Page 102

Like most British pubs, or at least the few I’ve been to, the lighting inside is dim. It smells of stale ale and chips. There’s a few potted petunias near the windows and British flag bunting near the bar.

I scan the room, my eyes finally landing at a table in the far back. Max is there, hunched over a pint, staring at his script with a glum expression. My pulse picks up a few beats. My face falls. Did his audition not go well?

I swallow hard. “Max,” I say, approaching slowly, ignoring the alarm bells starting to ring in my head.

He looks up, as if he’s surprised to see me. “Hiya, Katie.”

I slide into the chair across from him, setting my bags down. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

He lets out a breath, eyes dropping back to the script. His fingers twitch against the edge of the page, like he’s debating whether to pick it up again.

“I got it,” he says flatly.

The words take a second to register. “Max,” I breathe, a smile breaking through before I can stop it. “That’s. . .that’s incredible.” I lean forward, reaching for his hand. “You did it. You’re the lead. In the West End.” I laugh, unable to contain it. “Max, that’s huge.”

He nods once, but his expression doesn’t change.

My smile falters. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he says. But it doesn’t sound like it. “They want me to start rehearsals on Thursday. Full-time.”

I blink, the celebratory bubble in my chest losing a bit of its pressure. “Thursday? As in this week?”

He nods, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. “They want to crack on as soon as possible. The creative team just dropped a stack of completely new act-one script revisions on me. The director wants a totally different, darker interpretation for Eros than what we worked on in the studio.”

I let that settle for a second. “That . . . is a lot.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “You’re telling me.”

“But,” I say carefully, trying to soothe the panic rolling off him. “You’ve come this far. You’re not walking into this unprepared. You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

He nods again and buries his head in his hands.

A server appears at the edge of the table. “Can I get you something to drink?”

I glance at Max. He doesn’t look up.

“Just two waters for us for now, please,” I say. The server nods and disappears.

Max finally lifts his head, but his eyes look right through me, tracking something invisible on the wall.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “My head’s just . . .” He gestures vaguely toward the stack of pages.

I nod, waiting.

Waiting for him to notice the dress.

To ask how my meeting went.

Or ask why I’m smiling.

He doesn’t.

I could be a mirage for all he knows. The harsh reality begins to prickle against my skin.

I clear my throat, trying to ignore the ache building in my chest. “I left you a voicemail earlier.”

That gets his attention. He turns his head to me, his brows furrowed. “Oh, I think I saw it. I haven’t—” He gestures vaguely toward his phone sitting face down on the table. “I haven’t listened yet. I needed to process all the director’s notes.”