Everyone poured their hearts into each number—and the standing ovations made it worth every sleepless night.
But after Friday’s show, Aster lost her voice. She’s sipping warm tea with honey, trying to rest as best she can. Meanwhile, the damn stage floor mechanism broke—the one that lets the students drop down.
I’ve been working tirelessly to get it up and running again.
My phone buzzes with notifications—the championship game is over.Virginia Bay won.
I fire off a quick text to Donovan.
Me:Congrats on your win, Coach. I can’t wait to see you so we can celebrate ??*party popper emoji*
Three hours and a minor engineering miracle later, the stage is finally fixed. Ansel walks into the auditorium—she came back to pick me up.
Mr. Lightheart steps out of his office and onto the stage to test the lever. It glides like butter.
“Thank you, Stella, for your hard work and dedication to this mechanism. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he says, descending the steps to the front of the house.
“You’d have a broken lever,” I reply with a tired laugh.
He holds out a hand to Ansel. “Hello there. I’m Theo Lightheart.”
She takes his hand, but doesn’t shake it—just stares, mouth open like shewantsto speak but has completely forgotten how.
“Theo, I’m sorry, I should’ve introduced you. This is Ansel—my roommate and best friend.”
He smiles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope to see you tomorrow.”
As we head out the doors and toward the car, Ansel grabs my arm and whisper-shouts, “What theactual fuck, Stella?! Why didn’t you tell me the theater daddy looks like a young Jeff Goldblum—slutty little glasses and all!”
I link arms with her as she continues gushing the whole walk. “Ansel, what about Colin?” I ask.
She smirks.
“Colinwho?”
We go back to my house with the take-out food we get from Honey and Heat. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of my bed, eating, Ansel looks at me, her eyes rolling to the back of her head, and what sounds like an orgasm slipping through her mouth. “This is the best damn taco I have ever had.”
Ansel and I sit for hours, curled up on opposite sides of the bed, partially empty food containers sitting between us.She’s still reeling—fully unhinged—over how stupidly sexy Mr. Lightheart is.
“He’s like… if a tortured playwright and a hot literature professor had a love child and gave him perfect forearms,” she groans, tossing a pillow dramatically.
I snort into my drink. “You are so far gone.”
She ignores me, eyes glazed over in fantasy. “Stella.Stella.The way he said ‘mechanism’? I swear my ovaries did a tap number.”
I’m laughing too hard to speak.
Ansel fans herself. “Listen, I don’t need him to write me a sonnet. I just need him to pin me against the costume rack and whisper stage directions in my ear.”
I choke. “Ansel!”
She shrugs, unapologetic. “What? I want him to give me a standing ovation…in more ways than one.”
Right on cue, her phone buzzes. She glances at it, then groans, flopping backward against the pillow like she’s just been personally attacked.
“It’s Colin,” she mutters.
I raise an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. And what does Mr. Art History want?”
