Chapter Thirty-Four
When Dylan was fifteen years old—searching and shy and misunderstood—being in the cast of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead cracked open their entire world.
Performing in a play unlocked the concept of performing in one’s own life, something Dylan eventually realized they’d been doing—playing a girl, not existing as one.
It introduced Dylan to the importance of friends you could be yourself around, and role models who inspired.
It introduced Dylan to summers being fun and adventurous, not just extended time to avoid their mother.
And, most important of all, it’d introduced them to Victoria Mei Fang.
They’d never met anyone like Vicky, not then, and not since.
It’d been a risk to return to Rhodes. But as Dylan performed the role of Hamlet in this sensational play, on this rainy night, in this quirky small town in front of a crowd who included their mother, they’d never been more certain that this was a risk worth taking.
That risks, of all kinds, were worth it.
Dylan had never felt so alive. The audience’s laughter and gasps fed the cast’s energy, blurring the lines between performance and reality.
Lola was clearly the best actor in the production but she never stole the show—she shared it with everyone else.
Annie didn’t miss a mark and the rest of the supporting cast committed just as hard, especially the teens.
But performing with Vicky was what made the night unforgettable.
In between scenes, however, the distance between them was palpable. Vicky pulled away, keeping conversations brief, smiles tight. But onstage, when their eyes met, their chemistry sparkled, undeniable.
“Think, in your head,” Vicky spoke as the Player to Annie and Lola, “now, think of the most private, secret, intimate thing you have ever done, secure in the knowledge of its privacy.” A pause, for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern—and the audience—to imagine such a thing.
“Are you thinking of it?” Vicky whirled on them, the mirrored moons and stars sewn into her cape catching the light, her next line a roar, “Well, I saw you do it!”
This beat muddied the line between reality and illusion, but as Dylan pondered it anew, they realized how interwoven Vicky was in their private, intimate moments. Making love. Accepting comfort. Giving care. Letting someone in. Trusting them completely.
It was over far too quickly.
One minute they were onstage, performing under lights, the next they were standing in a line with the rest of the cast, bowing deeply to an exuberant audience who was on their feet and shouting for more.
Jazz emerged for the final curtain call, and Dylan had never seen someone look so ecstatic.
So proud. She’d had a vision, and—after a lot of work and a few leaps of faith—that vision was reality.
The world needed more people like Jazz Whitaker.
Dylan wanted to talk to Vicky but she disappeared as soon as the curtains closed. The first person to approach after they emerged from backstage was their mother, hugging them with uncharacteristic warmth. “Darling, you were magnificent! Astounding! Sublime!”
“Calm down,” Dylan said with a chuckle, hugging her back. “Put your thesaurus away.”
“I’m just endlessly amazed by you.” Celine beamed, smile lines creasing her face. No makeup, no designer outfit or heels. She’d never looked better. “My brilliant”—tiny pause—“child.”
That she didn’t say daughter felt like a win. Dylan knew their mother was trying. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Every town needs a good playhouse,” Celine said. “Who knows, maybe I’ll audition.”
Dylan laughed in surprise and Celine joined in, and Dylan wasn’t sure if they’d ever done that before—laughed, simply and easily, at something wonderful the future might hold.
The after-party was meant to take place in Jazz’s backyard, but it was still pouring.
“Why leave?” Jazz swept a generous arm around the buzzing space. “We’re already home!”
Volunteers ferried all the food back to the theater, setting it out picnic-style on the edge of the stage.
Tomato and basil crostini on crispy baguette drizzled with olive oil; cucumber and cream cheese pinwheel sandwiches; herbed white bean dip.
Warm cheddar and chive biscuits were piled on a plate next to bowls of rosemary and sea salt spiced nuts.
For dessert, berry and cream tartlets and decadent iced chocolate brownies.
The teens put on their playlist, Jamie popped champagne, and just like that, it was a party. The theater remained crowded as everyone’s loved ones mixed and mingled, basking in the glow of the play’s success.
Lola and Annie were inseparable, chatting with all of Annie’s friends in between egregious displays of PDA that confirmed the current state of their relationship.
“Congrats, lovebirds,” Dylan offered, in one of the rare moments they weren’t fused at the mouth. “Invite me to the wedding.”
Annie blushed, her smile as big as the world, but Lola just looked a thousand percent certain, as she said, “Of course. You’ll be my best man.”
