Chapter Five
“Seriously, who sends an invite via snail mail?” Vicky demanded, brandishing her personalized scarlet letter. “That’s like still paying for cable or answering the phone!”
Annie and Lola laughed a little too loudly. They were standing so far apart on the playhouse’s overgrown lawn, Vicky felt like she was representing one of them in a divorce settlement. Evidently, the exes had not reconciled since their dramatic decoupling. Love was a bitch, wasn’t it?
Vicky assessed the playhouse, noting the peeling paint, the broken-down sign. Sad to see it looking so old and tired and in need of a good power wash. “So. Jazz summoned us all?”
Annie nodded. “Yeah—I got the same letter. Actually thought it was just me,” she said, “so I was sort of dancing onstage when Lola came in, like the opposite of America’s Got Talent. More like America’s Got Problems and Here’s One of ’Em.”
Vicky snorted. Annie was still a cheesy goof. She recalled Lola finding Annie’s offbeat sense of humor delightful, but now the striking blonde’s gaze stayed unmoved.
“We just met with Jazz,” Lola said.
Vicky listened, stunned, as Lola and Annie filled her in on Jazz’s pitch—a summer revival of their old play. “Which unfortunately won’t be possible,” Lola concluded.
Vicky nodded, disappointed but unsurprised—Lola was semi-famous now, and Annie’s folded arms did not scream “theater kid for life.”
Vicky kept her voice extremely nonchalant. “Where’s Rogers?”
Annie lifted her shoulders, her big, blue eyes as sincere as ever. “Dylan didn’t show.”
Something tight and hopeful collapsed in Vicky’s chest. Relief? Disappointment? Both? She shrugged, affecting indifference. “Figures. Okay, I’ll say a quick hi to Jazz,” she decided, locking her Beamer with a beep beep. “Then let’s catch up. Dying to hear what you bitches have been up to!”
Annie and Lola traded a hesitant glance.
“I have to…get back to work?” Annie said.
“Still a terrible liar,” Vicky noted, striking this excuse from the record, then zeroing in on Lola.
“I have an event in the city tonight,” Lola said.
“Which means you have time for one drink,” Vicky concluded, satisfied. “Oooh! The old diner isn’t still open, is it?”
· · ·
Rock Around the Clock still embraced maximalist fifties cosplay. Mostly.
There’d been some sort of renovation over the past twenty years—the tables and the red vinyl booths all looked newer, and Vicky didn’t remember the windows being so large—but the layout was roughly the same.
A bar ran along the right wall with about ten round, padded silver stools fixed to the floor.
Opposite it, a dozen or so booths lined the windows facing Henry Street, with three more booths tucked up the back.
Above the bar hung framed posters of a hip-swiveling Elvis, Marilyn licking an ice-cream cone, and Buddy Holly holding a sausage dog.
Taped beneath them was a mix of items—a “Wish You Were Here!” postcard from Niagara Falls, a “Welcome, Earthling” Star Wars sticker, and a “Pride in the Hudson Valley” flyer.
The shelves held collectibles: Vintage Mickey Mouse and Superman lunch boxes shared space with figurines from Ghostbusters and Stranger Things.
It was something Vicky had always liked about the diner: It didn’t try too hard.
Even the old jukebox was still in the corner.
While straight out of an Archie comic, a few flips confirmed it still offered only 2000s jams. Playing now was “Mr. Brightside” by The Killers.
It started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this?
Vicky beelined for “their” booth, the one way in the back, away from the windows. “I totally feel like I’m seventeen again,” she said, sliding in. “Like, where is my Motorola Razr and when are we watching Veronica Mars and who is going to finger me in the art supply closet?”
“What’s the opposite of dibs?” Annie asked.
Lola chuckled. She sat down next to Annie, prompting a look of alarm.
Okay—those two had definitely not buried the hatchet.
Vicky had never gotten the full story of Annie and Lola’s breakup.
While everyone knew why Dylan and Vicky had imploded—the public spectacle at the chaotic closing-night party that Vicky would give anything to rewrite—the reason behind Lola and Annie’s breakup didn’t have time to surface.
