Chapter Twenty-Eight
Five days till the show
All at once, it was tech week. The final week before opening night.
On Monday morning, Vicky stood on the theater’s freshly mowed front lawn, watching a workman affix a new red and cream sign. Rhodes Playhouse in a classic curling font. Not a single letter missing.
Everything was changing.
“Morning, Vicky.” Orchid stopped next to her, dressed in an aquamarine puffy-sleeved top, a matching skirt with a deep V-slit up the thigh, and a pair of Chuck Taylor high-tops.
“Hi.” Vicky gave her a hug. “How was your Sunday?”
Jazz had given everyone the afternoon off. “So cool,” Orchid said, eyes shining. “Kat, Zo, Em, and I hung out by the river, planning the talkback and swimming and stuff.”
Vicky smiled, remembering those halcyon days of “stuff”—making plans and eating junk food and drinking swiped liquor.
“What about you?” Orchid asked.
Vicky had toured retail spaces for Marlowe with Dylan. At first looking around was fun, like they were a couple inspecting their first potential home. But as the day went on, the fun started to curdle.
Dylan was flying home to L.A. in a week. Vicky was going back to work. Her assistant already had a full day scheduled. This summer’s expiration date was shockingly soon, something Vicky couldn’t think about without getting the urge to sob.
“Odds and ends,” Vicky shrugged, determined not to get emotional. “So, ready for tech week?”
“Yeah…” Orchid said. “But I’ll miss all this.
” Her gaze traced the theater. “Miss doing the play. Miss Jazz’s energy.
Miss those idiots,” she added fondly, nodding at Emery and Zoe, who were harmonizing to “For Good” from Wicked, and Kat, who gave Orchid an infatuated smile.
A far cry from the four siloed teens at the table reading, all those weeks ago.
The trio called Orchid’s name, waving her over.
“Just a sec,” she called, looking back to Vicky.
“Hey, I wanted to thank you. I talked to my mom about what you were saying the other day—about choosing joy. We ended up having this long chat, and, I dunno, it felt different. Like I was able to express myself a bit better and that she was listening to me in a different way. It wasn’t a fight. It was actually a conversation.”
“I’m really happy to hear that,” Vicky said. “Parents can be tough, but we’re all just human beings. Big bundles of sensitivities and trauma and hopes and dreams.”
“I’ll remember that,” Orchid said. “Thanks.”
Dylan loped across the front lawn toward them, carrying two iced coffees and a UPS envelope, hair falling over one eye, jeans slung low around their narrow waist, a crooked grin on their too-plush lips.
Vicky’s heart tripped over its next beat. She’d miss those stupid low-slung jeans most of all.
“So are you and Dylan gonna do long distance?” Orchid asked.
Vicky flinched. Maybe it’d been a mistake to be so public.
Move so fast. For a moment, she imagined blushing girlishly, declaring that Dylan had asked Vicky to be their girlfriend, and she was moving to sunny L.A.
to be with them forever! But Dylan had not asked and Vicky hated L.A.
and all that was as fictional as the play they were putting on.
“Nope,” Vicky said coolly, slipping on sunglasses to hide her pain. “We’re just friends.”
Orchid frowned, looking confused, before heading off to join the others.
“Hey,” Dylan said warmly, handing Vicky her iced coffee. “I have something to show you.”
“If it’s your rainbow dick, I’ve already seen it.”
“Not that, but thanks for the visual.” Dylan winked, reaching into the envelope. “I wanted you to be the first to try it.”
It was a chocolate bar, the packaging designed with playful pops of glossy red. “Hot & Sweaty,” Vicky read aloud, recognizing the Marlowe logo. “One of yours?”
“Brand-new drop,” Dylan said proudly. “Read the back.”
Vicky skimmed the copy.
Hot & Sweaty is a throwback bar for grown-ups, inspired by the taste of a crazy, hazy summer.
Silky oat milk chocolate drenches a sticky raspberry compote, its sweetness deepened by agave and the warm spice of cinnamon bark.
Buttery theater-style popcorn brings a playful, salty crunch, and for the pop of first flirtation, we’ve added a sprinkle of crispy quinoa.
Layered. Nostalgic. Surprising. Just like your summer crush.
Vicky’s stomach dropped. There it was, in black and white. Crush. As in, fling. As in, meaningless. What other interpretation could there be?
But this hadn’t been meaningless to her. And there was only so long she could keep pretending that it was.
“Sounds amazing,” Vicky said diplomatically, working to keep her voice even. “Can’t wait to try it.”
“Try it now,” Dylan urged, their voice softening. “You inspired it, Vee. It’s sort of for you.”
