Look Both Ways(64)

I can’t believe she’s finally offering this now. “I would really, really love to,” I say. “But Russell and I have meetings with the directors and designers all day.”

Her face falls. “Oh. Right. You’re all important now. Maybe we could go out for dinner, at least?”

“I doubt we’ll have enough of a break to go anywhere. I’m sorry.”

“All right,” she says, and I can tell she’s struggling not to sound annoyed. “Just text me when you’re done for the night, I guess, and I’ll figure something out?”

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks for being flexible.”



“It’s fine. Write us something great, okay?” She’s smiling, but I know her heart’s not in it. I tell myself it’s enough that she’s trying to be happy for me, even if she doesn’t totally mean it. She’s not used to my having priorities at Allerdale other than her.

Russell and I spend the whole day in production meetings, discussing the logistics and structure of Bye Bye Banquo with the directors, stage managers, and design team. At first I’m too intimidated to speak much, but people keep asking for my opinions like they really matter, and I finally start to relax and concentrate on the show instead of what everyone thinks of me. When my ideas go up on the whiteboard right next to the directors’ and Bob’s and Marcus’s, I feel that same pure joy that always breaks across my family’s faces when they sing. This is so much better than performing, and I never want it to end.

But my euphoria stutters to a halt when the meeting finally wraps up and I look at my phone for the first time since this morning. It’s nearly eleven, and I have four missed calls from my mom and six texts from Zoe asking where I am. My mom can wait—I emailed her about the fire last night and told her everyone was fine—but Zoe’s going to be pissed that I’m running so late. I text her that I’m on my way home, then practice apologies in my head as I walk back toward Ramsey. She probably planned something special for us even though she was upset, and I’ve paid her back by ignoring her all day. I’m the worst sort-of-girlfriend ever.

When I get to the dorm, she’s waiting for me on the front steps in a little black dress with a flouncy, fluffy skirt. “Hey,” I say as I rush toward her. “I’m so, so sorry I didn’t get out until now. I know wherever you were going to take me is probably closed, and I totally suck for ruining our night, but you look really pretty, and I’m—”



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.