The next day’s crew call feels endless. I spend the entire time sorting washers by size and giving myself an ulcer thinking about the evening ahead. Russell asks if I want to hang out later, and I seriously consider saying yes and ditching Zoe and Carlos. But that’s the cowardly way out, and I know Zoe will respect me more if she thinks I’m mature enough to handle this open relationship thing. I ask Russell if we can hang out over the weekend instead.
When I get back to the room to change for dinner, Zoe’s perched on her bed in a short turquoise dress. “Hey!” she says, chirpier than usual. “He’s, like, ten minutes away. Will you be ready by then?” She gets up and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, but when I put my hands on her waist, she pulls away and starts messing with her already-perfect eye shadow in front of the mirror. Maybe making out with me feels more like cheating now that Carlos isn’t across the country.
“Sure,” I say. I rummage through my closet and try to find an appropriate meeting-your-girlfriend’s-boyfriend outfit. Should I wear something sexy, so she’ll feel torn about who she’d rather go home with? Something conservative, to make things easier for her? I give up and choose a random dress printed with flying birds.
When Zoe’s phone rings, she starts bouncing up and down on her toes. “Are you here?” she squeals. “Where are you?”
I hear the tinny murmur of his voice through the speaker, and then Zoe says, “Okay, perfect. We’ll meet you downstairs in a minute.” She hangs up and looks at me, her face all lit up from the inside. “Come on!” She reaches out to take my hand, but it doesn’t feel personal. It just feels like she wants to hold on to something. I let her lace her fingers with mine anyway.
Carlos is coming around the corner of the building when we get outside, and Zoe lets go of me and runs to him. He’s a little shorter than I expected, but he’s solidly built, and when she does a flying leap into his arms, he catches her like she weighs nothing. Her legs twine around his waist, and her skirt rides up so much, I can see her underwear, but she doesn’t seem to care. I don’t want to watch them kiss, but I can’t look away, either.
It feels like forever before Zoe hops down and beckons me over. “Carlos, this is Brooklyn,” she says, like that’s all the introduction I need.
Carlos’s face is open and kind, and he takes off his mirrored sunglasses to look me in the eyes when he shakes my hand. “It’s so good to meet you, Brooklyn,” he says. “I’ve heard wonderful things about you.”
I wish he’d stop acting friendly and considerate so it would be easier to hate him. “You, too,” I say.
I’m hoping Zoe will make a joke that’ll get everything out in the open and make us all feel less weird, but instead she says, “My two favorite people in the same place. This is the best.”
“You ladies ready for dinner?” Carlos asks, and Zoe nods and takes his hand. She reaches for mine with the other one, but I start fixing my ponytail and pretend not to notice. I’m not going to walk on her other side like we’re her parents, swinging their boisterous, euphoric little kid between them.
Zoe chooses the same bistro where we had dinner with my mom; this place is apparently a magnet for awkward situations. At least I now know not to order the polenta. I have more than enough time to peruse the menu, actually; Carlos wants to tell Zoe what’s going on with all their mutual friends back in Boulder, people whose names I’ve never heard. Considering that the two of them talk every day, I can’t imagine where all this news is coming from. When they finally wrap up the gossip session, Carlos turns to me. “Tell me all about you,” he says. “Are you in Birdie with Zo?”
“No,” I say. “I’m not good enough for the main stage.” I know I’m being annoyingly self-deprecating, but I want Zoe to jump in and tell Carlos how great I am.
She takes the bait. “Brooklyn’s basically a professional pianist. She can play anything by ear. She knows, like, the entire thing of every musical. It’s ridiculous.”
I look down at my menu and smile. “Not every musical.”
“Pretty much every musical. I bet you never look at the music when you play for your family.”
“Almost never,” I concede, and it comes out sounding both modest and confident, like the way Zoe said “Juilliard” on the day we met. I’m pretty pleased with myself.
“Your mom is that famous voice teacher, right?” Carlos asks. “What’s her name?”
“Lana Blake Shepard,” Zoe supplies.
“Right. Do you really think you can get Zo an audition when she moves to New York?”