Her heart, the drama queen, threw itself against her ribs. It was all too much. Vicky forced a smile. “I’ll save it for later.” She about-faced for the theater, gripping the bar so tight she felt it snap in two.
· · ·
Tech week was a welcome distraction. The cast wasn’t just running the play now—they were syncing it to lighting and music, trying on costumes, and adjusting to the buzz of new crew members.
A shy sound designer hovered in the wings, a geeky lighting tech fiddled with wires, and a chatty costume designer finalized Jazz and Lola’s vision of Elizabethan with a modern twist.
Annie’s easygoing Rosencrantz sported cropped striped trousers and an untucked shirt with a ruffled collar, both slightly frayed.
Mismatched socks added a quirky touch, reflecting Annie’s and the character’s playful spirit.
Lola’s Guildenstern was more grounded in earth-toned trousers, a fitted doublet, and worn leather boots.
Her high ruffled collar had signs of wear—Lola had suggested the leads’ slightly weathered looks, as those trying to climb the court’s hierarchy without ever making it to the center of attention.
Maria’s King Claudius exuded authority in a crimson robe with gold accents, a structured doublet, and sleek patent shoes.
Deborah as Polonius was regal in a burgundy velvet doublet with gold embroidery, a cape draped over one shoulder.
Mikki’s Horatio kept it simple, her gray doublet and neutral hose reflecting her grounded loyalty.
Dylan, as Hamlet, became far too sexy—dark and brooding in a long trench coat with a blood-red lining.
Lola and Jazz had debated whether putting Clyde and Jamie in dresses would be distracting—too campy or tongue-in-cheek—but ultimately decided it was the right call.
Clyde’s Gertrude looked powerful in an emerald-green gown with gold trim, revealing matching hose and platform boots.
Jamie’s Ophelia wore a pastel dress with lace accents, capturing innocence, with Converse sneakers adding a subtle rebellious touch to Ophie’s vulnerability.
Both men came out from their first fitting with shy smiles to the rest of the cast’s whoops and whistles.
“I feel pretty,” Clyde said. “I’ve never felt pretty. ”
Mikki inhaled on seeing Jamie, her cheeks blushing red. “It works,” was her verdict.
The Tragedians wore mismatched doublets, jerkins, and hose in velvet, brocade, and leather, showcasing their plucky, resourceful nature.
Vicky’s look was a standout: a patched cape in jewel tones, modern combat boots, and a wide-brimmed hat with feathers, embodying the Player’s theatrical elegance and scrappy charm.
The cast wasn’t the only thing getting show-ready.
Everyone pitched in to get the theater clean and fresh.
After a few hours of scrubbing and mopping, the windows now sparkled, the parquet floors gleamed.
Maria brought in her steam cleaner to get the old carpets looking brand-new.
The concession food wouldn’t get set up until the day before the show, but the old popcorn machine was lit up and operational.
Still free for performers. One bite of the buttery, salty popcorn and Vicky was rocketed back twenty years. Seventeen going on thirty-seven.
“Careful, Vee.” Dylan appeared by her side, frowning lightly at the empty bag Vicky had just inhaled. “That stuff isn’t heart-healthy.”
Vicky bristled. The comment shouldn’t have stung—it was sweet—but who was going to look out for her next week? Who was going to look out for her for the rest of her life? “And the bar of chocolate you gave me is heart-healthy?” she fired back.
Dylan paused, looking caught out. “Well, I used oat milk and agave, so technically, less bad for you. But you’re right—neither’s getting a gold star from your cardiologist.” They peered at her. “When’s your next appointment, by the way?”
That Dylan kept doing and saying these protective, caring things made Vicky want to explode. “Why the fuck do you care?”
Dylan looked surprised. Hurt seeped into their green eyes. “I care. I’ve always cared.”
Vicky bit the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting into tears.
She just had to make it through the week, then she’d be back at work, back in New York, and Dylan Rogers would be gone for good.
· · ·
On Tuesday night, Vicky stayed late at the theater, helping finish painting the sets along with half the cast and a local artist. When she got back to Jazz’s, Vicky passed Dylan’s open door to sleep in her own room.
On Wednesday, the cast had their first full dress rehearsal. Things were so busy, Vicky was able to avoid Dylan all day.
They finally cornered Vicky in the green room late that afternoon. “Hey. Have I done something wrong?”
Vicky busied herself with adjusting her cape. “Kind of in the middle of something.”
“Me too.” Dylan stepped closer, catching her gaze. “The girl I like is freezing me out and it’s making me sad and confused.”
Vicky’s heart folded in on itself, like paper crumpling under a heavy hand. She knew she was being a jerk, but she had to protect herself. She could not fall apart. “This isn’t the right time.”
“For what?” Dylan pushed. “And when is?”