It was just half a story, eight feet max. But this wasn’t the sort of thing he did on a regular basis and he landed poorly, twisting his ankle, hobbling all the way back into town, to the house on Avon.
* * *
All around Ethan, the greenroom buzzed with the night’s gossip. “Jasmine Beijao!”
“OMG, did you see her?”
“OMG, did CHARLIE see her?”
“She was in the middle of the third row, who could miss her!”
“What is she doing here?”
But Ethan tried to ignore it. He didn’t want all the noise to bring him down from that high. He let Alex and the others go ahead, told them he would catch up on the apprentice bar crawl, though he wasn’t sure it was true. He just needed a few moments alone to fully absorb the charge of playing Mercutio opposite Charlie Savoy’s Tybalt tonight.
His pulse still raced. Battling Charlie was so unlike battling Chase or even Matteo, and certainly Danica. It required everything he had, every bit of fire in his veins, there could be no holding back with her. If not for the rounded tips, she really might’ve killed him. The adrenaline of that scene had been otherworldly, addictive. And, it had played out like all the best experiences in life: your body knowing what to do and your mind content to let it happen. He wished he could be killed by Charlie’s Tybalt every night for the rest of this run. For the rest of his life. It pained him that he knew of only one other night like this on the schedule. Charlie had passed him in the hallway immediately after, slapped him on the back. “Nice. You sure you’re not a professional fencer?” She kept walking before he could even formulate a “thank you,” but her praise meant everything.
He opened the stage door at last, stepping out into the clear night, shocked to find Sierra on the bench by the loading dock.
“I thought I missed you.” She hopped to her feet. “But I took a chance.”
“You waited. For me?” he asked, a pang in his heart. Tonight had broken him open, like a dial turned up so high he quaked from the feedback.
“I thought I’d give you the full groupie experience.” She smiled, holding out what appeared to be a photo. “Well, not the full groupie experience,” she corrected, embarrassed. “But you know what I mean. The partial groupie experience.”
He laughed. “I’m honored. Either way.”
“Glad to hear that because—” she waved the photo as they began walking to the dorm “—I couldn’t help but notice, in my important, vital artistic work tonight, that you didn’t sign any of these.”
It was the cast photo autographed by the four main stars. He shook his head. “Oh man, I’m lucky they even let me into this picture.” He remembered the day of the shoot: trying to draw as little attention to himself as he could, feeling completely unworthy of his place in that group.
“You think I’m kidding but—” She uncapped a Sharpie. “I’m totally not.”
He looked up from his feet long enough to be ensnared by her bright, sincere eyes, which shone on him in a way he couldn’t deserve but felt lucky for. “I can’t believe you’re making me deface a perfectly nice picture.” He took the Sharpie, scribbling an arrow to himself and a message.
“See, is that so bad?” she joked, then read aloud, “‘How’d this guy get here? Thanks for running lines with me, best scene partner anyone could hope for.’”
He tried not to blush hearing his own words.
34
NOTHING I HAVEN’T SEEN BEFORE
Charlie felt like she had when her harness broke midflight in the teen angel film and she had crashed to the ground, wind knocked out of her, two cracked ribs.
Her body had absorbed the sight of Jasmine Beijao—seated front and center in the third row—like a sucker punch. A betrayal. Again. Charlie had lain on the stage, dying as Tybalt freshly stabbed by Romeo in Act Three, when her eyes flickered out to the audience, trying to comprehend the presence of this creature there, Jasmine Beijao: the model-turned-actress-turned-Bond-Girl.
Who also happened to be Nick’s ex-wife.
Still wearing her bloodied Tybalt costume, Charlie stood at the edge of the pier, about to dive into the lake, hoping it would free her. But gazing out at the shimmering water, she felt none of the usual calm. This place felt ruined for her: she could only see last night, with Nick. So she left.
