The Summer Set Read online

  And while he waited for that miracle, he still had a first rehearsal of Romeo and Juliet to set up. Even that felt like a challenge. The names scrawled in Sharpie on each script no longer looked like words, but resembled abstract art, graffiti tags, hieroglyphs. He had now inadvertently set himself at the head of the table and Charlie at the foot, which looked too much like a dinner party thrown by the two of them. Too much like a scene that had actually happened, years ago, when they had that apartment in New York even though Charlie could never cook worth a damn and they all ended up ordering Chinese instead. And still it was the best dinner party any of them had ever been to, because it was that heady year when they traveled the world, premiering their movie and collecting awards, and he and Charlie were magic.

  He walked offstage to the fly rail and kicked the back wall. He was reading too much into this seating arrangement. He grabbed the bottles of water, slammed one down at each spot along the table. So, maybe he wasn’t a guy who could let things go. He switched Charlie’s seat with Matteo’s, placing the most esteemed cast member at the foot of the table. Yes, that made sense, and as an added bonus, he wouldn’t have to look at Charlie and her electric-green eyes the entire time.

  * * *

  Nick found himself drifting during the read-through. He had forgotten how Charlie’s voice, its timbre and tone on something like this, Shakespeare, could transform. It was elastic and alive, no trace of the barbs and bite marring her offstage interaction with him. More than a few times, he got lost in her lines, let them wrap around him—the way he imagined a pleased audience would. But he wouldn’t permit his gaze to stray from the printed page. When he harnessed the courage, briefly, during one of the final scenes between Juliet and her nurse, he found Charlie—who had arrived ten minutes late, testy, climbing on the seats again—looking at him, through him, with those penetrating eyes, slouching, arms folded.

  Her script closed.

  She had been doing this all from memory.

  His body processed that discovery as a surging heartbeat. And a rare feeling that he had done something right, for this place, by bringing her here.

  13

  HE DOESN’T BOTHER WITH TYPES ANYMORE

  The sun had just begun to set, the sky a perfect fiery haze that reminded Ethan of home, in a good way. Baseball games on the giant flat screens at Poets & Pints, happy hour in full swing, Ethan shot out of the kitchen, oversize bowl in hand, just as Charlie Savoy walked through the front door, followed by Matteo Denali and Danica Rainier.

  And he promptly dropped Chase Embers’s grilled salmon salad—dressing on the side, extra salmon, hold the croutons—onto the floor. He crouched down to scoop the greens back into the bowl (a challenge, this salad being particularly well chopped), as the trio walked past him to their costar. Chase had arrived minutes before, calling in his order on the way, then settled into the reserved table by the glass wall, as though on display to passersby, the best advertising any restaurant could hope for. There he sipped his iced tea, tapped away on his phone and looked up often enough to catch any eyes on him.

  Ethan rushed Chase’s replacement salad, took a deep breath and counseled himself, Get back on that fucking horse. What he always said even though the metaphor was fraught for him. He hadn’t been on a horse since the first time he was bucked off—at age twelve—and vowed never to get on one again. During rehearsal he just sat at the end of the table with six other apprentices, he read his part, stayed in his lane. This would be the most interaction he had with the professional company so far and it was freaking him out.

  He grabbed a pitcher of water and set off to their table, wondering if every day would be like this. Would the entire summer feel like one of those zoo parks where you drive through and the animals can walk right up to your car and lick the windshield, and you’re supposed to play it cool even if they could actually eat you alive?

  The four of them were all talking, and Ethan wished he could just stand there and listen, but unfortunately that wasn’t his job.

  “I’m Ethan. What can I get for you?” he introduced himself—mostly just to Matteo Denali, who, despite being a legend, ranked as the least intimidating. Ethan couldn’t bring himself to look at the others, even as he filled their water glasses. He set the pitcher down and stared at his notepad, waiting for orders.

  “I feel like I know you from somewhere?” Charlie said. Ethan didn’t realize she was talking to him, until he finally glanced up to find her smiling at him.

  “Oh, me?” he asked, embarrassed. “Probably, I guess, from...rehearsal? I wasn’t wearing this...” He gestured to his burgundy Poets & Pints T-shirt. He felt like an idiot.

  “It’s Mercutio,” Matteo said. “Nice work today.”

  “Yeah, I know, give me a little credit,” she laughed at Matteo. “I guess that’s it,” she said, unconvinced, looking into Ethan’s eyes in a way that made him wonder if she recognized him from her theater, even though he had only ever seen her there once from a distance. “Anyway—” she shook her head “—Mercutio is always the fan favorite, so lucky you. Own it, you know?”

  All Ethan could do was nod, dazed. “Yes, absolutely,” he said earnestly.

  “I’ll have the salmon salad too.” Danica, who had not been paying attention, closed her menu. “And lemon for this.” She pointed to her water. “Thinly sliced!”

