Chapter Thirteen
Twenty-two days till the show
On Friday morning, Vicky was stunned to realize she’d slept in.
Seven thirty a.m. might not be considered sleeping in by most people’s standards, but for someone used to a punishing five a.m. spin class—if she’d even slept at all—it might as well have been noon.
No night terrors, no three a.m. insomnia.
She stretched, feeling lighter. Unburdened.
Had opening up to her friends about her heart attack actually… worked?
Yawning big, Vicky padded downstairs to the kitchen.
Sunlight flooded the ground floor windows, the hot engine of the day revving into gear. She didn’t expect anyone else to be up, so it was a surprise to see Dylan, in boxer shorts and their worn Sleater-Kinney tee, chopping a pineapple in the kitchen. The sticky sweetness perfumed the air.
Vicky stopped short. “Hi.”
Dylan looked up in surprise, knife paused mid-cut. Their gaze dropped to Vicky’s pj’s. A pale blue silk teddy. Short and sexy and clinging to her curves. Not something Vicky would typically parade around in, but she thought she was alone.
Dylan’s jaw dropped. The knife slipped, and they winced. A spot of red oozed from their fingertip. “Ow.”
Vicky grabbed a dish towel and pressed it to Dylan’s finger. “Here.”
“I’m fine.” Dylan tried to pull back but only succeeded in smearing blood on Vicky’s teddy. “Oh shit.”
“Does it hurt?” Vicky wrangled Dylan’s hand back into her grasp, applying light pressure.
“No, I mean, your…outfit.” Dylan’s eyes skittered downward. “It looks expensive.”
“Thank you.” Vicky tossed her hair back, feeling the delicious slide of silk over her skin. “Stay still.”
Vicky had built a career around helping vulnerable people in the biggest-picture way: winning custody, upholding restraining orders, splitting assets. It felt surprisingly sweet to help in this way: the gentle act of healing a wound.
The bleeding had stopped but Dylan still couldn’t look at the cut. Vicky was surprised. “Are you squeamish, Rogers?”
Dylan’s gaze flicked toward the wall. “Not good with…blood.”
“Lucky I’m here.” Vicky smirked. “But next time, the nurse fantasy will cost you.”
Dylan’s breath hitched. For a long, charged second, they both stared at each other.
Time slowed, like honey drizzling from a spoon. The air between them shimmered, daring them both to move closer.
Instead, Dylan jerked back. “Fruit salad.”
Vicky blinked, thrown. “Huh?”
“I made a fruit salad,” Dylan said, voice weirdly strangled. “For you. For everyone. Help yourself.”
“How wholesome,” Vicky said, as Dylan backed toward the kitchen entrance. “Are we riding together?”
Dylan spun around so fast they almost tripped. “What?”
“Are we riding to rehearsals together?” Vicky repeated. “Or are you getting a lift with Jazz?”
“I’ll ride with Jazz!” Dylan called back, all but running up the stairs.
Vicky made herself a bowl of fruit salad and took it outside.
Jazz’s back garden was gloriously overgrown. Life burst from every pot and patch of soil. Potted herbs crowded the back steps: fragrant basil in a terra-cotta pot, thyme in a San Marzano tomato tin. Dark green mint grew in a blue teapot affixed with googly eyes.
Vicky picked her way through the cool grass to sink into one of the Adirondack chairs positioned under the oak tree, spearing a wedge of juicy pineapple.
Okay. There was definitely a vibe between her and Dylan. But how could Rogers not still resent her for what happened twenty years ago?
She’d had countless tough conversations in her life—as an attorney, if Vicky didn’t witness someone crying or screaming in a day, was she even at work? But this would be different. Personal. Raw. The hardest conversation of her life—if she had the guts to start it.
· · ·
Friday was the first day all the actors were in attendance, as well as their stage manager, Garrett.
Garrett was in his thirties, slight but charismatic, with sharp gray eyes and a pronounced chin dimple.
He wore chipped navy nail polish and a baseball cap embroidered with Cole Escola.
“All right, baby dolls: your attention, please,” he announced at exactly ten a.m. “Lola, Annie, Vicky, Dylan, Deborah, Clyde, Jamie, Mikki, Maria, Emery, Kat, Orchid, and Zoe: Circle up!”
“Bend me over and spank me silly—I don’t even know everyone’s names yet,” Deborah whispered to Vicky, as they all formed a horseshoe around him.
“I’m here to keep things running smoothly,” Garrett began, clipboard in front of him. “If you need anything—props, blocking notes, a passionate defense of Britney’s Glory era—I’m your girl. I hope you’re all ready to work. By the end of today, Jazz wants a first pass of act one.”
“Rough is fine,” Jazz assured them, shuffling through her notes, a dozen colorful bangles clanking. “Rough is good!”
Deborah coughed and raised a disturbingly knowing eyebrow.
But things weren’t just rough. They were a train wreck.
Maria was too soft-spoken for King Claudius. Emery was visibly out of sync with the other Tragedians. Deborah kept making Polonius sound like a horny bartender.
But the real problem was Annie and Lola. Annie seemed allergic to eye contact while Lola was about as relaxed as a hostage. The awkwardness evident between them both at Jazz’s taco night was getting worse, not better.
At the end of the day, they all bravely attempted a run-through of act one. It reminded Vicky of a rickety car careening down a bumpy road as bits fell off—a window, a door—until the driver was left holding nothing but the wheel.
Dylan as Hamlet spoke the final line of the act, an arm slung convivially over Lola’s and Annie’s shoulders. “My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do you both?”
“Not great,” murmured Emery, sitting a few rows behind Vicky in the audience.
They weren’t wrong.
The unease in the theater was palpable as everyone gathered up their things, darting nervous looks at the three hundred empty seats. It seemed impossible they’d be ready to put on a show here in just twenty-two days’ time.
Dylan leaned against the side of the stage, arms crossed, examining Annie and Lola with narrowed eyes, before meeting Vicky’s gaze. No smirk. Just concern.
Concern Vicky shared. If Annie couldn’t pull it together, if Lola bailed, if the whole thing crumbled? Jazz’s big plan—maybe even the entire town—would go up in rainbow-colored smoke.