The Summer Set

by Aimee Agresti

  “You won’t even believe,” Matteo said, cracking the eggs into a bowl now.

  The front door creaked open, and Chase appeared, seemingly fresh from Pilates, mat under his arm. “Morning, all—hey, is that a frittata in the works?” he asked. “Where were you all last night? Had the place to myself.”

  50

  WHAT DO YOU REMEMBER?

  It felt unlike any hangover Ethan had ever had. All numb. The room still and silent except for breathing. His eyes flickered, opening finally to chestnut locks cascading over his face.

  He tried not to panic.

  He had assumed it had been a dream. It was just so...vivid. Too vivid. He felt like he might be sick, but he wasn’t sure if it was physically or just mentally. This was not supposed to happen. He wasn’t the type of guy who had a lot of friends who were girls or a lot of friends at all, and Sierra was the only one this summer who got him. She had always relegated him to the friend zone, so it had been easy to assume there was nothing there and to turn off all non-friend-like impulses.

  But it hadn’t been pure coincidence that he had wandered in her direction that first day on the football field. Sure, he was lucky she was standing there in need of a partner, but even if she had already paired up, he would’ve still placed himself within a short radius of her. Honestly, he had been ensnared the moment he saw her swim by, coolly mimicking the “crawl” stroke out the theater doors after that first apprentice meeting when everyone else was crawling on the floor with no imagination whatsoever.

  He didn’t want to be thinking of this right now. He couldn’t have drama with her. Was he a good enough actor to play it cool? Doubtful. That one day he had seen Charlie from afar at her theater after her car accident, he had tripped over his own feet when they unlocked the lobby doors and cut his forehead from hitting the newsstand inside.

  Why did he remember everything from last night? Shouldn’t he have blacked out at some point? Instead, he could call up the full play-by-play. He remembered that Sierra had kissed him first, even though he had wanted to kiss her and just hadn’t orchestrated his move yet. For some reason, kissing Charlie onstage—and offstage—had been so much less world rocking than all this with Sierra. With Sierra, it felt like everything around them went out of focus and the camera moved in and this was their scene now.

  Sierra stirred, but still lay on her side, her back to him. He moved his arm—the one he realized was flung over her shoulder. If he tried to crawl out from under the sheet to find his clothes—because that was another thing, he wasn’t sure where they were—he would undoubtedly fully wake her. He heard her yawn, but he could tell her eyes weren’t open yet.

  Her hair was impossibly shiny and smooth like corn silk, and these were exactly the thoughts he didn’t want to be having. She combed her hand through her hair now, groaned—that was how he felt too—and moved just centimeters. He remained frozen, closed his eyes.

  She gasped, whispering, “Ohhhmygod...are you awake? Don’t be awake. Don’t be awake. Don’t be awake,” she said, her back to him, both of them perfectly still.

  “Not awake,” he said, unsure.

  “I’m awake.” A head popped up from the floor at the foot of the bed. They both screamed, grabbed the sheet. It was Alex.

  Then another voice, male, beside Alex, yawning. “Coffee. Need coffee.” It was Stone.

  “None here, there’s a food cart across the street or a Starbucks a block in any direction,” another voice croaked. How many people were in this room? At least everyone else was on the floor.

  The door opened: Harlow in a bathrobe, as though she lived there. Behind her was the guy who, Ethan was almost positive, had played Abigail Adams’s son Charles last night, his arms wrapped around Harlow, kissing her neck.

  “Players,” she announced, like a stagehand calling the actors to their places for the curtain opening. “Listen up!” She nibbled on a chip from the bowl in her hands, the party snacks left out overnight. “Just a PSA—it’s 11:07 a.m., bus leaves from the hotel in twenty-three minutes,” she said calmly, yawning. “We’re gonna miss it if we don’t rally.” It took a beat for it to register. If they missed the bus, they would miss the opening night of Midsummer. Terrible scheduling, for sure, but apparently Bradford had bought the block of tickets before Blunt bothered to tell him he was extending the Romeo run. But that didn’t matter now. What mattered was they had to GO. At once, they burst from their places, too manic to even be embarrassed.

