A bouquet of long-stem roses in an open box lay at Danica’s vanity. Charlie tried to peek at the card, but Danica’s eye opened again.
In front of Charlie’s own mirror: more roses, twice as many, of all hues, fanning out from a crystal vase. And a note.
Girlie,
Break a leg (I hate even saying that to you with all the trouble you’ve gotten into, but you get it). Wish I could be there. But these flowers are almost as pretty as me.
Kisses and see you soon,
Marlena
Charlie had to smile. Marlena Andes was that best friend you didn’t need to see often to still feel protected by: she always parachuted in at the right time and had called her theater immediately upon hearing of Charlie’s accident and getting no response on her drowned phone. Marlena could be a tough person to get a hold of now that she was living the quintessential LA actor’s life on a hit Hulu show: as fan favorite Dr. Stevens on Terminal Earth ICU, the edgy, soapy medical drama set amid the ravages of climate change on a planet on the verge of death. Charlie and Marlena had been connected like long-lost twin siblings ever since hitting it off on that teen angel film when they were nineteen, back when Marlena was still Marlon. They had been through a lot together.
Charlie tucked the card back into the blooms, reminding herself to call Marlena after the show. She flipped on the lights around her mirror now, surveying what work needed to be done. The mirrors, scratched here and there, had not changed in all these years—only the reflection staring back at her had; it had lived. Charlie felt the full weight of being back. It mattered, being here. This place mattered to her; what she did here mattered to her. She turned up her music to drown her thoughts, trying to remain in the zone.
She pulled on her “Ramona” jeans and T-shirt—designed by Sierra to embody a sense of danger, it was shredded and torn and safety pinned and tied, as though ripped off someone’s body by a savage animal, which Charlie loved. As she lined her eyes again, smoothed her foundation, Charlie kept coming back to what Nick had said to her yesterday at the last rehearsal.
He had already shocked Charlie when he told the cast opening night would feature her as Ramona and Chase as Julian. After he had given his notes and dismissed them, he chased Charlie down the aisle. “Hang on, Charlie,” he shouted for her to stop. They were the last two left in the theater.
“I’m not sure about any of the rest of this,” Nick said, true concern in his eyes. “But you are this show. In case you wondered.” These had been the same words he had said to her the night before his student show all those years ago too.
It had all flooded back for Charlie in that moment, down the rabbit hole: getting to know him here, the first time, how Nick had been on his own like her; his rank above the other directing apprentices meant more work, greater opportunities. How he didn’t like to talk about himself, but Charlie drew his stories out: Nick as a kid who could’ve used a spotlight but didn’t find it in any sport. Nick as a tortured teen, who would’ve liked to create but couldn’t act or sing or dance or paint, finding his way only in college, in his native Indiana, as a psychology major/English minor who happened to take a theater class. He was still that boy.
And so at last night’s rehearsal, Charlie had nodded at his revelation and then did what she had always done: defused his worry.
“We got this,” she had said with a shrug. Then she’d kissed him quickly on his stubbly cheek, whispered in his ear. “It’s just Shakespeare.”
* * *
Charlie changed into her cocktail dress and heels—she had enlisted Sierra to acquire an outfit for the after-party, a black Rag & Bone minidress with a keyhole cutout at the solar plexus—but urged Danica to go ahead with her family over to King’s. Charlie just needed a minute. Alone. She had forgotten this, the sublime autopilot of being beneath the lights. A switch flipped on and she didn’t have to do anything. Her body carried her through the scenes.
During intermission she had changed swiftly then escaped through the stage door out into the warm night air. She had needed to protect the space around her, to not have to talk to anyone, to not shatter the bridge she had constructed to the world of the show. When it was time, she returned, finding a spot shrouded in the stage wings until her next scene, hungry to get out there to a place that felt easy, that pulled her from her own universe into one she could navigate better than real life.
It had gone perfectly. She wished she could skip everything that stood in the way of the next night’s show, fast-forward to it, get lost in it, do this again now. She needed that pure escape again.
Though Charlie hadn’t anticipated the thrill to flood back so intensely, one small part of the night she had foreseen: she had suspected that, if the show had gone well, she would feel compelled to make an effort and show up at the opening night party at King’s. Whenever she felt certain she performed her best, she didn’t mind a gathering like that. She almost craved the outlet, to come down from that high.
Before leaving, she pulled out her phone: Opening night, she typed to her mother. Reminded me of Much Ado. Full house. That buzz like everyone’s plugged into the same power source. Went well. You were right, should’ve come back here sooner. You should come see for yourself. xx, Charlie.
* * *
Ethan was the first of the cast to arrive. He couldn’t help it. His veins buzzed. He felt drunk on the thrill of the night. He was glad Alex and Harlow had told him not to wait for them. He had too much manic energy to burn off, the flip side of what he’d felt the entire course of the show. He had been terrified actually, but he had done pretty well, could breathe now.
He walked over to King’s with Sierra—who had hugged him the minute he stepped out the stage door—and Fiona and Tripp. Music and the roar of conversation spilled out at them at once. The low-lit lounge and the twinkling outdoor patio had been engulfed by the after-party. Members of the show’s audience, local townspeople, all invited to celebrate.