They’d all blown apart on that fateful night, respective landlines going silent, MySpace top friends swiftly rearranged.
But the past didn’t feel dead and buried.
It was now surface level, a hand breaking through dirt to claw its way out.
A couple of acned teen girls huddled in a front booth looked between Lola and their phones, wide-eyed and whispering. “Fans,” Vicky informed Lola.
Lola nodded, apparently aware of this. “That’s why I sat facing away or they’d probably start filming us,” she said, slipping Annie an apologetic look.
“I’ll make up some shit about privacy laws if that happens,” Vicky said, giving the teens her best don’t even think about annoying my friend eyes.
An uninterested waitress with micro bangs and cat-eye glasses dropped off plastic letter-sized menus.
Vicky scanned the menu, her jaw loosening.
“Holy shit. I remember when the burgers were five bucks! Now they’re sixteen.
Inflation is a motherfucker.” Vicky read on, shuddering.
“They’ve also got the calories listed now.
Avert your eyes from my beloved Big Bopper Bacon Burger.
Whatever happened to ignorance is bliss? ”
“Same thing that happened to mixtapes and Blockbuster,” Annie said wistfully.
“Friendster,” Lola added. “AIM.”
“RIP my youth!” Vicky wailed, tossing the menu aside, and earning herself some giggles. “When did we get so old?”
“We’re not that old,” Lola said diplomatically.
“Speak for yourself: I’ll be forty in three years!” Vicky exclaimed. “Walgreens offers senior discounts once you turn fifty-five!”
More giggles. Vicky had forgotten how sisterly it’d always felt with these two.
But unlike her actual sisters—who updated each other on every purchase and significant bowel movement—she had no idea about how Annie’s and Lola’s lives turned out.
Vicky reached across the table to tug some of Annie’s pastel-pink strands. “Love the hair. You still local?”
Annie nodded, but Vicky didn’t miss the flicker of discomfort. Why?
“Yeah. I live above my salon,” Annie hedged.
“A hair salon?” Vicky asked, waving to get their waitress’s attention.
Annie fiddled nervously with the saltshaker. Even though Vicky had asked the question, it was Lola whose gaze she met with uncertain eyes. “A dog-grooming salon.”
“A salon for dogs?” Lola’s face lifted in delight. “That’s so cute!”
Annie winced.
“I mean, that’s impressive,” Lola quickly qualified. “How long have you had it?”
“Five years this summer.” Annie looked relieved when the waitress approached, asking if they were ready to order.
Vicky forced herself to bypass the Big Bopper Bacon Burger in favor of the Garden Delight Salad—not out of genuine desire, it was just the least unhealthy thing on the menu. “And a Diet Dr Pepper.”
“Just an iced tea for me,” Lola said.
“Curly fries and a strawberry shake,” Annie said, passing back the menu. “With oat milk, please.”
“RIP full cream,” Vicky said, clutching her heart, before refocusing on Annie. “So, how’s business?”
Annie licked her lips, as if doing quick mental math. Then she sat bolt upright, speaking unnaturally loudly. “Really, really…good,” she declared. “We’re fully booked, every day. Dawn to dusk—dogs dogs dogs. I’m making so much money, my accountant thinks I should slow down!”
Vicky frowned. “Your accountant thinks you should make less money? Babe, that’s not how capitalism works.”
Annie blinked half a dozen times. “He’s…a socialist. Just—yadda yadda yadda, living the dream.”
Lola nodded supportively, even as she looked a little confused. “Jazz made it sound like Rhodes was in an economic decline. That hasn’t affected you?”
Annie shook her head, her reply tumbling out of her mouth like marbles bouncing down a flight of stairs.
“No, no, not at all. Some small businesses are struggling, a bit. But I think Jazz was…exaggerating? For effect? Because business has never been better. I guess I’m a success story?
A hometown hero? Too blessed to stress?”
Vicky considered her next move. Annie was clearly lying but now might not be the time to cross-examine. She shifted her focus to Lola. “What about you?”
Lola smiled in an automatic sort of way, reminding Vicky of a wind-up doll.
“Doing great! I’m working pretty consistently, mostly film.