  * * *

  Ethan realized he was maybe overattentive throughout their meal: refilling water glasses that were already nearly overflowing; comping dessert despite being pretty sure he didn’t have the authority to do that. And the rest of the time, he couldn’t resist studying them from afar: Danica—whose hit sitcom had run for nearly a decade—was too stunning to be flirting so strenuously with someone like Chase. And Chase, not minding the attention, still kept an eye on the window and the many girls walking by. And Matteo and Charlie, so secretive in the way of actual, true friends. They ordered cheeseburgers—which felt so human—and occupied their own bubble, speaking in a low volume. Ethan happened upon only tiny fragments, but what he did hear fascinated him.

  “Whatever, Nick canceled, no big deal,” she said, dismissive.

  “In his defense he’s got a lot going on with this place,” Matteo said.

  “I texted this back.” She held out her phone for Matteo to read, which he did aloud.

  “‘Never was there a story of more woe,’” Matteo laughed. Ethan recognized it as the last line of Romeo and Juliet.

  * * *

  As they left Poets, the others debating their next stop (“No, Matteo, we don’t need ice cream, we need wine,” Danica argued), Charlie breathed in the warm evening air, resetting her pulse to this new place.

  Chase slowed to Charlie’s pace. “I bet your vote is for music, like me,” he said, in the way of someone who knew you when you were a different you. “Did you bring your sticks?” He beat the air as though at a drum kit.

  “I’m a little rusty,” she said.

  But as they passed King’s, Charlie halted, her gaze snagged on something—someone—in the window: Nick. Seated across from a woman.

  The glass wall of the restaurant was set many yards back from their spot on the sidewalk, separated by the expansive and bustling outdoor lounge, plenty of camouflage.

  Danica stopped beside Charlie, followed her line of vision. “That’s funny,” Danica said, watching the window—the couple’s candlelit high-top table, bottle of wine—then looking Charlie up and down, as though in clear comparison. “She doesn’t look like his type.”

  “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t bother with types anymore,” Charlie managed in a perfectly neutral tone.

  Danica was right though: professional and formal, this woman definitely wasn’t in the theater world. She wore a silk sheath dress, matching blazer draped on the back of her chair, defined arms and delicate hands leaning on the table, sleek golden hair. She looked to be Charlie’s age
but resembled an actual adult, who paid bills on time, had a healthy 401(k), knew how to cook, wore chunky statement necklaces. A sexy, successful business type—maybe real estate or investment banking, any kind of numbers-driven world that Charlie found vaguely intimidating.

  “Men are literally The. Worst,” Danica went on. “That’s why I don’t date them anymore.” She said it entirely blasé, then walked on.

  After a final glance to see Nick filling his leggy companion’s glass, Charlie set off in the opposite direction. Her body knew where it needed to be.

  As she walked to the end of Warwickshire and crossed over, passing the soccer field, she checked her phone and found a text from hours earlier from Nick, responding to her line from Romeo and Juliet: off-book already? i’m impressed.

  His text disappointed her. She had disappointed herself. She had to remember to maintain her detachment. That was the most important performance she could give.

  * * *

  Ethan slung the last of the trash bags into the overflowing dumpster behind the pub and checked his watch—11:45 p.m.—when something caught his eye in the distance. Nearly all the storefronts lay dark on Warwickshire, bookended by the late-night crowd at the bar near Avon and a small group closing down King’s. The figure cut through the back alleys. A woman entirely soaked from her long dark hair to her shoes leaving wet footprints glistening on the pavement.

  If he wasn’t mistaken, it was Charlie Savoy.

  14

  DO ME A FAVOR, DON’T GET ANY IDEAS

  “...And I need final headshots by Monday!” Nick called out as the cast dispersed after rehearsal. Charlie had leaped down from the stage and was already halfway up the aisle when her name flew from Nick’s mouth.

  “Charlie!” he shouted. She stopped in the aisle, turned to face him. “King’s. Tonight?” He hadn’t thought it through, but they needed to talk, preferably in public where lingering hostility might be kept in check.

  She paused, as though reading his hesitation. “Are you asking me or directing me?”

  “Either way,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Eight o’clock?”

  “I’ll let you know.” She smiled and walked out.

  * * *

  By 7:30 p.m. Nick still had heard nothing from Charlie but changed anyway: jeans, absurdly expensive T-shirt that didn’t look expensive, blazer. Or no blazer? He couldn’t decide. He brought it with him.

  On the way to King’s, the tangerine sky dimming to dusk, he swung by the farmers’ market—which, truthfully, wasn’t on the way; he had to pass King’s to get to it, but he had time. Many of the displays depleted, merchants packing up for the day, he found a booth of locally grown blooms, grabbing a small bouquet of wildflowers. It looked thoughtful without trying too hard, just what he was going for. His phone buzzed. A text from Charlie: Okay Kings at 8. It was now 7:56 p.m. He was proud he had anticipated this.

  He strolled back along Warwickshire, past the college kids, who looked so much younger and less tortured than he had felt at that age. He had reserved his favorite table—the high-top in the front window because it had a nice view and was set apart from the others inside.

