Chapter Twenty-Four
Eleven days till the show
For Lola Wilson, it couldn’t be clearer: Love was onstage at the Rhodes Playhouse.
It was in the way Jazz called Good morning, thespians! when she pushed open the theater doors, her enthusiasm and faith in the cast kicking off another day under hot stage lights.
It was in the way everyone listened to Lola’s ideas and offered their own suggestions, never once dismissing proceedings as just community theater, but elevating their discussions into something of utmost importance.
It was in the way they did silly warm-up exercises with gusto, passing focus with Zip Zap Zop or embodying animals on Jazz’s commands—roaring lions, swinging monkeys, gamboling puppies. Clyde, on all fours, earnestly mooing like a cow was a sight Lola would treasure forever.
Most pressingly, though, love was Annie Elizabeth Lightfoot.
The girl who Lola was inexorably, uncontrollably, unrestrainedly falling for. Again.
Lola barely slept a wink after their water hole date.
The next day, she’d arrived at the theater a bundle of nerves. Sitting alone in the green room, Lola spiraled into worry.
Maybe Annie regretted crossing the line. Maybe things would be awkward or noticeably weird. Lola had never had a crush on a co-star, let alone spent an entire afternoon rolling around with them in a swimsuit. What had she done?
She flinched when someone touched her shoulder. Annie, in a brightly patterned playsuit, holding a yellow wildflower. “Penny for your thoughts,” she said with a cautious smile. “Or, this?” She held out the flower.
“For me?” Lola got to her feet, charmed. Companies sometimes sent her arrangements, some worth hundreds, even thousands of dollars. None meant as much as this simple flower.
“It’s yellow, which I’m just remembering means friendship,” Annie began to babble, “but don’t read anything into that, like, Oh, Annie just wants to be friends.
I mean, I do want to be friends, but I also want to do this.
” Stretching on her tiptoes, she brushed her lips against Lola’s, warm and eager.
Lola closed her eyes in relief, sinking blissfully into the kiss.
The worries in her head calmed. Her hands slid down Annie’s back, pressing them closer.
Annie’s fingers curled around the nape of Lola’s neck.
A low, hungry sound escaped the back of Annie’s throat, making Lola feel a little bit crazed.
The theater slid away and there was only Annie—her soft mouth, her pulsing need, her sweet, summer smell.
Was there anything hotter than kissing a girl?
Annie’s eyes shone in the low light, lips lifted in a smile. “So, Lollie. It appears we are kissing.”
“It appears we are.”
Annie stayed close, her fingers curling around a lock of Lola’s hair. She smelled like ripe cherries, sweet and just a little tart. “I wasn’t sure if yesterday was a one-off.”
The honesty in Annie’s voice undid her. No curated aloofness, no games—just Annie, speaking her heart out loud. It wasn’t just attractive. It was rare.
“I don’t want it to be a one-off,” Lola said, skimming a hand down Annie’s cheek.
Annie smiled at the touch. “Me neither.”
Noise from the main space—laughter and chatter. The rest of the cast. The play.
Annie edged back. “We should probably…y’know.”
Lola understood. Broadcasting their brand-new romance wasn’t how either of them rolled. And Lola couldn’t afford to let her growing feelings spill onto the stage—not when the whole production depended on her and Annie’s focus.
· · ·
As the third week of rehearsals kicked into gear, Lola tried not to melt when the characters held each other’s gaze.
Swoon when Annie as Rosencrantz touched her.
Giggle too much at Annie’s comic timing.
But as soon as the final note for the day was given, the last stage light turned off, Lola couldn’t get to Annie’s apartment fast enough.
They kissed in doorways. On the soft L-shaped sofa. Pressed against windows, against walls—legs hooked around hips, fingers twisted in hair, whispering stupefied, sweet things. How are you so pretty? You feel so good. I can’t stop kissing you.
On Wednesday night, it rained. Not a polite summer sprinkle, a raucous booming downpour.
Rehearsals let out early, and they ran, squealing, through the parking lot, soaked before they hit the car.
At Annie’s apartment, they peeled off wet clothes, skin warm from laughter and something more electric.
Annie fetched mismatched pajamas—Lola got a threadbare tee with a faded Groom Room logo.
They ate microwave popcorn in bed, legs tangling under the covers, Show Me Love playing on the laptop.