Every time Dylan tried to corner Vicky, she slipped away, so Dylan connected with their inner child by playing hide-and-seek with Flora, Mikki’s three-year-old. “We can’t stay too late,” Dylan overheard Mikki saying. “My boyfriend will drive us home.”
“Boyfriend!” Dylan whirled around, all but shouting the word.
Mikki twinkled, dimples popping, as Jamie draped an arm around her, looking equally besotted. “What can I say?” She patted his chest. “I can’t resist a man in a dress.”
Dylan chuckled, giving them both a high five. Then they scanned the theater again for Vicky, finally spotting her heading into the wings. With single-minded focus, Dylan vaulted through the crowd, not stopping for anyone. There was only one person Dylan wanted to see.
They caught up with her as she came out of the green room, back in pleated slacks and a crisp button-down, bag over one shoulder.
“Hey,” Dylan panted. “You’re a hard woman to pin down.”
It was ripe for double entendre, but Vicky didn’t take the bait, instead checking her phone. “It’s late. I gotta motor.”
“Back to Jazz’s?”
Vicky met Dylan’s gaze with an expression as hard as steel. “Back to Manhattan.”
Dylan flinched, feeling like they’d just been punched in the face. “Now? But…what about…the talkback?” Not the most pressing reason, but better than nothing. “Tomorrow’s talkback!”
“You don’t need me for that.”
“I need you,” Dylan blurted, panicked by the idea of Vicky about to disappear. “I very much need you.”
Vicky’s expression stayed cool. “My car’s packed and I’ve already said my goodbyes. So”—she shrugged bloodlessly—“see ya.”
“See ya?” Dylan was so taken aback they almost laughed. “See ya? That’s how we’re ending things?”
Vicky’s mask cracked, just for a microsecond. Pain and longing rushed over her face, her eyes becoming glassy. She blinked, and it was gone. “Have you got a better idea?”
Shrieks of laughter sounded up the corridor. The four Tragedians, running for the green room. “We almost forgot,” Zoe cried as they all tumbled past, “to write our names!”
Dylan and Vicky watched as the quartet squished together under the bench.
Giggling, Zoe passed Emery a pen, performing the same tradition Dylan, Vicky, Annie, and Lola had, twenty years ago.
Emery glanced back at Dylan, giving them a brief, heartfelt smile before turning their attention back to their friends.
Orchid’s hand was on Kat’s thigh. Kat smiled at Orchid, holding her gaze.
Young love. Society dismissed it as na?ve, but Dylan knew better.
Dylan refocused on Vicky. Did they have a better idea of how to end things? “Yeah,” they said. “I do.”
· · ·
Outside, the night air was damp and floral. The clouds were thinning, scudding west.
“Oh.” Vicky looked up at the patches of sky, freckled with stars. “It’s stopped raining.”
It took every ounce of Dylan’s strength not to cup Vicky’s cheek, duck close enough to find her mouth. “Wanna go for a walk?” they asked.
Vicky crossed her arms. “With you?”
Dylan bit back a smile. Why did they find this side of Vicky so damn adorable? Maybe because they knew that while Vicky was a legit bad bitch, underneath that armor was a total softie. A caramel chew with a hard shell, undeniably sweet.
Without breaking eye contact, Dylan wandered back a few steps, giving Vicky the crooked grin they knew she couldn’t resist. “Come on a walk with me.”
Their shoes squelched in the sodden grass as they crossed the quiet lawn together toward Myrtle Street.
They passed the overgrown lot, now full of puddles that shone like spilled mercury.
They passed the silent, freestanding houses, their upstairs windows gently glowing gold.
The night air smelled of rain, of the tang of asphalt and the sweetness of crushed honeysuckle.
“You were incredible, by the way,” Dylan said. “In the show? You nailed it.”
“I know,” Vicky said, “I was there.”
Dylan laughed and it felt a bit like flying, like their bones were filled with air.
The celebration in the theater faded, until the only sounds were their shoes on the sidewalk, and their breath, pulling in and out. Above them, revealed by a shifting cloud, the moon. As full and shining as Dylan’s own heart drumming in their chest.
“I never thought I’d come back to Rhodes,” Dylan said.
“Never thought I’d be in a play again—certainly not here, and certainly not with you.
” They came to a stop, facing Vicky on the sidewalk.
“And I didn’t think that, when I did those things, I’d discover everything I felt for you, as a kid, never went away.
If anything, those feelings just got more powerful. ”
“Dylan.” The word was half a sob. Vicky’s eyes filled with desperate tears. “We’ve already broken up. I’m already broken. Please don’t draw it out.”