“That sucks,” says Maggie.
“Sucks,” confirms Amelia. “Then, when it’s proven that it was all a lie and that Hero’s precious virtueisintact, he takes her back. And she’s like, Yay! Which is kind of gross. And then they live happily ever after. So to answer your original question, yes, it’s a good part, the second female lead in the play, and I’m lucky to have it, but I’d be lying if I said I agreed with our girl Hero’s choices. You know?”
“Right,” says Maggie. “I know.” Amelia is so much more interesting than anyone she knows on Block Island. She’s doing things that are interesting, and she’s having important, interesting thoughts about them, and she pulls off a nose ring so well.
“Anyway,” says Amelia. “Enough about Shakespeare! Tell me about your friend. Randy?”
“Riley.”
“Riley. Tell me about Riley.”
Maggie drains Truly Number Two and sets the can down on the wall next to her. The party is still raging, but they’re in the suburbs of it. Amelia is looking at Maggie like she really cares about what she has to say, and it feels so good to have someone listen to her that even though it isextremelyoff-brand for Maggie to spill a private story to someone she’s just met, here she is, telling Amelia about picking up Riley’s phone and seeing the photos and also about the conversation they had after. “So it’s just...” she finishes. “It just bummed me out. Like really? Is that actually how everyone has to be? I mean, is that whatyoudo for boys?”
“Never,” says Amelia. “I can say with absolute honesty that I have never sent a nude selfie to a boy.”
“You haven’t?”
“I haven’t.”
“Okay.” Relief floods over Maggie. “I don’t want that to be true. I mean, I haven’t even had my first kiss yet. I’m so behind.”
There’s a pause, and then Amelia says, “I could kiss you.”
Maggie looks up quickly. Amelia is studying her with a face that’s friendly and open. “You?”
“Sure. Why not? You’d have the first one over with, and you could move on.”
Maggie considers this. “Are you... I mean, I don’t even know if I am—”
Amelia takes her hand and winds their fingers together. “You’re adorable,” she says. “Sweet Maggie. You don’t have to decide your whole life right now, what you are or aren’t. It’s a beautiful night. You’re at a party. Just...”
Just what? thinks Maggie. But Amelia doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead she leans toward Maggie, and Maggie doesn’t lean away. Amelia’s lips are slightly salty, and a little bit sweet too. At first Maggie is too stunned to kiss back. Then something inside her wakes up, and she’s moving her lips too, and then Amelia parts Maggie’s lips with her tongue, ever so lightly, and this goes on for—how long? Minutes? Hours? Days? Long enough for Maggie to feel something inside her start to open—until Amelia’s phone rings, and she pulls away from Maggie.
Don’t stop, thinks Maggie. But also, Do stop.
“I’m sorry,” Amelia whispers. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been waiting for this call from my agent, that’s why I didn’t put my phone in the bucket. Don’t tell anyone.”
“That’s okay,” says Maggie, but she’s not sure if Amelia heard her, because she’s already talking on the phone. Amelia walks a little bit away from Maggie but Maggie can still hear her give a yelp of joy and say, “I got it? Are you serious? Please tell me you’re not fucking around with me—yes. Yes! Absolutely. Tell them yes yes yes. I’ll call Northwestern on Monday.”
When she comes back to Maggie her eyes are blazing and shesays, “I can’t believe it. I can’tbelieveit. I just got the phone call of a lifetime. Holy shit. Pinch me. I’m so glad I didn’t put my phone in the bucket.” She holds out her bare arm, but Maggie doesn’t think sheactuallymeans for Maggie to pinch her, so she just sort of pats it.
Then there is a roar, and for a moment all of the sound from the party stops, and a man strides up the walk bellowing, “Samantha!” and that’s when Maggie gets on her bike and gets the heck out of there, because the great Timothy Fleming is home, and he’s not happy.
Timothy
Timothy is in the rehearsal barn, puttering around and seething. He’d left the house as soon as he’d awoken—he didn’t want to see Sam, he didn’t want to see Gertie, he didn’t want to see anyone!—so instead of making coffee at home he’d gone straight to Joy Bombs for a triple latte with an extra shot. And he feels—nothing. Still tired. Well, tired and jittery. Is that worse than tired and not jittery? He doesn’t know. He’s just happy to be alone. He’sso angrywith Sam. On the way to Newport he couldn’t stop replaying their fight in his mind. She’d called him jealous; he’d called her self-indulgent. Then, instead of talking it out a day or two later, as he’d hoped they might do, she’d thrown a party at Timothy’s house, which isn’t even Timothy’s house! It’s Floyd’s house! He’s incensed. She’d apologized, over and over again, but still. He’s seething.
His sister comes into the barn. She’s holding her own cup of Joy Bombs coffee, and she’s smiling. “Morning, sunshine!” she says. Her skin looks fresh, her eyes look bright, her voice sounds chipper. This is the last thing he needs.
“What are you doing here?” Amy doesn’t typically come to the island on Sundays even if they have rehearsal. Sunday is her day at home with Greg.
“I’m meeting the curtain person at eleven,” she says, “and I leftmy notebook here on Friday.” She peers at him. “What areyoudoing here? And why do you look so awful?”
“Because I didn’t sleep!” he roars. “Because I got home from Newport at midnight.”
His phone buzzes. It’s Alexa. He ignores the call.
Amy looks confused. “There’s a ferry that gets in at midnight?”