  The restaurant’s longtime host, Alfred, greeted him outside with a handshake as he tended to the densely populated patio. “Aren’t those lovely,” Alfred said, pointing to the bouquet before returning to his patrons.

  Perfectly congenial, but it made Nick wonder: Too much? He tossed them in a large planter near the front door and headed to his table.

  * * *

  Charlie burst through the door at five after eight as a raucous early contender for “song of the summer” blared from the speakers. Nick, facing the door, made eye contact with her then returned, poker-faced, to his phone.

  Fifty-four days to go, she thought.

  She was glad he had changed—his clothes, at least—because she had too, throwing on ripped black jeans and a black camisole at the last minute.

  “Oh, you’re here,” he said, expressionless as she reached the table. “Here.” He kicked her chair out from under the table as though this was a new breed of chivalry, but used too much force on the top-heavy high-backed stool, knocking it over with a bang.

  “Wow, a gentleman, thanks,” she deadpanned, watching it fall then hoisting it upright again.

  Nick hopped to his feet, but he was too late to actually help and instead kissed her quickly on the cheek, his hand landing softly on her back. She felt her skin flush—a reflex she wished she could ignore.

  “Welcome to—” The college-aged waiter arrived as they took their seats.

  “Wine,” Nick cut him off, studying the list. “Red. White. No, red.”

  “Malbec, please,” Charlie ordered, Nick’s favorite. Another reflex.

  The waiter nodded and disappeared. They both watched him go, as though willing him to move faster.

  Charlie was on edge, like in the courtroom. Twitchy, she tapped the back of her neck, the lark tattoo, then shook out her hair to cover it.

  “So... Charlie.” Nick searched her eyes, as if he’d find the words there. “How’s this going, so far? For you? The show, I mean.”

  “The show,” she repeated. The flame of the votive on their table danced. She pulled her necklace—a golden pendant of a compass set at due north—across her lips, debating how honest to be. Then she said, “You’re the director. You tell me.”

  “Well, I think—” he started slowly, leaning toward her from across the table. It took effort to not be drawn in by the way he looked at her, always as though she held the answers and they might reflect back to him if he searched deep enough. She had to remember to keep her guard up.

  “I think I’m doing pretty damn well, actually.” She didn’t let him finish, leaned in, arms folded on the table, mirroring him.

  “I was about to say I think so too.” He laughed once.

  “Oh,” she said, surprised. “Then, thank you.” Around them were full tables, energetic diners, the steady drumbeat of the music. But she felt like the two of them had been set in slow motion. Outside their window, streetlamps switched on, the sky dimming to a deep indigo.

  “Then, you’re welcome,” he said, as the waiter reappeared with their wine.

  Glasses generously filled, Nick held his aloft, but before he could say a word, she raised her own. “No toast necessary.” She downed her wine, her heart souring as she recalled viewing this scene from a different angle just a couple nights ago. Him at this very table as she passed by on the sidewalk.

  Somehow he seemed to sense this. He drained his glass, then changed tack. “So you know one of the directing apprentices is doing a revival of our old Black Box show, right?” The words seemed easier for him now, relief in the form of liquid courage and a noncontroversial topic. The fact that he called it “our show,” not “his show,” felt practically like flirting. It reminded her of how Nick had convinced her to star in it, and then told Grayson this was how it would be, not caring that technically he had been expected to cast an apprentice. It had always meant something to her.

  “How old are we that we qualify for a revival?” She whispered it like a secret, hand through her hair.

  “I like to think we were just prodigies then,” he whispered back.

  “Are you cool enough for this though?” she needled. “Can you summon the self-restraint to stay out of their way?”

  “I’m good, I’ve got other creative impulses to stifle,” he said, smiling, as though aware of how charming his self-deprecation could be.

  “You’re doing a spectacular job at that,” she offered.

  “Thank you,” he said, seemingly sincere.

  “But you’ve gotta shake up the parts,” she almost purred, sneaking it in, an actual critique. The idea had struck her at one of the very first rehearsals. Much as she was relieved to be Juliet, she couldn’t help feeling that there was a
better way to do this.

  Nick leaned back in his chair, sizing her up. “Here’s the Charlie I remember,” he said, gesturing for her to go on. “Hit me. How am I failing, already?”

  “Put everyone on a rotation, the four of us, the company,” she said.

  “So you would be Romeo—”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And Chase would be Juliet—”

  “Sometimes. And other times Matteo and Danica or Matteo and Chase or me and Danica. Are you following? Do I need to mock up a flowchart?”

  “There would be rewriting. Of Shakespeare.”

  “Barely. I can take care of that...” She shrugged. She needed some way to occupy those endless hours at night when she wasn’t asleep, counting the cars on Warwickshire. The intense nighttime quiet of this place already had a way of turning up the volume on her thoughts.

  “Then everyone needs extra costumes, extra rehearsals.” He shook his head. “Your ideas are always expensive and impractical—do me a favor, don’t get any more ideas.” He laughed, filled her glass and his, again.