The front door was unlocked, and she let it slam shut behind her. Jazz music, a sizzling stove, voices spilled out at her. She strode through the kitchen, head down, pace quick. But had to stop, not sure she had seen correctly:
A young boy in striped pajamas stood on a chair in front of the stove, flipping a grilled cheese sandwich in a pan. No one else there to watch him, she was overcome with an ill-timed flare-up of responsibility.
“Um, are you allowed to do that?” she asked the boy she recognized from so many photos in Danica’s room. She didn’t, in fact, know if it was alright to leave a child of six, seven, eight, whatever he was, alone at a gas stove. “Where’s your mom?”
“What? This?” The boy laughed, flashing his jack-o’-lantern smile: three missing spaces where baby teeth must’ve fallen out. He had messy white-blond hair and Danica’s face in miniature form. “Please,” he said. “Who do you think does the cooking at home? That one—” he pointed upstairs “—is always on the raw food diet.” He held out his hand. “I’m Gianni.”
“Charlie.” She shook his hand, still suspicious.
“I know. Charlie Savoy. Cool sword fights. Sorry you had to die tonight.” He flipped the sandwich again then waved the spatula like he was fencing.
“It was twice,” she said under her breath, counting seeing Jasmine.
“Really?”
She could see him trying to figure it out. “Never mind.”
“Midnight snack?” He plated the sandwich and held it out to her.
Charlie looked around, as though Danica might appear and scold her, then shrugged. “Split it?”
“Okay.” He hopped down from the chair, grabbed the knife from the butter dish and sliced the sandwich diagonally. “Crusts?” he asked, cutting off his own.
“They’re okay,” she said. He left her half on the plate, took a bite of his and returned to the chair, tossing another already-assembled sandwich onto the pan. “Not bad,” Charlie said, mouth full, hopping to sit on the counter.
“I was worried about you.” Matteo swooped in, gave her a hug. “I can’t believe she’s here. I’m in shock, so I don’t have better lines right now. I’ve only got clichés.”
“I thought you were staying at the inn with Sebastian.”
“I need to focus,” he said.
“Since when?”
“Since last night.” He opened the bottle of wine on the counter, taking a swig. “It’s not important. Did you talk to Nick yet?” he deflected.
“Absolutely not.” She grabbed the wine bottle, took a big gulp.
“Maybe he didn’t know—”
“If fucking Jasmine Beijao was here—Sorry.” She looked at Gianni, who just shrugged like he’d heard it all before and plated another sandwich, handing it to Matteo.
“What is a Jasmine Bay-Jow?” Gianni asked, doing his best pronunciation.
“If Jasmine Beijao is here then I don’t want to be.” Charlie took another bite and added, still chewing, “As soon as my sixty days are up. I’m out.”
“Jasmine Beijao. I mean, how? Why?” Matteo said.
“What is a Jasmine Bay-Jow?” Gianni asked again.
“The woman has literally never done theater in her fucking life. Sorry,” she said. Gianni tossed another sandwich in the pan, hopped off the chair to grab something from the kitchen table.
“And after last night.” Matteo shook his head in disbelief.
“I know. I’m just mad at myself. I shouldn’t have trusted—”
“My advice, talk to h
im. He’s been in a bad place.” She gave him a look. “I know, I know. I’m just saying, the Nick I know would not have wanted this to happen. I know London meant something to him too,” he said gently. “If Jasmine Beijao is here—”
“Siri, who is Jasmine Beijao?” Gianni said into his phone, back at the stove.
“There must be some reason. Let him explain,” Matteo went on. “You do know he was the one who ended it with her, back then.”
“I didn’t know that,” she said, coldly, trying not to care, trying to make it not change anything, so she could rebuild the walls she never should’ve taken down in the first place.
“I just always got the feeling that was some temporary insanity—his time with her.” He shook his head. “Like he was a rebel teen for whatever that was two months—”
“Two months, though—”
“—that he was married to her during that terrible Super Id movie—”
“It was terrible,” she said, confirming.
“—that he should’ve obviously waited for you to rewrite and fix,” Matteo continued.
