It wasn’t really Ximena’s fault. The director and playwright were still arguing about whether the ending should hint that all three principals would form some kind of happy throuple after the curtain dropped—a patent sop to Boyd’s fans—or whether they’d hew closer to the original Shakespeare, in which Ximena’s character spent the entire play running as fastas she could from Boyd’s affections, only to change her mind in the last scene. The kiss kept getting added, dropped, applied to Tom instead, then put back on Ximena’s reluctant lips.
Tom was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to be there. Whywashe there instead of with Rosie?
“You’ve got to sell this, or the whole arc falls apart,” the director urged Ximena. “Put your back into it.”
“My backhurts,” Ximena snarled. “And I need to pee. This isn’t working. I can’t bend him over my hip—he’s like a foot taller than me.”
“Then at least give us a little tongue,” the director said. “Nobody is going to believe you chose him over Tom if you don’t nail this kiss.”
Ximena made a long-suffering face. “Can I slap him on the ass or something instead?”
The director’s lower eyelid twitched, and he wandered offstage to do two minutes of breathing exercises rather than scream at his principal cast.
“Is there ass slapping in Shakespeare?” Boyd wondered aloud, looking at Tom for confirmation.
Tom shrugged. Shakespeare had been kind of a perv and a lot more lowbrow than most people thought, but this play was toAll’s Well That Ends Wellwhat the live-actionLion Kingwas toHamlet.
“If you’re trying to avoid Boyd’s cooties,” Tom drawled to Ximena, “I think that ship has sailed.”
“His cooties are kicking my bladder,” she muttered under her breath, but she walked back to her mark. When the director had recovered, they took it from the last cue: Ximenaannounced that she’d changed her mind and wanted to marry Boyd, seized him by the shirt collar, and did her best to lay one on him. Even in the original folio, this moment occurred about two pages from the point where Ximena’s character informed the king that Boyd’s character was an irredeemable, lying hooker, so five hundred years of audiences had suspended disbelief about this happy ending.
Ximena finally got Boyd bent backward and their lips glued together, but this time his knees wobbled, Ximena let go of him, and he collapsed to the stage floor, nearly taking out an expensive rented bicycle.
“Sorry, sorry,” Boyd yelped when everyone jumped away from the impact. “I got a little lightheaded.”
“Whatnow?” the director begged.
“I’m on a mustard fast,” Boyd explained, staggering to his knees. “It’s where you only eat foods that are covered in mustard. I’m doing it with just mustard though, so it works faster.”
“Sothat’swhat you smell like,” Ximena moaned. “I can feel my morning sickness coming back.”
Tom covered his face with both palms, wishing for the fifth time in five minutes that Rosie had come home with him. He really needed her to envision how this embarrassing spectacle of a play was going to lead to future fame, artistic satisfaction, and exciting cast parties.
“Boyd, why the hell are you doing a mustard fast?” Tom asked, speaking through his hands.
“I have my shirt off for the entire second act,” Boyd repeated defensively.
“You need to eat a carb before you pass out onstage,” Tom growled, and Boyd gave him a kicked-puppy blink.
“I’m not angry at you,” Tom immediately retracted. “But seriously. This is not okay. I’m making you an appointment with a nutritionist. One with a science degree.”
“Areyouokay?” Boyd rumbled in an undertone.
“Sure,” said Tom.
He wasn’t sure he was. He was still trying to figure out what he could have said to Rosie to convince her.
I promise you don’t have to do it all alone anymore. I promise a million times.He should have said that.
He should have convinced Max first; that would have been the best maneuver. She would have been an easy sell.
Well, Rosie, you can do whatyouwant, but Max and I are going back to New York together. We’re picking up jerk chicken and watchingLove Island: Australiauntil we pass out on the couch. Are you in?
He’d try that next. He’d try that tomorrow.
The director despairingly announced that they’d wrap for the day, and the house lights came back up. Tom didn’t immediately look out at the audience, because he’d pulled his phone out to look up the train schedule. It was Boyd’s happy noise of recognition that alerted him to scan past the crew and theater staff who’d stretched out in the front row to watch them stumble through cue to cue.
Enter Rose Kelly, stage left, once again. She was seated in the second row with her embroidery hoop and big purse, ankles delicately crossed as she waited for Tom to finish rehearsal.Dressed in the Manhattan commuter’s uniform of waterproof jacket and comfortable sneakers, like she’d stopped by to pick him up on her way home from work. Max was on the aisle to her right, walker folded behind her seat, a journal in her lap like she was going to give him some notes on today’s rehearsal.
