Zoe smiles and puts a finger to my lips. Weirdly, she doesn’t look upset at all. “It’s okay,” she says. “Close your eyes.”
I do, wondering if she’s going to put a present in my hands, but instead she slips a blindfold over my eyes. “What are you—” I start, but she shushes me again.
“Follow me,” she whispers. She takes both my hands, and I let her lead me.
It’s hard to gauge how far we walk, but by the time Zoe stops me, the Allerdale background noise is gone, and all I can hear is the wind and the soft, musical chirping of crickets. Zoe runs her fingers down the sides of my face and brushes her lips against mine. “Ready for your surprise?” she asks.
When I nod, she unties the knot at the back of my head, and the blindfold falls away. We’re at the top of a small, secluded hill, far from the lights of the theater, and there’s a flowered blanket spread out on the grass. Arranged in the center are a baguette, a wedge of cheese, a bowl of strawberries, and two doughnuts on a paper plate. A bottle of champagne sweats in the humid night air and glistens in the light of a cluster of votive candles, a couple of which have blown out.
“I couldn’t get them to all stay lit at the same time,” Zoe says. “It’s too windy. Do you like it?”
The whole thing is kind of a cliché, but it turns out even cliché stuff is perfect when it’s the first time someone does it for you. Jason’s definition of “romance” was buying me a bunch of half-dead daisies from a bodega. Zoe put some serious effort into this, and it makes me so happy, I’m afraid I might cry.
I pull her into a hug. “I love it, Zoe. Thank you. How did you get champagne? Do you have a fake ID?”
“No, I swiped it from the fridge in the green room.”
“Won’t someone notice it’s gone?”
“Who cares? You deserve it. You’re a professional playwright, Brooklyn Shepard.” She tugs me toward the blanket. “Come on. Let’s drink it.”
We settle onto the blanket, and I eat a strawberry while Zoe wrestles with the champagne cork. “I can’t believe you did all this for me,” I say.
“Of course I did.” The cork pops free, and froth overflows and streams down Zoe’s arm. “Shit, I forgot glasses. We’ll have to drink out of the bottle.” She grips it by the neck and lifts it. “To Brooklyn and her complete and utter amazingness!”
She drinks and passes the bottle, and I raise it above my head. “To us!” I say, and she echoes me. When I take a sip, the bubbles explode on my tongue and warm my stomach, and I suddenly understand why people use champagne for celebrating.
“So, tell me everything,” Zoe says. She settles back on her elbows and shoves a huge bite of doughnut into her mouth, and for the first time since before Carlos got here, I feel like she’s really listening to me. I tell her everything I can remember about our production meeting, and by the time I’m done talking, most of the food and two thirds of the champagne are gone. My head feels light and fuzzy, like there’s a thin layer of cotton batting right behind my eyeballs.
“What’d your mom say when you told her you’re writing the new show?” Zoe asks.
At the mention of my mom, everything starts to feel less bubbly and bright. “Um…I actually haven’t told her yet,” I say.
“Oh my God, call home right now! She’ll still be awake, right? Where’s your phone? Put it on speaker. I want to hear how she reacts.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll do it later.”
“I don’t have to listen if you don’t want me to, it’s fine. You should call, though. You must be dying to tell everyone.”
It’s weird how Zoe knows me so well in some ways and doesn’t understand me at all in others. “Honestly? Not really,” I say.
“Why not?”
I shrug. “You’ve met my mom. You know how she is.”
Zoe looks confused. “Um, yeah. She loves you like crazy and she’s supersupportive.”
“She is when you’re doing things she approves of.”
“Why wouldn’t she approve of you writing a show for a world-renowned festival? That’s insane.”
“Because I’m not performing in anything,” I say. “That’s what’s important to my family. Plus, my mom hates parodies. You heard how she talked about my uncle’s online dating musical when we were at dinner. It’s better if I let everyone think I’m in the ensemble and then ‘get sick’ at the last second. They’ll never know the difference.”
“That sucks, though. This show is important to you, right? You seem way more excited about it than anything else you’ve done here.”
“Yeah,” I say. “This is way better than being onstage, honestly.” It’s the first time I’ve ever admitted it out loud. I take another gulp of champagne, and I’m not sure if the fizzy rush that goes through me is from the bubbles or the words.