They kissed lazily throughout, the softest kind of kissing. The kind that could go on forever.
Lola had acted in two films with sex scenes, where her characters stormed into bedrooms, clothes flying off. But this first week back with Annie wasn’t about urgency—it was about savoring every single second.
· · ·
On Thursday evening, Lola met with Jazz in her office to finalize the lighting design. “I want that cold, moonlit feel for the graveyard scene,” Jazz said. “Sort of surreal, like the characters are trapped in limbo.”
“What about some deep blue gels,” Lola suggested, seeing it clearly in her mind’s eye. “And if we throw in a harsh white from upstage, we’ll get some long, eerie shadows. Like the light’s trying to pull the characters forward, but they’re stuck where they are.”
Jazz nodded with enthusiasm and Lola was reminded, again, of how much she loved directing. She typically felt like window dressing. Now she wasn’t just decorating a house, she was helping build it.
The quartet was meeting for dinner at Rock Around the Clock. Lola wanted to change at Jazz’s before they did.
Hurrying into her bedroom in the attic, Lola found a FedEx box sitting on her bed. Inside it, a dress bag.
At first Lola assumed it was her costume for the play, delivered in a surprisingly formal way.
Unzipping the bag, Lola held up what amounted to a few scraps of slinky black material and a pair of vicious heels. Her outfit for the Saturn Rising premiere. Her other life. Her real life. The thought landed like a stone, sinking deep in her guts.
Stepping into the dress felt like returning to a job she’d spectacularly, unequivocally quit.
The blonde in the mirror looked svelte, deadly—an assassin with a gun strapped to her thigh.
The blonde in the mirror was on magazine covers in Japan and ate carbs only every other Sunday.
The blonde in the mirror was a stranger whose name Lola could not place.
How had she survived so long in a life that looked so perfect but felt so hollow? How had she spent so long being admired by many but touched by no one?
Lola hated the dress.
Shoving it in the back of her closet, she yanked on her regular clothes. And yes, there was someone she knew. There was someone she liked. The girl in the mirror wore jeans and a baseball cap. No heels. No gloss. No armor. For the first time in years, Lola liked what she saw.
Not a movie star. Just a girl who wanted to keep kissing Annie Lightfoot and find out what might happen if she risked everything.
· · ·
Not long later, the quartet was back at Rock Around the Clock, electing to wait a few minutes for their booth to be free rather than take any of the other open tables.
Lola posed for a few selfies with eager locals while the others loaded up the jukebox with aughts throwbacks. After they sat and put in their orders, “Take Me Out” by Franz Ferdinand came on. “I want you to take me out,” all four sang along, enthusiastic and—with the exception of Vicky—tuneless.
“Oof.” A slouchy Dylan pretended to wince, touching their ear. “Lucky we’re not doing a musical.”
“Nope. Straight plays for us,” Lola said, hearing the expression for nonmusical theater anew as she said it. “I mean, straight plays, starring a gaggle of gays.”
Next to her, Annie giggled. “A gaggle of gays,” she repeated, gazing at Lola, chin on one hand. “You’re funny, Lollie.”
The way she said it—like she meant it, like it mattered—made Lola feel seen. As if the person she was in Rhodes, the one who laughed freely and ate carbs whenever she wanted, might be the real her.
Lola wanted to tell Annie that she was the funny one. The cute one. The adorably goofy and extremely kissable—
“Okay,” Vicky announced from the other side of the booth. “I’ll say it.” She waggled a fingertip between them. “Obviously, you guys are smushing.”
Lola froze, surprised to be sprung. Then, not. She glanced at Annie, ready to take her lead.
Annie blushed, a smile on her lips. She gave Lola an I’m game if you are shrug. “Guess so,” Annie hedged.
“Yes,” Lola said, folding her fingers into Annie’s. “We are.”
“Welcome to the second chance romance club.” Dylan slung a lazy arm around Vicky’s shoulder, their dark brown hair flopping over one eye. “Vicky is already back in love with me.”
Vicky’s eyes popped wide. She elbowed them off with a shocked laugh. “Shut up! This is a fling, remember?”
Dylan’s jaw tightened, their grin becoming a grimace. Then they rolled their eyes with a theatrical groan. “How can I forget?”