  * * *

  Their cab inched along too slowly, so Alex flung open the door, and they all ran through Times Square to their hotel, grabbed their bags from their rooms and then raced back out to the bus idling on a side street. Its doors had already closed as it began to pull out, and they sprinted toward it, Ethan ahead of the pack. He smacked the door with his palm just in time, and the driver opened up.

  “Nice of you folks to join us.” Bradford smirked at them.

  It wasn’t until they found their seats, Ethan and Sierra sitting one in front of the other this time, that they looked at each other.

  “What do you remember?” he whispered.

  “What do you remember?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he lied, testing it out. But actually: everything, everything, everything. He couldn’t stop seeing the flashes of what had gone on between them last night.

  “Oh, good, me neither.” She looked relieved, so he went with it.

  “Absolutely nothing,” he said, sounding somewhat believable. Everything. He pretended to sleep the rest of the way. Everything.

  * * *

  Sierra could not sleep, exhausted as she was. Ethan had dozed off before they’d even gotten out of the city, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw another scene from their night. There were a lot of them and they were all good, really good, that wasn’t the issue; the problem was that it had happened at all. If she was being honest with herself then, sure, she had kind of been looking for an excuse to kiss Ethan anyway.

  But what were they supposed to do now? She wondered if he really didn’t remember anything. That drink did not do what she’d expected. She thought she might remember sensations, maybe, but details, no. She had full recall of those. And now she couldn’t help feeling drawn to Ethan, which was not helpful because she really loved their friendship. But how do you just forget a night like that and move on? She supposed the answer was act like it never happened. That felt achingly unfair. Why couldn’t Ethan just have been a terrible kisser and terrible everything else?

  These thoughts were exactly what she didn’t want on her mind as the bus rattled back to leafy Chamberlain for opening night of her first main stage performance. But she wanted to be an actor, and actors had to put on a good show despite what was happening in their real lives. Sierra would simply have to don her flower crown and become the fairy Peaseblossom.

  * * *

  Charlie was glad Jasmine had worked it into her contract to have her own dressing room. It meant the other four of them now shared the room that had previously been just Matteo and Chase’s, but she welcomed the company. In a rare turn of events though, no one seemed to want to talk about themselves (except for Danica and no one cared since she appeared happily settled), so they grasped for neutral ground.

  “I heard the apprentices had some kinda drug-fueled orgy in NYC,” Chase said.

  “No way. That group?” Matteo asked. “Though I did hear there were hookups.”

  “Good for them, they should’ve already been doing that,” Charlie said. “They’re too damn young to be so serious.”

  “But that’s the whole purpose of being here,” Danica said. “To be serious.”

  The three of them stared at her, but Danica surprised them all by being first to laugh at herself and they all joined in.

  As Mercutio and Sierra passed by in the hall just before Charlie was due on stage, she couldn’t suppress a smile. �
�I hope every last rumor is true.”

  51

  I’M NOT PLANNING TO COME TO MY SENSES

  Ten minutes until opening, a full house, and Nick knew the best thing he could do was table the personal matters until later. Charlie refused to talk to him—again—anyway. And he had forgotten entirely about Jasmine, who had been sequestered in hair and makeup with her own team for eons. Until she’d emerged from her dressing room right when he happened to be reviewing a last-minute change with the prop team.

  “So, have you come to your senses?” Jasmine cooed, grabbing the lapels of his blazer, effectively chasing away the small crew. “About last night? Working together.”

  “Jasmine, no,” he said, annoyed, extricating himself. “I told you, I’m not planning to come to my senses. My senses are indicating that this—” he pointed to her and himself “—is not happening in any way beyond this production.” But there was still, in fact, a show to do, so he added, hastily, “Let’s just focus on tonight’s performance.”

