She scrolled through the page, eyes skimming over information about open call auditions happening this coming week, how the play would open at the end of August for a fall run. “I’ve heard of this place.”
“I went to one of their plays a while back,” Simon said. “I want to say it was another Shakespeare. Maybe Taming of the Shrew? Anyway, it was amazing. The lead was a trans guy playing opposite a gay man, the whole cast was queer, and I’m pretty sure I cried at the end.”
“You would,” she said.
“Look who’s talking,” he said, wiping a bit of mascara off her cheek.
She sighed and handed his phone back to him. “It looks fun. You should do it.”
He grinned. “I think you mean we should do it.”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “I’m sorry, did you actually just include me in the elusive, all-powerful we?”
He rolled his eyes but kept smiling. “I did. What do you think?”
“I think you’re high.”
“I didn’t even drink. Champagne tastes like carbonated puke.”
“I thought I told you never to bring up puke again.”
He nudged her shoulder. “Come on.”
“Are you serious?” she asked. “You want me to do a community play with you?”
“I do.”
“Hell no.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t act.”
He scoffed.
Literally scoffed.
She lifted her brows at him. “And what, pray tell, good sir, was that for?”
He circled a finger at her face. “You can’t even tell me off without being dramatic about it.”
She grabbed his finger and twisted it. Softly, but enough to make him yelp.
“You’re sort of making my point here,” he said.
She stopped twisting but kept a hold on his finger.
“Think about it,” he said. “You’d get to meet a ton of queer people. You’d get to do something new, which is, my darling, what you were just complaining about.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but snapped it shut. He had her there.
“And it’s in Portland,” he said, “so you’d get out of town at least a few times a week.”
“I can already do that.”
“Yeah, but this outing doesn’t come with the possibility of an STI.”
She dropped his finger, and he had the decency to look a little abashed.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was out of line.”
“I’m always safe, Simon,” she said, but her voice wobbled a bit more than she’d like. She cleared her throat. “And I get tested regularly.”
“I know,” he said, rubbing her forearm. “Like I said, I’m sorry.”
“Delilah used to sleep around a lot, you know,” she said. “In fucking New York City. And now that she’s monogamous, no one thinks twice about it.”
Simon sighed. “I know.”
“So, then, what?” she asked, her voice rising. “What the hell is so wrong with me having sex when I want to, with whomever I want, if that’s what makes me happy? What?”
She felt the tears rising again. There it was again, this feeling that deep down, her friends thought she was a little too free. A little too wild. That she wasn’t what a grown-ass adult of thirty-two should be.
“Nothing,” Simon said, squeezing her arm. “I promise you, nothing is wrong with that.”
She shook her head, only half convinced.
“But, sweetie, does it?” he asked.
She sniffed, turned to frown at him. “Does it what?”
“Make you happy?”
For the second time, she opened her mouth, but no words came out. At least, not at first. She let her jaw hang wide for a second or two while she found the right answer.
“Yes,” she said, but even to her, her voice sounded a bit robotic. She tried again. “Yeah. Of course it does.”
Simon’s gaze narrowed, just a little, but then he nodded. “Okay. I still think you should do this play with me. It would be fun. And I think they’re turning this one into some sort of fundraiser to keep the theater going, so it’d be for a good cause.”
“You and me singing ‘Sigh No More, Ladies’ in period clothing is going to save the Empress?”
He laughed. “Hell yes. Who else?”
She laughed too. She couldn’t help it. Simon was so . . . hopeful. He had been since the day she met him. And he had a point—the play actually sounded like it could be fun. Portland. New faces. She had actually taken a theater class in high school, during which even the teacher—Mr. Bristow, who Iris always felt was staring at her boobs—said she was a bit too dramatic.
In drama class.
She nearly laughed at the thought, but honestly, doing this play with Simon sounded like exactly what she needed, not that she’d ever admit that to him.
“Fine,” she said. “But if we get cast, you’re picking me up for every rehearsal in a Bentley filled with caviar and champagne.”
He tapped his chin. “How’s a 2018 Honda Accord and some donuts?”
“Deal.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN STEVIE WALKED into the Empress on Tuesday morning, she expected Adri to smile at her, maybe ask about the woman in the photo Ren had sent to everyone on Friday night, and then move on to shop talk. A little light teasing, and that would be it.
But that is not what she did.
At all.
First off, Vanessa was here, which was a surprise. She had a day job, after all, but she didn’t have Tuesday classes, so she’d blocked off the day to help with auditions.
Second of all, Ren was also in attendance. They did this now and again—took off a morning or worked remotely in order to help out with costumes or some aesthetic aspect of the current play. All four of them had been involved with theater at Reed, studying under the thrall of Thayer Calloway—their theater professor they were all half in love with, who was now directing in New York—and Ren even had a minor in costume design.
Therefore, when Stevie entered the small theater, all three of her best friends looked up from where they were sitting on the stage, grinned, and kept their eyes glued to her reddening face as she walked to meet them.
She slowed her steps. Maybe if she delayed her arrival, someone else would show up—Julian, the Empress’s assistant director, or maybe Dev, the gaffer.
But as she trailed her fingers along the plush purple chairs Adri had spent a fortune for, glancing at the exposed brick walls, no one else swooped in to save her.
When she stopped in front of the stage—a short walk from the entrance, unfortunately—her friends kept staring and grinning.
“Um,” she said. “Good morning?”
“Indeed,” Ren said, swinging their legs, which were hanging off the slightly raised stage. They were wearing sleek black pants, a white button-down under an aubergine vest. No tie. This was casual for Ren. “You never texted me back this weekend.” They waggled their perfect eyebrows.
Stevie winced. She hadn’t texted Ren back when they inquired about how her evening with the redhead had gone, and that was one hundred percent on purpose, as was her decision to ignore Adri’s question about Iris’s name. She had zero plans to divulge what had happened.
“Yeah, sorry,” Stevie said.
“I take it Iris stayed over, then?” Ren said when Stevie remained silent.
“Iris?” Adri said, glancing at Stevie. She had on her clear-framed glasses, which Stevie had always loved, and had a heavily annotated script in her hand. “So that’s her name.”
Stevie just nodded.
“She was hot, Stevie,” Vanessa said, wrapping her arms around one leg. Her long dark hair tumbled down her back, so shiny under the house lights, Stevie had to squint.
She nodded again.
That, at least, wasn’t a lie. Iris was hot. So much so, that when Stevie thought about her pre-vomit, her belly swooped pleasantly. But then her memory would catch up to the puke and the nausea swelled once again.
“Are you seeing her again?” Ren said.
“I sure hope so,” Vanessa said, “She was too gorgeous to let go.”
“Babe,” Adri said, eyeing her girlfriend.
“Is this the part where I say Not as gorgeous as you, sweetie?” Vanessa asked, batting her impossibly long lashes.