Chapter Six #2
They all told stories from the past twenty years: the time Annie found herself with four rescue dogs, three rescue cats, and a rescue parrot.
“I was basically Doctor Dolittle, with boobs,” she reminisced.
“Bird on one shoulder, cat under one arm, and dog leashes tangled around my legs. A cry for help or just a Tuesday?”
Dylan told them about being in New York during the Occupy Wall Street protests, helping run the makeshift kitchen.
“We served three meals a day, all from donated food. I’d always been into cooking but that taught me how to make a meal out of anything, and the power of community.
” They paused, eyes sliding to Vicky’s. “But sex in a tent—very hard on the knees.”
Oh so satisfying to make Vicky Fang blush.
Lola recalled meeting Meryl Streep at an awards show: “I was standing by her table, babbling about what an inspiration she was and after minutes of this, she just looks up at me, very graciously, and says, I’ll have the squid and a glass of merlot.
So I said, Absolutely, and found a waiter and put in her order. Meryl needed her merlot!”
Vicky recounted the time she bled through her white pantsuit midway through cross-examining a witness and decided to keep going instead of requesting a recess: “Menstruation is a natural process and nothing to be ashamed of!” she insisted, while they were all cracking up.
“But seriously, you guys, it looked like I’d just slaughtered a pig. ”
Dylan laughed hardest of all, feeling bright and switched all the way on. “If only Chip Chadwick could see you now!”
The name of Riverstone Prep’s blond football king—and Vicky’s onetime ex—ricocheted around the table like a gunshot.
Lola’s eyes pulsed wide. Annie choked on her wine.
Vicky looked as if she’d just taken a bullet.
Dylan instantly regretted throwing Chip back in the mix. “Oh, whatever.” They winced, pushing a hand through their hair. “Like, I don’t care. Sorry, that was dumb.”
For a moment, it felt like the good mood might sputter out. Dylan looked to Annie and Lola, worried.
“I think we need more wine,” Lola said smoothly, waving the waitress over. “We all in?”
They all were.
“Remember when we did a late show after getting wasted on that Midori I nicked from your dad’s liquor cabinet?” Vicky said to Dylan, after they all had fresh glasses.
“Still can’t drink Midori,” Dylan admitted.
“I was so drunk, I couldn’t juggle,” Annie said with a groan, “which is also the name of my memoir.”
Lola laughed, bright-eyed with nostalgia. “That was my first real hangover.”
“That was all our first hangovers!” Dylan exclaimed, nudging Vicky. “You corrupted us.”
“You wanted me to corrupt you.” Vicky tossed her hair over one shoulder. “That’s why we were friends.”
Dylan paused. Were they really “just friends” that summer?
True, they’d never hooked up. But when Annie and Lola started doing exactly that—squirreled away in some secret nook at Dylan’s parents’ house—Vicky and Dylan started spending a lot more time one-on-one.
In between their nonstop bickering, their conversations became more profound.
More personal. More flirtatious. But Vicky never let it happen.
Never gave an inch. Until the closing-night party. When everything fell apart.
They weren’t “just friends” that summer. Friends don’t inspire other friends to google “am I gay?” every night for weeks on end. Was history repeating itself—or was Dylan already writing a different ending?
It was almost ten p.m. by the time the waitress dropped off the check. After a good-natured tussle over who would pay, each of them dropped a credit card in a clatter of plastic. “So.” Dylan stretched, fighting a yawn. “When do rehearsals start?”
The iconic opening riff of the White Stripes’s “Seven Nation Army” thumped out of the old jukebox, minimal and tense. Vicky, Lola, and Annie exchanged glances. “Oh, we’re not actually doing the play,” Vicky said.
“What?” Dylan pitched forward across the table, incredulous. “Why not?”
On the surface, a dumb question—everyone had jobs, reputations, commitments, including Dylan.
But in this moment, none of that mattered.
This impromptu diner dinner party had been the most fun they’d had in years.
Like being with comfy old friends who were also fascinating new friends.
A long, hot August rehearsing for a brilliant old play in a little country town sort of sounded like heaven.
Especially if Vicky stuck around.
“Look, I’m in,” Dylan spoke before anyone could back out. “This feels right.”
Vicky spoke next, short and sharp. “I’m in, too.”
All eyes swung to Lola. “Oh no—I can’t,” she said, shrinking back. “I love Jazz, obviously, but it doesn’t make sense for me. My agent would have a fit.”
“Exactly,” Annie jumped in. “We’re too small-town for Lola Wilson. This is just one of Jazz’s wild ideas.”
“Wild ideas are the best kind,” Dylan said. “And community theater isn’t about being a real actor. It’s about having fun and giving back.”
“I run a dog salon!” Annie exclaimed. “I haven’t done a show in twenty years. I probably can’t remember lines anymore, let alone do it with”—her eyes flickered to Lola—“a professional.”