They posed for a photo on the way in, not realizing at first that they qualified for that kind of attention, and staked out a spot by the bar where they could watch the room. Danica arrived with a woman as statuesque and stunning as she was, but brunette, and a young boy. Soon after, Charlie, Matteo and Chase. A man with dreadlocks in a crisp white suit stood opposite the bar, waving the actors over and giving Matteo a kiss.
“Matteo’s husband is a super famous artist.” Fiona nodded. “Like Banksy but not a secret.”
“How amazing would it be to live in that world where everyone is some kind of creative genius?” Sierra said, longingly.
“I mean, that’s what we are, am I right?” Tripp joked.
Ethan was distracted, looking for an opportunity to say something to Charlie, tell her how amazing she had been tonight. He watched her group, searching for the right break to dart over, but the dynamic now seemed off: Matteo and his husband appeared to be arguing. Meanwhile, Charlie was ignoring Chase, and instead Charlie’s eyes speared the front of the room, where the photo shoot was set up. Nicholas Blunt had arrived with a blonde woman Ethan didn’t recognize. When he looked back to Charlie, she had started walking away, toward the kitchen. Ethan set off through the crowd, keeping her in his sights until she was close enough to reach with his fingertips. He tapped Charlie’s bare shoulder.
“You were amazing,” he said, cursing himself for not coming up with something better.
She smiled, squeezed his arm as though in appreciation and then kept on.
On his way back to his group, Ethan glanced out the front window just in time to spot Charlie emerge from an alleyway. Something in her eyes had looked defeated, which surprised him given the successful opening night, so he ducked out the front door, past the throngs still coming in, and onto the sidewalk. But as he stood there watching her walk away to the end of Warwickshire, someone brushed past him.
Nicholas Blunt, running after her.
Ethan watched until the street grew too dark, wondering if Nicholas had caught up.
* * *
Even as Charlie marched on, heels stabbing the sidewalk, she felt ashamed to care this much. The night had been good. She had felt enveloped by her castmates, bonded after making it through this together. She had even spotted the TV interviewer whose show she had walked off. The woman, Grace, gave her a wave and a smile from across the room, and Charlie had returned it. But in the few minutes when Matteo and Sebastian were in deep conversation and Chase flirting with the blonde apprentice, Charlie’s eyes had set on that step-and-repeat backdrop bearing the Chamberlain Shakespeare Summer Theater logo.
There, Nick stood still long enough for a solo photo, all smiles in a blazer and jeans, looking relieved the show had gone well. The seemingly perpetual crease between his brows, eased. But in the next camera flash, Taylor stepped from the sidelines into the shot, attaching herself to him, as though taking a prom portrait.
Charlie’s eyes met Nick’s just a moment. She drained her champagne and, pausing only an instant with kind Mercutio, she found the hallway past the kitchen and out the back door, into the warm, cruel night.
31
THE LADY WANTS AN EVEN PLAYING FIELD
Halfway down the block, Charlie heard her name, or a close enough approximation.
“Romeo!” that voice called. Over her shoulder, she saw Nick following. “Where are you going?” he shouted.
But she walked on, not expecting him to keep trailing her. It wasn’t until she crossed the street to the field that she noticed he was still there, closing the gap between them. He picked up his pace, jogging now.
“That was my exercise for the day,” he said, catching up to her at last.
“You should be doing more than that,” she said, her tone flat.
“Chasing you is a solid daily workout, so I’m good.”
She stopped to slip off her heels, let them dangle from her fingers, the soft grass brushing her feet. He didn’t ask where she was going, but when he walked ahead of her through to the clearing, she realized he already knew. He led the way to the end of the pier, sat at the edge.
“It’s more peaceful without a hundred wild apprentices,” he said, recalling the bonfire.
Sitting down beside him, she dipped her toes in the warm water. Moonlight ricocheted across the waxy-leafed trees.
He pulled off his shoes, dipped his feet in next to hers. It was too quiet, but she didn’t feel like filling the emptiness. “So why’d you leave?” he asked finally. “By my calculations you were there for five and a half minutes. I saw you guys walk over.”
“Yeah, I don’t know.” She patted for that small pile of pebbles she had collected a couple nights earlier and skipped a smooth stone across the water’s surface. “Maybe I’m just a really efficient partygoer, so five minutes gets the job done.”
“Maybe you just don’t like King’s. Note to self, find new location for Midsummer Night’s Dream opening party.”
“You can go for the Midsummer closing—I’ll be gone by then,” she said, like she was doing him a favor.
“Don’t make me think of that now,” he said with a sigh, like he had forgotten. “I’ve only got you for, what, just eight days of that three-week run?”
“Something like that.” She couldn’t tell if he was put out by the thought of recasting midshow or if it might be something more.
He stood. From the corner of her eye, she saw him shrug off his blazer, unbutton his shirt. Then he pulled his shirt and undershirt over his head all at once, tossing them on the pier.
“What are you doing?” She tried not to watch, which took some effort.