Meeting a lot of…talented, interesting people.
Tons of travel, but I don’t mind that. I bought a loft in Tribeca, which is gorgeous but empty.
Just like my exes.” A self-deprecating chuckle.
“But overall, I’m doing good. Exactly the life I wanted to live. ”
Annie nodded morosely, as if this was just what she expected.
Vicky wondered how such a good actor could give such a shit performance. To her ear, this sounded as hollow as a freaking Easter egg. “Exactly the life you wanted to live?” Vicky tilted her head. “No notes?”
Lola’s left eye twitched. She straightened, brushing invisible lint off her dress. “Nope. Just like Annie; living the dream.”
Vicky didn’t believe any of this, but Annie seemed to buy it and pushing back would likely make them both double down, so Vicky decided to let it go. For now. “Happy for you, superstar.”
Lola flicked Vicky’s arm. “Your turn.”
“It’ll surprise no one to learn I’m a lawyer,” Vicky said. “Clawed my way up to co-found my own family law firm.”
“Sounds like a big job,” Annie said. “So, you couldn’t have done the show, right? Jazz was talking about a month of rehearsals.”
Vicky folded her hands, keeping her expression steely. “I happen to be on sabbatical.”
Sort of the truth. At least she could fib a bit more convincingly.
“Sabbatical?” Annie looked intrigued. “Fun!”
Actually, what’d happened last week—in the middle of a trial—was less fun, more petrifying wake-up call.
What’d happened last week had changed everything.
Vicky understood she had to make some big changes.
Doing a no-stakes community show back in Rhodes would’ve been good for her health.
She could’ve learned to eat better, cut back on coffee, maybe tried a yoga class.
Reviving their show might’ve been perfect.
If Lola and Annie had been up for it.
“Spill,” Lola said. “The prosecution calls Ms. Vicky Fang to the stand.”
Vicky prepared herself for a boss bitch highlights reel. “Yes, your honor, and I won’t be brief as these are billable hours—” She paused, eyes snagging on the front door. “Ooh…hello.” She fanned herself. “Who ordered the hotcake?”
Lola and Annie twisted around to follow her gaze.
The hotcake was an androgynous, soft butch with flippy hair who’d sidled up to the bar.
She—or they?—were in tight, ripped jeans and a loose muscle tee that showed off impressively toned arms and faint wisps of underarm hair.
A messenger bag looped over one shoulder and a thin, dog-eared paperback poked out of their jeans’ back pocket.
Vicky made a mmm noise, ogling Hotcake’s biceps. “Welcome to the gun show. Allow me to perform your background check.”
Lola and Annie giggled as they all watched the waitress notice Hotcake, transforming from bored to extremely engaged.
“It’s like if The L Word’s Shane and K Stew in that Rolling Stones video had a perfect little butch baby.” Vicky panted like a dog. “Woof. I need to spend more time in Rhodes.”
“Well, they’re not a local,” Annie said. “I hope this doesn’t slow down my fries.”
“Mascs are my weakness,” Vicky confessed, using the mirrored wall next to the booth to apply a fresh coat of shiny red lipstick. “Girl’s gotta eat. Should I say hi?”
“You won’t need to,” Lola said. Hotcake was heading toward them. “Incoming.”
Vicky grinned. Paused. Frowned. There was something oddly familiar about the person sauntering over…
Fine bone structure. Smirky plush mouth. Striking green eyes.
No way. It couldn’t be. Could it?
Hotcake stopped by their table and pushed a hand through their hair, their shirt riding up to expose a pointy hip bone. “Hey, guys. Been a minute.”
Stick-and-poke tattoos decorated their buffed arms. Their hair was the same mahogany brown, but now it was tousled and swoopy, like they’d just rolled out of bed after fucking in it all night. All very Siri, find me a picture of the lead singer of a Le Tigre cover band.
Vicky stopped breathing. Her vision pin-holed. Every muscle in her body locked, except for her mouth, which opened and shut, searching for words that didn’t exist. Her face flushed—bright, hot red, the exact shade of her lipstick.
Lola and Annie spoke at the same time, their voices pitched high in amazement. “Dylan?”