan. It’s your mother.”
Celine? Dylan’s stomach dropped like a rock flung into the Hudson. They hadn’t heard their mother’s voice in five years. “What— Why aren’t you calling from your number?” Which I never would’ve answered, Dylan silently added.
“Oh, I got my phone wet while gardening.” Celine chuckled. “With all this heat, I’m just constantly watering, covered in mud.”
Celine was many things—Pilates devotee, wine club member, floral print obsessive—but muddy gardener was not one of them. “You gardening? I don’t see it.”
Celine’s tone stayed light. “So you’re the only one who’s allowed to change, is that it?”
Dylan swayed back, feeling as if they’d just been shoved. Impossible to read their mother’s tone. Lighthearted and observant? Or combative and judgmental? Teenage annoyance boiled up from their gut, fisting their hands. Dylan worked hard to stay even. “Why are you calling me?”
“To invite you to lunch,” Celine replied smoothly. “As I’ve said in my texts.”
Dylan pictured their mother, blond hair tightly coiffed, makeup thickly applied, standing in her large, light-drenched kitchen holding the phone with a manicured hand. Appearances sound important to her, a therapist once accurately observed.
“So, lunch?” Celine went on. “Let me know when you’re free.”
Dylan’s pulse ticked up, a wallop of irritation tightening every muscle. “I’m pretty busy.”
“I know—the play, and, of course, Marlowe. But surely you can spare an hour. Text me. I’ll make my meatloaf.”
She hung up.
Dylan coughed an outraged laugh. They sank to the grass, running a bewildered hand through their hair.
It was a shock to hear that Celine knew about Marlowe, something she’d surely find as frivolous as Dylan’s love of acting.
God, she just assumed Dylan still ate meat, which they did, and the thought of Celine’s one-and-only specialty had their stomach rumbling, but still. The audacity! The nerve!
“Hey.” Vicky picked her way through the tall grass toward them, carrying a brown-bagged lunch. The sight of her cut through Dylan’s irritation, their heart now throbbing for an entirely different reason.
Dylan hadn’t been alone with Vicky since the kiss. This morning she’d been friendly but not flirtatious, which was to be expected in public, but still—the kiss was burned onto Vicky’s hippocampus for all time, too, right?
Vicky plopped down, tossing her black hair over one far-too-kissable shoulder. “What’s up, Rogers?”
Dylan briefly considered lying—offering an easy-breezy-everything’s-chill response. But this was Vicky. She’d probably call bullshit, and besides, Dylan wanted to offload to someone they trusted.
They groaned and flopped onto their back, speaking to the cloudless sky. “My mother just ambushed me. Asked me to lunch.”
“Whoa.” Vicky settled alongside Dylan in the grass, head propped on one hand. “You gonna go?”
“I don’t think so.” Just the thought of seeing the woman who spent their entire young life pressuring them to dress, act, even think in a way antithetical to their authentic self made Dylan nervous. “Because trauma, and stuff?”
Vicky pulled a sad cheese sandwich out of her brown bag and took a half-hearted bite. “I get that. Kinda nice she asked though. Literally never hear from my dad.”
“I’m sorry, babe.” Dylan rolled onto their side so they were facing each other. Lying in the long grass made Dylan feel fifteen.
Fifteen in an adult’s body.
They pulled out a blade of grass and traced it down Vicky’s bare arm. “How could anyone not want to spend time with you?”
Vicky let out a soft mmm, her eyes sharp and bright. Her skin shivered into goosebumps. “Ooh, that tickles…”