“So I see.” Dr. Calloway smiled. “And thriving.”
“It’s all Adri. She’s very determined.”
“It’s not only Adri.” Dr. Calloway’s eyes narrowed on Stevie, a familiar gaze that always made Stevie simultaneously squirm and straighten her shoulders. Dr. Calloway had once stared at her for a full fifteen minutes in front of their entire class, asking her the same question about the character she was playing at the time over and over again—What does Angelica want, Stevie?—until Stevie gave an acceptable answer.
“That was quite impressive,” Dr. Calloway said, motioning toward the stage. “A Benedick unlike one I’ve ever seen.”
Stevie waved a hand. “It’s noth—”
“It’s not nothing, Stevie.” She lifted a brow, and Stevie nodded.
“Right. Sorry. I mean, thank you, Dr. Calloway.”
“Call me Thayer, please. We’re not in school anymore.”
“Thayer,” Stevie said, then immediately blushed. Half the theater department had been in love with Thayer Calloway, lesbians and bi and pan girls flocking to her queer energy like hens to their feed, along with a few women who had always assumed they were straight. And Stevie had been no different.
“Anyway, I do want to say hello to Adri and Ren, but I’m glad I caught you alone first,” Thayer said.
“Oh?”
Thayer smiled. “I’m in New York now, as you probably know.”
“I do. How’s it going?”
“Very well, actually. I’ve just been asked to direct As You Like It for Shakespeare in the Park this summer. At the Delacorte.”
Stevie’s eyes widened. Half of Stevie’s dramatic education at Reed had been studying actors on the famous Central Park Delacorte stage, everyone from Anne Hathaway to Meryl Streep to Rosario Dawson.
“Oh my god,” she said. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations, Dr.—Thayer. That’s a dream come true.”
Thayer smiled, showing all of her teeth, dimples pressing into her cheeks. “It is. And I want to offer you a role.”
Stevie froze, her mouth dropping open without her permission. It was as though the letters were particles in the air, slowly coming together to form words, sentences.
“Wait, what?” Stevie finally asked.
“You heard me, Stevie.”
“I . . . I’m not sure—”
“Before you say you can’t,” Thayer said, holding up her hand. “Think about it. I want you to play Rosalind.”
“Rosalind. As in—”
“The lead.”
Stevie’s head spun. “I don’t understand. There must be a hundred other people you could cast as Rosalind. Famous people. Freaking Natalie Portman.”
Thayer nodded. “True. But I don’t want Natalie Portman. I want what I just saw on that stage. I want what I saw hints of even back when you were eighteen years old and could barely look me in the eyes. I want Stevie Scott.”
This wasn’t real. This had to be a dream. “I just . . . I’m overwhelmed.”
“I understand that,” Thayer said. “I’m a bit overwhelmed myself. I honestly walked in here hoping to say hello to Adri. And only Adri. I’m surprised to find you still in Portland.”
Stevie’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“Anyway, as soon as I saw you up there, I knew I was looking at my Rosalind,” Thayer said. She took a manila folder out of her messenger bag and started flipping through the papers inside. “Somewhere in here is a rehearsal schedule, dates the show will run, all those details. I’ll email it to you as well, but I want you to have this now. Oh, hell, just take the whole thing.”
She held out the folder and Stevie took it, her hand already trembling. She could barely process what Thayer was saying, much less what it meant.
“I’ll need an answer by September first,” Thayer said, “before our auditions officially start. I can help with housing, board, all those details, so don’t let that hold you back. Please promise me you’ll think about it.”
“I . . .”
“Is that Thayer Calloway?” Ren’s voice echoed from the stage, where they’d just emerged from backstage draped in various fabrics and materials. They held their hand up to their eyes, shading the lights to see to the back of the theater. “Holy shit, it is!”
“What?” Adri said, leaping up from where she was sitting in the front row. “Where?”
“Hi, you two,” Thayer said, waving.
Ren jumped off the stage, all but hurling themself up the aisle, followed closely by Adri.
“Think about it,” Thayer said one more time, squeezing Stevie’s arm before Ren and Adri reached them.
The three of them immediately fell into catching up, Adri telling Thayer about the fundraiser dinner that will go along with the play, both Ren and Adri losing their minds when Thayer mentioned Shakespeare in the Park.
“I’ve just asked Stevie here to come work for me in New York,” Thayer said.
Stevie closed her eyes for a split second while the news landed.
“Holy. Shit,” Ren said, turning to her. “Yes. She’ll do it.”
“Ren,” Stevie said.
“You’re seriously considering not? Stevie.”
“I don’t know,” Stevie said, panic rising in her chest. She glanced at Adri, who just stared at her, her red mouth open in a tiny circle.
“Stefania Francesca Scott,” Ren said, folding their arms. Colorful scarves and swaths of fabric fluttered with the motion. “I swear to god.”
“Leave her alone, Ren,” Adri said.
Ren’s eyes narrowed. “For real, Adri? You’re that desperate to keep her under your thumb that you’d talk her out of—”
“I’m not talking her out of anything,” Adri said. “I just said—”
“We know what you said,” Ren said, “and I—”
“Shut up, both of you,” Stevie said. Tears filled her eyes—embarrassment that her friends were having this conversation in front of their professor, shame that she couldn’t just say yes like she knew she should. But that’s what Ren never got—Stevie could always say yes to everyone, anything. It was always the easier path.
Except this one.
This yes came with consequences, a whole slew of actions and decisions that made Stevie feel like she was drowning.
And Adri . . . Stevie couldn’t even look at her.
“Stevie,” Ren said, “I’m just trying to help.”
“Well, you’re not,” she said, tears spilling over.
“Okay, let’s take a breath,” Thayer said, who was well versed with Stevie’s anxiety. Still, Stevie highly doubted the idea of an actor losing their shit over nothing on the Delacorte stage was appealing.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Calloway,” Stevie said, then turned away, shoving open the doors that led into the lobby. She didn’t slow down until she was outside, the late June sun too bright and strong, too sure.
She dropped the folder near the door and tried to breathe, but it felt like working to shove a ship down a drain. She heard her lungs rasping, passersby looking at her funny as they went on with their day. She waved off their concerned looks, retreated under the Empress’s awning.
Breathe.
Fucking breathe.
Stevie closed her eyes, inhaled, but shit, she was spiraling. Full-on spiraling. She thought about calling for Ren, who knew how to help, but the idea just made the panic surge even more, because why the hell should Stevie be panicking this much about her friends pushing her into a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?
Or not pushing, as the case may be.
But it wasn’t that—it wasn’t even Ren’s insistence or Adri’s clear reticence. It was how they spoke over her, as though she couldn’t be trusted to do anything on her own.
And fuck, the idea of New York scared her so much, maybe she couldn’t.
“Stevie?”
Iris’s voice.
“Shit,” Stevie managed to croak. She didn’t want Iris to see her like this. She didn’t want—
“Oh,” Iris said as Stevie slumped against the Empress’s facade. “Oh shit, okay. Um.”
Stevie tried to wave a hand, communicate that she was fine, but she wasn’t sure she was. Iris had done so much for her already, she didn’t want Iris to regret it.
The thought was quick and cold, like ice flash-freezing over a lake.
She didn’t want Iris to regret her. When this was all said and done, when they’d fake broken up, and Iris walked out of her life, Stevie didn’t want . . . she didn’t want Iris to—