The music pulsed at the Fourteenth Line—again Sierra and Ethan’s second time there in a week, they were almost regulars haunting that same corner of the mahogany bar—as the cast, apprentices and audience from that night’s show flowed in, this time to celebrate the end of Romeo and Juliet’s run.
“You still haven’t told her,” Sierra said to Ethan, accusatory, as Charlie walked past with Matteo and settled at a table near the stage marked Reserved. Chase was already there, chatting with Danica and her girlfriend.
“Maybe I did tell her and it didn’t go well, so I didn’t bother telling you.” He practically inhaled his Vodka Red Bull. “What is Alex doing?” He was distracted by the stage, where his roommate now stood at the microphone, apparently for an impromptu performance. The familiar music kicked in: Hamilton. “Of course.”
“That guy is not throwing away his shot,” Sierra replied with the song lyrics. A commotion at the front door stole their attention from Alex as Jasmine Beijao swanned in barely wearing a coral sheath halter dress. She pressed through the crowd, pushing her assistant as a human bulldozer clearing the way. She immediately found Nick, kissed him in greeting, which he seemed startled by, and installed herself at his table up front. “You know what?” Sierra said, thinking. “You’re not throwing away your shot either.”
“Are we drinking shots now?” Ethan asked, confused.
“No, with Charlie, because she is over there hating life right now, because of what’s going on over there.” Sierra pointed to Jasmine. “Go talk to her.”
“What am I supposed to say?” Ethan said, hand through his hair, entirely lost. In the background, a young, scrappy and hungry Alex rapped his song. Ethan watched and Sierra could see an idea strike Ethan. He nodded as though accepting it and said to Sierra, eyes still on the stage, “You’re right. I’m gonna sing.”
“Ohmygod, what?” It was all Sierra could do not to spit out her drink in shock.
Ethan took off, cutting through the crowd to the stage. He said something to the drummer. Then the guy with the acoustic guitar handed it over and suddenly Ethan was at the microphone with the guitar. His body haloed in the spotlight, he began to strum.
Ethan didn’t introduce the song, didn’t dedicate it. He didn’t even so much as look in Charlie’s direction, where she stood huddled with Matteo. But the moment he played those first few chords, she turned toward the stage, cocked her head, intrigued, and watched with a coy smile.
Sierra was riveted. She had heard the theme song to Midnight Daydream many times before—it was a solid semi-hit, doing better on the charts than the film had at the box office—but never on acoustic guitar. Never like this. She loved how Ethan talked his way through the song as though he had written it.
She wouldn’t have thought she would be able to look away, until someone sat beside her at the bar. “I owe you a long-overdue apology,” the voice said.
It was Chase Embers.
Ethan couldn’t bear to even glance at Charlie. He would’ve been too destroyed if she wasn’t listening or didn’t seem to like what she’d heard. He wasn’t that great, but he could play, and it was the kind of song you could almost just recite; it didn’t require a whole lot. And it was short, which was a huge selling point. It hadn’t gone so bad. People clapped, some even cheered, and as he stepped off the stage, intending to walk all the way to the back of the room, reclaim his spot by the bar, Charlie yanked his arm.
“Mercutio, you’re full of surprises.” She actually smiled.
“Am I?” he asked, shaking his head. “Well, it’s a good song from a great film.”
“Brought back memories, thanks for that.” She looked over his shoulder, a mischievous glint.
Ethan could imagine who she might be watching. He glanced in Sierra’s direction for encouragement and, finding her still talking to Chase, felt unusually empowered.
“So, just wanted to mention,” he started. “In the event you’re ever looking to make him jealous, Nicholas—”
Charlie’s focus snapped to Ethan. “Oh?” she asked, an intrigued inflection.
“—then I would be honored to audition for that role.” He couldn’t believe he had said it and feared he might have actually offended her.
But a slow smile curled her lips. “And what exactly would that role be?” She sipped her drink innocently.
He shrugged, smiled, as if to say, You tell me.
“You seem too sweet for anything I’d have in mind.” She looked toward Nicholas and Jasmine again.