“Yup.” She threw her hands up, drank from the bottle again.
“And he certainly should not have replaced you with her as the star because that was ridiculous.”
“Whatever, I didn’t care then and don’t now.” She lied.
“Although, the last time you saw her, you threw a drink at her—” Matteo said.
“No,” she cut him off, pointing. “Near her. Not even her. Nick. Near Nick. Over their heads. Over his head. Just to make a point. I’m not a monster, I just had to—”
“Is this Jasmine Beijao?” Gianni interrupted, looking stricken as he flashed his phone at them. “Why isn’t she wearing any clothes?”
Charlie ripped the phone from Gianni’s grip as Matteo threw his hands over the boy’s eyes.
“Yes,” Charlie said flatly, staring. “Why isn’t she wearing any clothes?” She held it out to Matteo, still shielding the boy’s eyes.
There on Instagram, in a photo snapped earlier that afternoon, stood Jasmine Beijao, all five feet eleven of her, taking a selfie in a full-length mirror and wearing nothing but a ruff—one of those accordion-style collars aristocrats wore at their necks during Shakespeare’s time—and a gleaming white smile, her cascading curls everywhere.
“No big deal, guys, I’m in the middle of a classical art unit at camp, so nothing I haven’t seen before,” Gianni said calmly, eyes still covered.
“‘Found this must-have accessory at the most charming shop #ruffsandcuffs in Chamberlain’?” Charlie read the caption aloud as though it was a long, offensive question. “‘Catch me here in the upcoming Midsummer Night’s Dream’?” She looked at Matteo, disgusted.
“Ohhh, man,” Matteo said, leaning in to read it himself.
“‘Tickets available now. Link in bio. #theatergoddess #berkshiresbabe’? This is why I’m not on Instagram.” Charlie shook the phone.
“It’s not all like that. Did you see the filters on my photos from Hopkins Forest? Magical,” Matteo said.
“No,” she deadpanned.
“Is something burning?” Danica barked, interrupting them in her matching striped monogrammed pajamas.
“Hi, Mom!” Gianni said, eyes still covered, waving anyway.
Charlie and Matteo whipped around to the stove, where the grilled cheese sizzled to a carcinogenic lump. A thin veil of smoke began to coat the room.
“Fuck!” Charlie lunged to turn off the stove but was too late: the smoke detector blared on. She jumped at its deafening screech.
“Gianni!” Danica yelled to be heard over it. “What have I told you about being careful when you’re cooking?” She fanned the burnt pan.
“They covered my eyes!” he shouted back, pointing at Charlie and Matteo, the latter of whom had leaped onto a chair, trying to dismantle the smoke detector.
“I don’t know what’s going on here,” Danica scolded. “I literally left for, like, five minutes to say goodbye to Sally.”
“It’s okay, Mom, they just didn’t want me to see the naked lady—”
“That sounds worse than it is,” Matteo said over the still-piercing alarm.
“I thought Mr. Chase was watching you,” she said to Gianni.
“You left him with Chase?” Charlie laughed, and Danica shot her a look. “I mean, he’s great with kids. Mr. Chase.”
“He’s on the phone,” Gianni explained. “It sounded important, so I told him to take his time.”
“C’mon, sweetie.” Danica put a protective arm around Gianni, as though cocooning him from so much moral corruption. “Time for bed.”
Gianni glanced back at them and mouthed, Sorry.
At last the alarm quieted, but Charlie barely noticed, too preoccupied with another siren as she scrolled the many images of Jasmine: Jasmine arriving at Hathaway House in a lime-green Ferrari; Jasmine allegedly wearing no makeup; Jasmine at various premieres and awards shows. Every inch of her life—and her figure—documented. Charlie couldn’t help it. She had spent so much time pretending this woman didn’t exist in real life, off-screen, but now here she was again, unavoidable, and Charlie felt hurt and just masochistic enough that she kept swiping this endless photo stream. It felt like a scab that had somehow begun gushing blood again with no warning.
