Ren:Are you at work? I was thinking of stopping by
Stevie’s thumbs hovered over the screen. She didn’t often lie to Ren—in fact, with the exception of dating Iris, Stevie couldn’t think of a single lie she’d ever told her best friend—but she also didn’t want Ren’sI know what’s best for youattitude to spoil her good mood right now.
Stevie:No. Running errands. Talk later?
“I know you didn’t just fucking lie to me.”
Stevie yelped, her phone flying into the air and landing with a crack on the stainless steel bar.
“I hope it’s broken,” Ren said. They stood at the bar just a little to the left of the espresso machine where Stevie hadn’t noticed them. “I really, really do.”
“Ren, Jesus.” Stevie grabbed her phone, thankful to see the screen was still whole. She stuffed the device in her back pocket and got to work on her next order. “What are you doing?”
“Iam being a faithful friend.” They shifted and settled on a barstool. “What areyoudoing, Stefania?”
Stevie finished up the last drink in her line of orders and set it on the serving counter. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”
“Busy.”
“The play. Work.”
“Iris.”
“Well, yeah.” Stevie couldn’t help the grin that settled on her mouth. “I like her.”
“Okay,” Ren said. “Fine. What about New York?”
Stevie sighed. Ren always did get right to the point. “I don’t know.”
“How can you not know? Stevie. It’s the Delacorte. It’s Thayer Calloway. It’s theDelacorte.”
Stevie braced her hands on the bar, focused her gaze on the drops of spilled milk and espresso. “I know that.”
“Do you?” Ren asked, their brows lifting into their swooping hair. “Because it looks like you don’t know shit. This is your dream, Stevie. For the last, what? Five years? You’ve talked about how you need to up your game, you need to expand your craft, you need to get the hell out of the Pacific Northwest and into a place where you can act full-time.”
“I’ve never said I wanted to get out of the Pacific Northwest.”
“Well, fine, I said it and you know it’s true.”
“Plenty of people act full-time in Portland, Ren. Look at Adri.”
Ren laughed, but it wasn’t a mirthful sound. “Adri is one dropped donor away from having a heart attack at age twenty-eight. You really want that kind of stress?”
Stevie scoffed. “You think I won’t live paycheck to paycheck if Ididleave Bitch’s and tried acting full-time—and in New York of all places? I’m already barely making ends meet. There are no guarantees with this kind of life, Ren.”
“Then why the hell do you keep doing it?”
Ren’s question settled between them, Stevie’s breathing and heart rate already elevated. She just stared at her friend, no answer on her tongue.
“Yeah,” said Ren, who always seemed to have an answer. “You do it because you love it, and you’re fucking great at it. Better than anyone I’ve ever seen on stage, and I’m not just saying that. Stevie. Come on. What are you so scared of?”
Stevie shook her head, looked away. Ren’s question had infinite answers, everything from the mundane to existential. Failing. Being alone. Navigating the New York subway system. Running out of money. Auditioning and auditioning and auditioning with no callbacks. Letting Dr. Calloway down. Acting on stage next to a legitimately famous actor and making a fool of herself. Rats. Not being able to afford her medication.
You name it, Stevie was probably scared of it.
And then there was—
“Is this about Iris?” Ren asked.
