No doubt about it, her logic was sound. But on Saturday, Cricket was almost in tears after learning that Hannah’s UTI had cleared up and she would be returning to the play in just a few days. Cricket was desperate for Anne’s assurance that she would be there to see her first—and possibly only—turn as Fairy Wench #2.
So, that Sunday evening, Anne put on her nicest outfit—a black cap-sleeve shift dress her mother had bought her at Bergdorf Goodman a few years before and a pair of heels she had barely broken in—grabbed her coat, and headed for the subway. She wasn’t in a rush, and when the train was held at Fourteenth Street for an extended period of time, she was almost relieved. Yes, she was going to be late, but at least now she could sneak intothe theater unseen, quietly support her friend. Maybe she could even leave early.
When she finally arrived at the off-off-Broadway playhouse where Cricket had instructed her to go, the houselights were down and the half-naked usher dressed in silver fairy wings gave her a disappointed look as he took her ticket and guided her down the dim row of seats toward the stage in the center.
Anne did not expect the space to be this intimate. There were only twenty or so seats set close to the performance space; it almost felt like the guests were part of the show. She had a sudden panic that this might have interactive elements. There was one vacancy available in the back of the three rows where she could blend into the shadows, and the usher motioned for her to take it. Her eyes tried to adjust to the darkness as she stumbled forward, almost falling into the small seat.
There was an actor onstage giving a monologue while she tried to shrug off her coat and scarf.
“Sorry,” she whispered when her leg accidentally bumped into the man next to her.
“You’re good,” he murmured back. The deep timbre was familiar, and she froze.
Oh God.She knew that voice.
Suddenly the lights went up onstage and she looked over to where Freddie Wentworth was seated beside her.
You should say something, she thought. But her mouth stayed shut and her gaze darted away, toward the stage. No amount of avoidance could change how closely they were packed together, though. If she moved even an inch, her shin would be pressed up against Freddie’s knee.
A loud gong suddenly clanged, and the stage was flooded with half-naked fairies battling a robot across an apocalyptic landscape.
“If I be waspish, best beware my fucking sting!” one yelled in a thick Long Island accent, then bared her breasts.
Anne winced. This was going to be awful.
As the lead fairy continued to pontificate, and more scantily clad actors covered in metallic paint took posed positions onstage, Anne’s expectations dipped even lower. While the play was calledGet Shrewed—a gritty reimagining of Shakespeare’sThe Taming of the Shrew, ending in bloodshed and fornication—she couldn’t quite figure out why so many characters fromA Midsummer Night’s Dreamhad been incorporated. Then Freddie shifted so his leg brushed hers, and she suddenly couldn’t focus on anything except where his hand now rested on his knee, dangerously close to her thigh. As the play wore on and the intimate theater crowded with more and more fairies, all dressed in cybernetic wings, the air she shared with Freddie felt so charged she thought she might suffocate.
She shut her eyes to calm her beating heart, but they were pried open by another booming clang of the gong as Cricket entered the stage with a crowd of other fairies and what appeared to be a robot nun. Her metallic bodysuit had pieces strategically cut out so there was more bare skin showing than crushed lamé, while the fairy wings flapped wildly behind her.
More chaos ensued, but Anne tried to keep her focus on her roommate. Despite the fact that her silver leotard was two sizes too small, and her glittery fairy wings were already falling apart by the end of the scene, Cricket did surprisingly well, and she was the one cast member who didn’t off their top or reveal some kind of appendage—papier-mâché or otherwise. Everyone else, though…
“Fucking kiss me, Kate,” Petruchio implored, and then promptly unzipped his pants.
Definitely papier-mâché, Anne thought, and she could have sworn she heard Freddie stifle a laugh.
The play dragged on, and when they mercifully neared the final act—fairies strewn across the stage in a show of bloodshed that smelled suspiciously like ketchup—Anne tried to pinpoint one redeeming element that she could mention to Cricket later. Then Freddie shifted again. It was slight, just a resettling into the small seat, but suddenly her shoulder was pressed into his arm. She could hear the soft cadence of his breath, smell the scent of his aftershave…
Oh. She remembered that smell. His clothes might have changed, his hair, too, but that distinct mix of sandalwood and citrus, that hint of cinnamon as well, hadn’t changed.
She stole a brief glance down to where his hand was still splayed on his knee. She remembered that hand, too, the way his long fingers intertwined with hers in countless movies, endless walks. The way he held her…
Suddenly the entire theater went black. A moment later the stage lights came on again and there was a smattering of applause as the cast trotted back to the center of the stage, doing their bows before exiting as the houselights came up.
The audience stood in silence, looking at one another like they needed to confirm a shared hallucination. Meanwhile Anne avoided looking at Freddie at all, desperate to grab her coat and leave. That’s when James and Ellis appeared from further down the row.
“Well, that was interesting,” Ellis murmured.
“Question,” James said, holding up his hand. “Was the donkey character supposed to be a robot or a fairy?”
“There was a donkey?” Anne and Freddie asked in unison.
Oh God. She could already feel her cheeks flush.
“Ha!” James pointed at the two of them with glee. “Jinx!”
Freddie shook his head and smiled. It looked so much like that smile Anne remembered from college that she had to look away.
Thankfully, Cricket picked that moment to appear back onstage.