“No-no-no-no, no good comes of that, trust me.” Matteo pried Gianni’s phone from her hand, tossing it facedown on the table, its Pokémon case staring back at them.
The doorbell buzzed. And buzzed again. And again. And again. Leaning toward the kitchen window, they saw Nick in profile at the door. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Knock. Knock.
Matteo looked at Charlie. “Do you want to—?”
“I don’t want to talk. Ever. No. But could I punch him?”
“I’ll tell him you’re asleep.”
“I don’t care what you tell him, I don’t want anything to do with him.” She passed Chase on the stairs, hanging up a phone call.
“Is something burning?” he asked.
She just walked up, straight to her balcony, took a deep breath. Thirty-three days to go. It felt like a life sentence.
* * *
“Is Charlie—?” Nick started the second Matteo opened the door. But instead of inviting Nick in, Matteo stepped outside, closing the door behind them and gently pushing Nick farther back on the porch.
“Look, I’m supposed to tell you she’s not here,” Matteo said. “Nick, help me here—what were you thinkin’?”
“I was young and I needed the money?” He tried the classic line, defeated, then clarified. “Or, I guess I was old and I needed the money.”
“I know better than anyone what trouble this place is in, I get it. But there has got to be a better way.”
“Don’t you think I’m trying? I didn’t even do this. This was the last thing I—”
“It’s not fair. To her.” Matteo looked over his shoulder as though Charlie might be watching, lowered his voice to a whisper. “I thought you loved this girl.” He gestured toward the house.
“I know, I do,” he said, sighing.
“Then you don’t do this. Not to that girl.”
“No. I know, I’m just... I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” He took a seat on the top step.
“Get creative,” Matteo said, walking back to the door. “And get outta here. For now.”
Nick watched as he disappeared inside, then closed his eyes, pulled himself up and limped home.
By the time Nick got back to his place, he was fairly certain he’d had what could be categorized as a slight psychotic break. It had just started to rain, managing to soak him before he reached his bungalow four blocks from Charlie’s house.
Yes, he had sent that initial email to Jasmine, and received a “Maybe, let’s talk” response, which he had ignored, and th
at was it. He had hoped Sarah Kingsbury would change her mind in the meantime and that her presence would be enough to get Taylor to forget all about Jasmine. But that had all been wishful thinking. Taylor had just gone around him and hired Jasmine herself, a stunning abuse of power, power she didn’t technically have. Nick wasn’t an idiot. He knew what Taylor was doing. He knew the kind of drama, offstage, she was hoping to manipulate with this casting. The attention she hoped to garner. Taylor was successful, wealthy, powerful, and used to getting what she wanted, she didn’t believe in boundaries. He felt trapped in a game he had no interest in playing.
Midsummer rehearsals weren’t set to begin for another week. It was time he could have used to try to run out the clock, find a way to not hire Jasmine. Or, at the very least, time to prepare Charlie for Jasmine’s arrival. But now all he could do was damage control.
35
GIVE HER THE LINE!
The water rushed over Charlie, not unpleasantly, at first. She floated. Too free and weightless to be bothered by the biting chill. River and rain aswirl around her. The words came to her, as though from another world, from her past: “We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.” Yes, sweet, elusive sleep. Was she actually sleeping? Finally? Was she breathing?
Or was she on set, her director barking at her?
“Give her the line!” the voice shouted, urgent. “Give her the line!” She could hear it, but the words arrived fuzzy in her ears. She listened again for the director’s deep, rich rasp. Her body tumbled over and over, spinning. Then the fierce tug decidedly down.
No, it wasn’t her line, was it? The voice had been right. That line was Prospero’s. She was playing Ariel. “Our revels now are ended. These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits and are melted into thin air,” she thought.
“GIVE HER THE LINE!” She heard it again, angry now.
She had the line, but when she opened her mouth to say it, water flooded in, choking her. Eyes opened to soggy flashes of light against a black landscape; her limbs flailed, understanding before her mind did.
The Summer Set Page 16