“Glue’s not gonna fix this,” Richie says, irritated.
I set the canoe out of the way. “It’s worth a try.”
Richie grunts. “I had your confidence once. Then you turn sixty and start thinking twice before walking up stairs without rails.”
“Hey. That was my first staircase,” I say, smirking at his reference to the first show we did together seven years ago when I was starting out. Every now and then, I’d pick up jobs helping with load-ins, which is how I met Richie.
“You figure out the set piece numbers yet?” he asks.
“Not yet, but it’s going to be great,” I say with an upbeat attitude. “It’ll be like a puzzle. I love those.”
Putting the sets together takes hours and a lot of coordination. We did not need this hold-up.
Richie barks a laugh. “I’d put it on the team that messed this up. You’re very good at saying yes to things you maybe shouldn’t. Hey, you still in for Fantasy Soccer? I assume so, Mr. Winning Streak.”
“Sure. Yeah. Count me in,” I say.
“You got it. Have fun,” he says, clapping me on the back as he leaves.
“This is no big deal,” I mumble to myself.
I flip through the set of blueprints, cataloging what should be here. For this show, there’s the log cabin mansion’s suite, the hotel lobby, the main hall for a dance-off, the dock where the two leads kiss, the campfire and log benches, and the canoe for their romantic sunset paddle. And then there are a variety of drops: stars, sunrises, sunsets, and the lake the resort is built on.
Before I can figure this out, one of my stagehands informs me that some of the mechanical pieces that need to get rolled onstage keep getting caught in the tracks. I take a break from the set pieces to address that issue.
Everything seems to pop up at once, and I lose track of time and send everyone to lunch late. It’s not the smoothest start, but hey,that’s showbiz. I’ll use the next thirty minutes to come up with an action plan. It’s all going to be great.
And then something actually great happens.
This is Hazel. Rain check pizza?the text from an unknown number reads.
I respond right away.I’ll take the pizza, but not the rain.
“You’re soaked. Again,” Hazel says, looking me up and down. “You know, I said ‘rain check pizza’ metaphorically.”
Her cheeks are pink from the cold, her eyes bright. She’s in a gray wool sweater, light jeans that fray at the bottoms, and black combat boots. I can’t believe she’s standing in front of me. I thought I had lost her for good a couple of nights ago.
I raise my hat and push my hair off my forehead. “I’m now convinced that I have my very own storm cloud following me around.”
Hazel nods. “A stranger gave me their umbrella. Odd, right?”
Something odd has been going on, but I don’t know that it has to do with umbrellas.
I open the door to Curtain Call Pizzeria and follow Hazel in as the scent of tomatoes, cheese, and spicy pepperoni welcomes us. When she texted yesterday, I figured there was no better place than the best pizza shop in all of Manhattan. What would typically be booths are old theater seats. The walls are plastered in Broadway posters andPlaybills. Above us, hundreds of props dangle from the ceiling: lamp shades, brooms, signed casts, pies, newspapers, cameras.
“Your usual spot’s taken, Logan, but help yourself to wherever you want,” Suze says to us, adjusting the black vest all the servers wear, as though they’re theater ushers.
“Thanks, Suze,” I say, introducing her and Hazel to each other.Drake, another regular here, waves to me from his preferred seat at the counter. He’s doing the crossword puzzle, like always. As Hazel and I walk to an open table near the window, I say, “I know the location’s touristy, but between the food and the vibes, this place is an underrated gem.”
I gesture for Hazel to take the seat closest to the window so she can get the best view of the place. Triple-pocket menus made to look like oversizePlaybills are waiting for us on the table.
“It’s really nice to see you. I’m happy you texted,” I tell her once we’re settled. “It was because you needed more tie-dye in your life, wasn’t it?”
“Exactly. I ran out of napkins,” she jokes. “In your texts, you said you needed to talk to me about something, and I think I know what it’s about.” She removes the lottery ticket from her bag and sets it on the table. “This is yours.”
“Ohhh, so that’s where it went,” I say, playing coy.
She narrows her eyes. “You shouldn’t have put the ticket in my bag, Logan.”
