Chapter Nineteen
Seventeen days till the show
The next morning, Lola dragged herself into the theater at just after ten—late, but not the latest. Her body felt boneless, slack with the afterglow of too much dancing, too little sleep.
“Rough night?” An unimpressed Garrett looked pointedly at his watch.
“The mini-mingle…” Lola paused to chug half a gallon of ice water. “Became a major dance party.”
“Clyde has serious moves.” Dylan lay spread-eagle on the stage, aviators tilted at a drunken angle, muscle tee crumpled and inside out. “I threw my back out trying to keep up.”
“What about Deborah’s twerking?” Vicky sounded a little raspy. Despite looking underslept, her cat-eye makeup was still impeccable. “Almost lost my voice screaming like a teenage girl.”
“The teenagers were the first to arrive.” Garrett indicated the quartet, who was huddled on the other side of the stage.
“I miss not having hangovers,” Dylan moaned, reaching feebly in the Tragedians’ direction. “Give me your youth.”
Vicky giggled, looking just a bit totally smitten.
The teens glanced between Dylan and Vicky, whispering.
Those two had been all over each other last night, periodically disappearing for long stretches of time.
Lola was looking forward to finding out more, even if a part of her wished it was her and a certain dog groomer the cast were gossiping about.
Last night had been the most fun she’d had in—maybe ever?
Annie had ripped up the dance floor, jumping and spinning with unselfconscious joy, which made Lola want to dance like that, too.
She’d felt sixteen, but also, somehow, exactly her age.
In her professional life, she was old. Here, in Rhodes, she wasn’t old or young. She was just alive.
The theater doors opened, spilling daylight from the foyer.
Lola snapped awake.
Even hungover—pink hair mussed, socks mismatched—Annie looked distractingly, painfully cute.
Lola’s brain replayed for the one-thousandth time the almost-kiss at Annie’s front door.
The way it felt holding hands, the way Lola’s body became as charged as the air between their mouths.
And then last night, at the mini-mingle, they kept catching each other’s eye in a way that seemed…
meaningful. Every time they did, Lola’s stomach bottomed out.
“Good morrow.” Annie held two iced coffees, extending one to Lola. “Thought you might need this. Extra shot.”
Of course, Annie remembered her hangover coffee order. “You’re a saint.” Lola took it, and their hands brushed. Meaningfully.
Annie swallowed a gasp even as she began to babble. “No problem. Just coffee. Not that I’m minimizing coffee. Justice for coffee!”
Lola sipped through a smile, the caffeine not the only thing making her pulse jump.
As rehearsals began, things became even more awkward.
“For the part when Rosencrantz remembers being summoned,” Jazz instructed, gesturing from her perch by the stage lights, “the lines It was urgent—a matter of extreme urgency, a royal summons, his very words—you should be inches apart, looking right at each other. Raw, edge-of-your-seat desperation!”
Lola made herself hold Annie’s gaze. Her soft, sweet lips were parted and smelled like cherries.
“Closer!” Jazz hollered. “This is existential theater, not middle school prom! Inches apart!”
Did Jazz have any idea what an inch could do?
The havoc it could wreak? Still, Lola obeyed, stepping forward until she could count the freckles scattered across Annie’s nose.
Close enough to smell Annie’s skin. Lola’s hands twitched at her sides.
She was overcome with an urge to tug Annie backstage.
Cup her flushed cheeks with both hands and press their mouths together.
She imagined how Annie might kiss her back. Might whimper in pleasure. Might taste.
Lola gave her head a panicky shake, blinking under the stage lights. “Uh, line?” she croaked, as she stumbled backward, tripping over her own existential crisis.
Annie was holding it together much better. Ever since confessing the truth about their breakup, she’d gotten more and more confident. The truth, evidently, had set her free, or at least, freed her up to step into her role with more ease.
Yet the most notable moment of the day came from Maria.
The older woman was only a few soft-spoken lines in when Jazz called for a pause. “Maria,” Jazz said, coming onto the stage. “Remind me: What was it I saw you perform last summer, in your choir? The Aretha Franklin cover?”
“ ‘A Natural Woman’?” Maria said tentatively.
“Exactly,” Jazz enthused. “Stirring stuff. Can you give us a few bars of that now, my love?”
Maria glanced around at the other actors, rigid with nerves. “Alone? I’m not warmed up.”
“Oh, come on.” Jazz smiled with encouragement. “Just give it a try.”
Lola winced, already feeling empathetic for Maria’s potential embarrassment.
“Trust yourself,” Jazz added softly. “I have faith in you.”