Lola could see the effort behind the pretense—the way Dylan’s hand lingered on Vicky’s shoulder before pulling it away, the way Vicky’s gaze went soft. They were both playing it a bit too cool.
Lola glanced at Annie. Is that what she thought this was, too—a fling? With an expiration date?
It didn’t feel like a fling. It felt deliberate. Like they were building something—not just for the summer, but for the long haul.
“I am not in love,” Vicky said, still protesting. “She’s fucking with me! Sorry, they’re, um, fucking with me.”
Even though she’d recovered quickly, no one missed Vicky misgendering Dylan.
“Sorry,” Vicky said, sheepish. “I truly don’t think of you as a girl, in my head. It just slipped out.”
Dylan’s smile was pained. “I get it. Don’t love it, but I get it.”
“I really am sorry,” Vicky repeated, softer this time.
Dylan blew out a breath. “Well, no one’s perfect. Except eighties-era Susan Sarandon.” They nudged her. “I know you’re trying.”
Relief flooded Vicky’s face. “Thanks, babe.” She tugged her left earlobe. Dylan tugged theirs in return.
An inside joke. Lola and Annie exchanged a smile, but there was something uncertain about it.
Even though Vicky and Dylan were claiming this was a fling, they acted like an old married couple.
Maybe, Lola thought, Annie was also aware of how fast the pair was moving.
How, by comparison, she and Lola weren’t.
Vicky reached for her soda. “So, when did it start?”
When did it start? Was it the moment Lola saw Annie soft-shoe shuffling over the Rhodes Playhouse stage? Lingering in Annie’s doorway after Spaghetti à la Spontaneity and an almost kiss? Fireflies in the backyard? Flirting at movie night?
Or twenty years prior, in this very booth, after rehearsals of the same show they were doing right now?
“Right.” Vicky intuited. “It’s sort of been happening the whole time.”
“Monday was a game changer,” Annie offered, stirring her oat-milk shake.
Lola started in mild alarm. “I don’t think we need to get into details.”
“Really?” Annie looked surprised. “We used to go into details.”
“As teenagers,” Lola said, “with no boundaries.”
“Dylan fingered me in the kitchen pantry during the mini-mingle,” Vicky offered.
“What?” Lola and Annie both gasped.
Dylan groaned, red-faced, dropping their head into their hands. “Vee! Why’d you tell them that?”
“Annie wanted details,” Vicky protested. “It was superhot; I got off.”
“Vicky!” Dylan shouted.
“What?” Vicky shot back, giggly. “You’re not the only one who gets to shock-jock. My sex drive is back, which is honestly a miracle because I was pretty much dead inside before coming back to Rhodes.”
Well, Lola could relate to that.
Annie cleared her throat. “While we’re spilling secrets, I have another: the real reason why Lola and I broke up, back in the day.”
Lola listened as Annie explained the truth to Dylan and Vicky—the lie meant to save her, that drove her away.
Dylan whistled low. “Teenage heartbreak and moral sacrifice?”
Vicky raised her glass. “God bless queer chaos.”
Lola smiled. “New policy. No more lies.”
“No more lies,” Annie repeated, smiling gratefully at her. “Starting right now, I will never again enter a pantry during a mini-mingle.”
Their food arrived: burgers for Annie and Dylan, roast chicken salad sandwich for Lola, quinoa bowl for Vicky.
Lola took a bite of her sandwich, letting out a groan of satisfaction. “This is truly the perfect meal. It’s roast chicken—”
On cue, the others joined in. “It’s salad, and it’s a sandwich!”
Lola laughed, savoring everything about this familiar-but-new Thursday night.
This time next month, she’d be back in Tribeca, in her empty loft. Dylan would be back in L.A., Vicky in a courtroom. And Annie…Annie would still be here, one hundred miles away. Separate lives. Separate worlds. The thought curled, cold and sharp, around her ribs.
When they were teenagers, the future was frustratingly beyond their fingertips.
Growing up couldn’t happen fast enough. Now Lola wanted to slow time down.
Freeze it altogether. Suspend this flirty weeknight in the back booth of Rock Around the Clock for all time.
Because now, the future was far too close and far too unknown.
Lola wasn’t just afraid of what she might lose—her momentum, her carefully curated path. She was afraid of what she might want.
Something lasting. Something rooted. Someone like Annie.
Far from it being the solution to her problems, Lola worried that the future might ruin everything.