Dylan turned their sights on Lola. “What about you? You used to love doing plays.”
“I still do,” Lola said, almost offended.
“And who’s ultimately in charge of your schedule.” Vicky picked it up. “You, or your agent?”
“Well, I am…” Lola hesitated, thinking. “And Jazz did offer for all three of us to stay with her.” She slowly swiveled to Annie. Her voice was light, almost casual—but something in her expression wasn’t. “What do you say?”
Annie didn’t answer. Instead, she went almost preternaturally still.
The kind of stillness Dylan had only seen in actors right before they stepped onstage.
Right before they became someone else. Annie looked at each of them in turn—first Dylan, then Vicky, then Lola.
Behind her eyes, a blustery push-pull of a decision so much bigger than the sum of its parts.
C’mon, Pink Lady, Dylan found themself silently begging. Say yes.
Annie lifted her chin. A flash of defiance lit her blue eyes. Her fingers relaxed around the stem of her wineglass. She looked like someone choosing to jump even though the landing might break her. “Okay,” she said, “I’m in.”
Lola let out a surprised breath. Then her mouth curved up into an excited, nervous smile. “Then I am, too.”
The quartet all looked at one another, alert and a little on edge, as if they were playing a group game of chicken, wondering who was going to swerve first.
But no one did.
· · ·
Outside, the night air was warm enough not to need a jacket.
They all tumbled out, all talking at once, and it felt like another rip in the fabric of time.
Dylan wouldn’t be surprised to see their bikes leaning unlocked against the side of the diner, baskets stuffed with damp swimsuits and poorly rolled joints.
But it wasn’t the past, it was the present and Lola was pointing to her waiting car, offering Dylan a ride back to the city.
“Sweet,” Dylan said. “Thanks.”
Vicky’s gaze zipped between Dylan and the idling Suburban. “I’m definitely a Lohan level of drunk,” she said. “I’ll ride, too; get a Taskrabbit to pick up my car or something.”
Electricity sparkled in Dylan’s belly even as they made a show of rolling their eyes. “A Taskrabbit? God, Vee, you’re so bourgeois.”
“Shut up!” Vicky pushed Dylan’s shoulder. “How are you even more annoying?!”
“Same way you’re even more of a brat.” Dylan flipped back with a smirk.
Annie shouldered her bag. “I’m going to walk.”
They all glanced up darkened Henry Street.
“But I can drop you all the way home,” Lola said.
Annie bristled. “I’m fine.”
“But I don’t think I’ll be.” Lola’s smile was pleading. “I’d just sleep better knowing you were safe.”
“I appreciate the offer, Lola.” Annie’s tone was cool. “But I’d rather walk.”
She waved and headed up Henry Street.
Lola looked somewhere between crestfallen and annoyed.
Dylan arched an intrigued brow at Vicky.
Christ, she looked exactly the same. Same smooth olive skin stretched over the high slope of her cheeks and the decisive point of her chin.
Same lustrous black hair falling down her back, parted down the center with military precision.
It was all so surreal: a teenage past reliving itself as a spicy, modern reboot starring this new-old person who still made them sweat.
Dylan wasn’t sure if they’d said yes to the play to fix something, break it, or just prove that they could walk away unscathed. But being around Vicky again—smug, beautiful, just as infuriating—they weren’t sure walking away was even an option.
Vicky elbowed her way in front of Dylan, angling to get into the back seat first. “Mind if I cut in?”
Dylan chuckled, following Vicky to settle into the buttery soft leather of the back seat. Their gaze caught on Vicky’s mouth. “Oh, you have…” They gestured at Vicky’s lips.
Vicky frowned. “I have…?”
Dylan leaned across the back seat, slow and deliberate, to wipe away a smudge of red from the corner of Vicky’s warm, glossed mouth.
And all at once, they were fifteen and horny and hopelessly besotted but also thirty-five and horny and a bit more in control.
A bit less willing to let Vicky Fang stomp all over them.
A bit more interested in seeing what happened if they stood their ground.
Vicky inhaled—barely, but Dylan noticed. Her body softened, the suggestion of a smile skating fast over her mouth. Then she reanimated, swatting Dylan away. “Excuse me! I’m not a freaking child!”
Lola slid into one of the captain seats, making small talk with the driver as he pulled onto Henry Street. Dylan sat back, wired, the night streaking past outside. Even in the dark, they could feel Vicky’s presence—bright, hot, impossible to ignore.
“No,” Dylan replied. “You’re grown. We both are.”
Vicky cut her eyes at Dylan in a challenge, her voice low. “Just don’t fall in love with me, Rogers.”
Love. The very idea of it made Dylan edge back. Lust, they understood. But love? Love had a shelf life. “That,” Dylan said, with confidence, “will not be a problem.”