Lola wondered if she should step in, offer Maria an out. Before she could, Maria opened her mouth.
A rich and powerful voice poured out of her, a waterfall of pitch-perfect notes vibrating with feeling. “You make me feel, you make me feel…” Maria’s voice swelled, raw and soulful. By the time she hit the final “woman,” the chandelier itself seemed to be shaking, overcome with emotion.
Everyone broke into applause.
“Holy shit, Maria,” Emery said, impressed.
“I stan,” Garrett said, snapping his fingers.
“That,” Jazz said in an airy voice. “Do it like that.”
This unlocked the role for Maria. As they all started up again, Maria stepped into the role of King Claudius with a newfound confidence.
Sometimes, things just needed a little time to be ready for the spotlight.
· · ·
When they were done with a run-through of act two, Garrett called a ten-minute recess. As the rest of the cast chatted or wandered toward the foyer, Lola noticed Zoe tucked into a corner of the stage, quietly mouthing to herself. She caught Lola watching and froze. “Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” Lola said, coming closer. “Just curious what you’re working on.”
“Practicing Rosencrantz’s lines.” The young actor gave a sheepish smile. “I’m Annie’s understudy. I’m almost off book.”
“You nearly know the whole part?” Lola asked, surprised.
Zoe nodded, tucking a lock of strawberry blond hair behind one ear. “Pretty much. I’ve been practicing at home, in the mirror. Like a total theater nerd.”
Lola nodded. “Respect.”
Zoe chuckled, before her expression sharpened into conviction. “Thing is…I get her. Rosencrantz. She’s not dumb, she’s just scared. She wants to do the right thing but she doesn’t know what that is, and it’s like—the more confused she gets, the more she panics. But she’s still trying.”
Lola blinked, struck by the insight. “That’s a really smart read.”
Zoe’s expression brightened. Lola remembered how vital these words of affirmation were to a young actor. What an impact she could make.
“Wanna run a few scenes with me?” Lola asked. “I’ll play Guildenstern, you play Rosencrantz?”
Zoe’s eyes went wide, like Lola had just offered her an Oscar. “Seriously?”
“Sure.” Lola flipped to act one. “Let’s pick it up from the coin toss.”
They began. At first, Zoe was tentative—her voice too quiet, her gestures unsure. But Lola slowed the scene, letting Zoe settle in, offering warmth instead of pressure.
“Hey, pause for a sec,” Lola said, focusing on Zoe. “I think you’re making her too apologetic. What if she’s…pissed? Like, what if this whole cosmic confusion is actually driving her nuts and this moment is the first time she lets it show?”
Zoe blinked. “Like…she’s cracking?”
“Exactly. Try it with some bite.”
They started again. Zoe raised her voice, infused her lines with frustrated urgency. It worked.
“Whoa.” Zoe laughed, a little breathless. “That felt…great.”
Lola felt it, too—that tingle when a scene found its rhythm. When something clicked. “You’ve got good instincts, Zoe. You’re a natural.”
Zoe stared at her, eyes full of awe and gratitude. “No one’s ever made me feel like I could actually act. Thank you.”
Lola smiled, caught off guard by the warmth blooming in her chest. No performance. No fanfare. Just…connection. Mentorship. Art.
This. This was what she’d missed.
“You’re going to be great,” Lola said. “Don’t give up.”
Zoe beamed, glowing. Lola felt like a light had switched on inside her, illuminating the parts of herself she’d been ignoring for far too long.
· · ·
On Friday afternoon, Garrett and Jazz wrapped everyone an hour early. They’d all done excellent work, Jazz said. Plus, she had an appointment with a journalist from Out magazine, intrigued by whispers of Rhodes’s queer renaissance.
“All right, Jazz!” Vicky called from the stage, where she and Dylan sat, legs tangled. The couple had been flirting outrageously all week, when they weren’t making out in the green room or feeling each other up in the back booth at Rock Around the Clock.
Lola felt a twinge of longing. She and Annie had been inching closer for days, a slow burn she didn’t want to rush—but with rehearsals nearly halfway through, maybe it was time to pick up the pace.
As the cast packed up their things, a few people tossed out ideas for a post-show hang. Shakes and fries at the diner? Beers by the river? Mani-pedis at You Nailed It?
“How about afternoon tea?” Lola suggested quietly to Annie, “in Jazz’s backyard?”
“Sure,” Annie said, “with the others?”
“No,” Lola said, affecting supreme casualness. “Just us.”
· · ·
Lola hadn’t spent many daylight hours in the back garden, but as soon as she came out the side door, balancing a lacquered bamboo tray overloaded with tea and treats, she realized what she’d been missing.