  He could’ve said more, but she smiled her gleaming red carpet smile, wound up and sank her fist smack into his left cheek with surprising force. He cradled his face in his hands as she continued on toward the wings.

  As he walked away down the hall in search of his dispersed props crew, tapping his cheek, checking for blood, another door opened into the hallway, and Charlie breezed out of the company dressing room, costume, makeup, ready to go. He stopped, so much he wanted to say, and yet she looked up at him, her expression transforming from stony to confused to smirking.

  “Looks like someone beat me to it,” she said to him.

  “Luckily I have another.” He turned his uninjured cheek toward her. “How’s your left hook?”

  “We’ll see, but I’m busy till intermission.” She patted him on the back and continued on to the wings.

  * * *

  They hadn’t yet reached intermission when Charlie saw the first sign of trouble. Jasmine, who was indeed as beautiful and bold a Hermia as Charlie had seen, became shrill, testy in a way she hadn’t played the part in rehearsal. It was around the time Lysander falls in love with her rival Helena that Jasmine began to lose it, screaming her lines.

  The audience shifted in their seats, the quiet slowly shattering. And then the full breaking point: when Hermia was to go searching for her love, Jasmine stood at center stage, beginning her monologue then shaking her head, looking directly into the orchestra seats.

  “You know what? I don’t know why I should bother looking for Lysander, anyway,” Jasmine told the audience. Anyone who knew anything about Shakespeare began whispering. “What’s the fucking point, anyway? He’s not going to want me when I get there because now he’s in love with Helena for reasons that make no sense whatsoever. I don’t get it. I do not get it. I hate this fucking play...”

  She went on like this while Charlie was literally trapped in the air above the stage, waiting to fly back in, Mason too transfixed by Jasmine’s tirade to notice Charlie flailing to get his attention, to bring her down. That’s when Charlie heard it. “Maybe Lysander really needs someone like Charlie SAVOY! Maybe THAT would just solve EVERYTHING!” Jasmine shouted, a mocking, vitriolic tone, thrashing her body, pulling off pieces of her costume and throwing them at the audience, who gamely caught them, still confused.

  “Enough, Jasmine.” Matteo appeared behind her like a human straitjacket, trying to drag her into the wings, but she put up a fight, swinging her arms and kicking her legs.

  Where the hell was Nick? He was the only audience Jasmine seemed to care about.

  “Because Charlie Savoy is just SO SPECIAL...well, let me just tell you...she’s not... I don’t see what the big deal is...anyone can do what she does but she’s just got everyone fucking fooled...” Jasmine went on.

  This was only going to get worse. Desperate, Charlie—out of sight behind a screen and at least a dozen feet up—took a deep breath and unclipped her harness. Down she fell, landing on her feet at the back of the stage. She ran into the wings in time to see Jasmine headbutt Matteo, giving him a bloody nose and forcing him to release her. The audience gasped, murmured, unsure of what they were watching. On stage, everyone stood frozen in shock except for Chase, who took Matteo’s place attempting to restrain Jasmine.

  “And let me tell you another thing about Charlie...” she began again.

  Charlie ran to Mason, who looked shocked to see her not in the sky and let go of the ropes. “Go help Chase, pull Jasmine over the trapdoor,” she ordered him, then ran down through the twisting corridors, to the greenroom.

  Charlie ducked her head inside long enough to gauge whether the actors were positioned over the trap yet. The apprentices not currently onstage watched the video feed in silence as Mason and Chase held on to a bucking Jasmine. It would be only a few more steps.

  Charlie sprinted to the room beneath the stage, where an apprentice sat glued to a soundless monitor, likely wondering what was happening.

  “Open the trap!” Charlie yelled at him now.

  “Seriously?” he asked, calm. “It’s not that easy, it’s not like a sunroof. It’s a fairly antiquated system. I need a minute.”

  “Open. The trap. NOW!”