“I can play against type,” Ethan said.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
She nodded. “Dating anyone? I don’t need any drama.”
His eyes landed on Sierra and Chase. “No,” he said, firmly. Then to Charlie again. “Is this an audition?”
“That was the audition.” She flicked her head toward the stage, where another group belted a song from Rent. She circled him now, arms folded. “This is the callback.”
“What do I need to do to land the job? Do you need me to fall in love with you?”
“Absolutely not,” she snapped.
“Okaaay. I promise not to fall in love with you.”
“You’re on,” she said easily. “Act One, Scene One.” She grabbed his hand, leading him past Matteo—who shook his head at them—and Nicholas. She stopped near enough to the stage to catch some of the light, and pulled him into a kiss. He kissed her back, in keeping with his role, and when he nearly drew away, she locked him in again.
He’d expected it to feel more real than it had onstage when it had been choreographed, part of the show, but it felt...the same. It felt like performance instead of truth. Still, he had no doubt it appeared plenty believable to anyone bothering to watch. And when she did finally inch away, she left her hand on the back of his neck, stared in his eyes. He noticed her glance over his shoulder a second and then she whispered in his ear, “We’re leaving, now.”
He wasn’t sure where exactly they were going, but he didn’t ask questions. He just smiled, stared back into her eyes, nodded, and then at once, swooped her up, throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her through the crowd and right out the door. As soon as they got outside, he put her down, and she laughed, pulling his arm to tug him around the corner and out of sight. They crouched down in the alleyway, peeking from the side of the building.
“Nice ad-lib,” she whispered, impressed.
“What now?” he asked.
She grabbed his forearm to quiet him. “Wait for it,” she said, confident.
Moments later, the door to the bar flung open and Nicholas ran out onto the sidewalk. He stopped halfway down the block, not far from them. Then turned to look the other way, into the darkness. They slunk back farther, swallowed up into the shadows, stifling laughter. A few minutes later, she nodded that it was clear.
Ethan offered to walk her home, but she said she would be fine. She gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek, thanking him, then gently cradled his face in her hands.
“You’re good at this, Mercutio,” she said into his eyes. “Not just this,” she laughed, referring to tonight’s charade. “But all of it.” And with a wave, she disappeared back toward Avon.
That was what Nick got for moving the party from King’s? He had done that for her.
She probably hadn’t even noticed. She had been busy. He kicked the rocks in his path as he walked away from the bar. The kiss shouldn’t have bothered him, he had seen that before—last week on stage, for instance. But there had been costumes and sets and other actors and a script and it wasn’t really them. Tonight though... He’d seen this kind of thing plenty: two actors have a good night on stage and that mess of magic and magnetism bleeds offstage. Excess energy in search of an outlet. Nothing more. Hopefully.
Meanwhile, he had gone out of his way to not even so much as shake Jasmine’s hand tonight. He hoped Charlie noticed how he’d worked to distance himself from Jasmine, as much as humanly possible.
The streets vibrated with so many people out enjoying the summer night. He wasn’t ready to go home and found himself walking toward the edge of Chamberlain village.
At rehearsal, Charlie had taken to wearing her hair piled on top of her head, and their lark always seemed to be staring at him now, judging him, questioning his life choices. It was all he could think about when he would steal into the rehearsal room daily to watch her float up toward the ceiling, gliding and flipping as she delivered her lines. Each day stronger, more effortless.
If he watched that lark on her neck, as she swept through the air, it almost looked real. It reminded him so much—too much—of that night, and he wished he could tell her that, wished he could ask if she remembered it too.
Maybe that was why he now found himself standing at the tiny log cabin, a very sparse museum really, that they had broken into those many years ago. It had been her idea, of course, as everything the least bit illicit always was.
It had played out like a fever dream.
That next morning, Nick had awakened minutes before Charlie. Time fleeting, he had committed it all to memory: the single ray of sun streaming in that window, her hair fanned out, the soft rise and fall of her breathing. She wore his T-shirt, perhaps putting it on in the middle of the night when the air had grown cool. He felt her move, yawn, stretch her arms. The lark had flown in the window just as she’d opened her eyes.