“I didn’t want to have to do this now, but you started it.”
“Started what?” she asked, eyes on the lake.
“And you’ve left me no choice but to challenge you, Charlie Savoy, to a race.”
“A race? Like, right now?” She looked at him. It was impossible not to notice, even in this near darkness, that somehow he looked better than she remembered. Ripples of definition carved where there had been none.
“Yeah. Right now.” He sounded serious. “And if I win—or if you forfeit—then you’re stuck here through the full run of Midsummer—all twenty days.”
“And if I win?”
“You get to leave at your court-appointed date—”
“Wow, enticing. I’m already planning to do that—”
“Okay, you can leave a day early,” he offered. “I should’ve bribed the judge or something to keep you longer than sixty damn days. But I don’t think things through lately. Which is kind of what’s been getting me into trouble,” he added, the last bit under his breath. “So.” He shook his head. “You, me, race, now. Or maybe you’re afraid I’ll win?”
“Definitely not,” she said.
Silence as they watched each other, cicadas chirping around them, the faint hum of the party in the distance, Warwickshire thriving. She felt it in her veins. Just as she had in London when he had reached for her and his eyes had tunneled into hers. Without another thought, she hopped to her feet. Maybe it was the champagne. Or maybe she had spent too long looking at him looking at her.
“Well, fuck, I borrowed this and allegedly it’s silk, so—” She rolled her eyes, then pulled the dress over her head, chucking it onto the pier.
Nick followed its trajectory, poker-faced, pretending not to notice how little she now had on. He stood, arms folded across his bare chest, calmly waiting for this swim meet to begin.
She pointed to his jeans, still on his body. “Go on, level the playing field.”
“Seriously?” He looked surprised.
“If we’re doing this, then we’re doing this,” she ordered.
“Some might say I’m actually at a disadvantage since you’ll be far more water-resistant in your...uniform,” he said, clearing his throat.
“Uniform,” she said, skeptical.
“But, what the lady wants,” he said, pulling off his jeans and tossing them beside her dress.
She stared him down, steely. “The lady wants an even playing field.”
“So we’re even.” He took his place beside her on the pier’s edge. Both now attired strictly in underthings, unmentionables. “Where are we going?”
They both leaned forward as though in position on a narrow starting block, shoulders touching.
She pointed. “Swim out until we’re in line with that tree, the one that’s jutting out, and then come back.”
“No, it should be to the one that’s arching over, see?” He gestured.
“That’s exactly what I said.”
“No, you said—”
“Whatever, it’s the same fucking tree. You can call it arching, I’ll call it jutting.”
“Jutting is more aggressive, so I’m not surprised—” he said.
She turned to face him. “Are we doing this or not?”
He looked her in the eye and said stonily, “Go.” Then he took off, diving in ahead of her.
“Always a cheater,” she said to herself, launching in after him.
A flurry of kicks, splashing, arms and legs chopping at the water as they sped off, but in no time she caught up. She was about to overtake him when that feeling coursed through her again, a scene flashing: her body being tugged down into the murky depths of the harbor. So real.
She gasped, taking in too much water with her next breath, but kept fighting, as she had that night.
She remembered, then, still afloat, where she was: the lake, Chamberlain, with Nick. Forcing herself onward, making the turn, still in time with him, she found power enough to propel herself, clawing the water, back toward their finish line.
She slapped her hand on the warped pier, just a beat before him. Physically spent and immediately disappointed, wishing she had thrown the r
ace, been forced to stay. Deep breath, she smoothed her hair back away from her face.
“You still got it,” he said, panting. “And, embarrassingly, I was actually trying to win.” He held his hand up as though taking an oath, then ran it through his wet hair. “What’s wrong? You’re not gloating.”
The milky light shimmering on the water, the tone of his voice, something about it all: she felt a pull to him. “Sportsmanship,” she said, a little breathless, not entirely from the race.
His eyes, glowing iridescent in the moonlight, locked on hers too long in that way of his. The silent seconds stretched past the point of innocence crossing a threshold, and she couldn’t look away. Didn’t want to. Returning his gaze, she let herself fall, made the choice. He seemed to understand, but waited another moment still, as though to be sure there was no mistake. She glided mere millimeters nearer in the water, a barely detectable movement, fingertips still gripping the pier, and finally, he leaned closer, close enough to breathe his words into her. “In the name of good sportsmanship, then—” But he didn’t finish his thought. His lips landed on hers, an electric jolt unlocking a time capsule.
Back then it had taken nearly all summer to let this happen. They had been so young but so oddly sensible, flirting intensely while working together but waiting until after his show to take that chance. She had kissed him first, surprising them both. But then he had made it up to her.
Now, just like those years ago, their scene felt shrouded in a haze. She didn’t know how or when they ended up back on the pier or on the grass or with their remaining layers peeled off. But she did remember his hands tangled in her hair and that rough scar on his chest and the taste of the back of his neck and his lips on her skin and the way his palm fit between her rib cage and hip. And how the sky glowed a deep velvet sapphire, starry, afterward.
The Summer Set Page 14