  He flew out of his chair, frantic, and together they shoved a crash mat in place beneath the hinged opening. Quickly, he unlatched the locks so only a large pin held it in place. Then he pulled that pin, and at once, all three of them fell to the mats. Jasmine was still shouting as they landed in a heap, groaning, wind knocked out of them. Chase and Mason had lost their grip on impact, and Jasmine scrambled to her feet and ran off, a blur of her sweeping gown, like a wild animal suddenly freed.

  “I just saved you from yourself,” Charlie yelled after her, offering a hand to the men.

  Above them all came another crash: the curtain falling too fast, and screams. She glanced at the monitor to see a few fallen actors flat on the stage, not having moved out of the way fast enough.

  Finally, finally, Nick’s voice over the speaker, attempting to sound calm. “Due to unforeseen issues, we are unable to continue tonight’s performance. We will reschedule on a later date.”

  As Chase and Mason rehashed the trauma like survivors of a natural disaster, Charlie slipped away. She replayed Jasmine’s words—Charlie is nothing. Not anymore. She has everyone fooled. Every last one of you—as she crashed open the stage door and out into the steamy night. She shed the gauzy layers of her costume as she ran, until she was left just in her bodysuit underneath, like a ghost haunting the town. She jogged all the way home, so much mad energy, her blood, bones, muscles, every nerve vibrating with anger...and with the fear that those words were true.

  She shook the front door, locked—it was hardly ever locked but at least it wasn’t the dead bolt. Her bag was still at the theater, so she kicked open the door, strode up to her room, flung her duffel onto the bed and began shoving her clothes inside. She didn’t care about her sentencing or Nick or anything. She was done here.

  52

  AT LEAST NO ONE’S TALKING ABOUT US ANYMORE

  Sierra had never fully grasped the meaning of the word pandemonium until now. She and Ethan had been in the wings, providing a full view of the audience, the stage and even backstage. When Charlie had crashed to the ground like a fallen angel, they had traded looks as though unsure they had seen the same thing. Then all hell had broken loose: that trapdoor swallowed her castmates with a thud, closing behind them, and Jasmine’s madness seemed to transfer to the theater, permeating everyone’s being. The audience, furious and in utter disbelief over the cancellation, streamed out of the auditorium in a roar. The rest of the cast on stage, recovered from the falling curtain, finally snapped to, erupting into chaotic chatter and speculation as they flowed backstage:

  “Who knew Jasmine Beijao was crazy?”

  “Maybe that wolf movie fucked her up, like De Niro in Taxi Driver?”<
br />
  “She sure hates Charlie Savoy.”

  “She kind of has a point.”

  “She’s just bitter because she knows she doesn’t have the chops Charlie does.”

  “It’s the love triangle, it’s always about a love triangle.”

  And on and on.

  Now Sierra and the group—Ethan, Alex, Harlow, Tripp, freshly changed—emerged from the greenroom.

  “I actually don’t mind ending early tonight,” Alex said, stretching his arms as though just waking up.

  “I’m basically sleepwalking,” Ethan said.

  Sierra was about to agree when Nicholas stormed straight down the middle of the hall, parting their group. A directing fellow, a stage manager and Matteo Denali all trailed him. He ignored the questions, looked at Matteo. “You okay?”

  “I’ll live,” Matteo said, holding a fistful of paper towels to his bloodied nose. Then Nicholas raised his hand, barking at the hallway, “Everyone, go home. We’re done here tonight.” He whipped around the corner, no one daring to follow.

  “You heard the man,” Alex said, waving their group out.

  “At least no one’s talking about us anymore,” Ethan said, holding the door for Sierra. “And by us, I mean all of us. Who went to New York. And maybe partied too hard.”

  She was glad he was still thinking about it too. But something else nagged at her. For instance, as a friend, she would normally tell him that tonight was the time to say something to Charlie. Charlie would never be a better audience for his confession about that letter than now, after being made a verbal punching bag by a gorgeous, heartless superstar. Sierra felt for Charlie and what she had endured coming back here, that was not an easy thing to do. But the other part of Sierra cared only about finding a way to repeat last night with Ethan and mean it.