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I freeze and nearly drop the container of mushroom ravioli. “You got it? The position with the Armadillos?”

“I did.” She drifts toward the table, where Lina has already commandeered the kitchen counters. True to form, Lina refuses to let us eat leftovers, so she’s unpacking fresh supplies to make dinner.

Zoe plays it low-key, but I know better. The Armadillos are Orlando’s pro hockey team. It’s like finding out you’ve won a lifetime pass to Disney World. She’s wanted to work for them since she was a kid. And now she will. I couldn’t be any happier for her.

We dive into the food, the conversation quickly dissolving into the pros of Zoe’s new job. As I listen, I can’t help wondering what it must feel like to finally see the dream you’ve been chasing within reach. I’m genuinely happy for her. I just wish I knew what my own future looked like.

We follow the usher down the aisle past the scores of wealthy donors dressed as if they’re attending a ball until we’re in the third row from the front. “This is you, ladies,” he says.

“Thanks,” we say, climbing over a few annoyed couples who have to tuck their knees to let us through. I shoot them apologetic smiles, but it’s kind of their own fault for choosing to be at the end of the row. Sorry, not sorry.

“I have literal goose bumps,” Zoe whispers, dropping into her seat and staring up at the towering height of the stage. “I’ve never been this close. Ever. I am officially in your debt for the rest of my life.”

“Stop,” I say, peeling off my jacket. “I didn’t do anything. The tickets were all Max. If you want to thank someone, thank him.”

I open my Playbill and flip past the glossy ads for luxury watches and local law firms until I hit the cast pages. I run my finger over the rows of headshots.

Printed under the black-and-white headshot of the man from last night is the name Max St. Millay. I scan the lines of small print, absorbing his bio.

Max St. Millay is delighted to serve as a dance captain and perform in the ensemble of Les Misérables on its U.S. national tour. A London native, he trained at the Westminster Ballet School before studying musical theatre at the London Academy of Music. West End credits include Hamilton, Matilda the Musical, and Mary Poppins. When he’s not onstage, Max collects postcards from every tour stop—two shoeboxes down and counting.

Interesting. Ballet background. Collects postcards.

“Max? Who is he? And how exactly did you get the tickets?” Zoe asks, shifting her attention from the stage to me.

Busted. I look up from the program, not sure what to say. “Um . . .”

Lina, who is studying the same page as me, beats me to the punch. “Max is a man she met at the restaurant last night.”

Zoe inhales sharply. “Hold on. Why didn’t you lead with this during dinner?”

Way to throw me under the bus. I shoot Lina a “look what you’ve done” glare that she completely ignores. “It’s not that newsworthy. There was a group of rowdy guys who made a mess before closing. Max was the one keeping an eye on them. He forgot his wallet and came back to get it this morning.”

“And?” Zoe prompts, leaning in so close our shoulders are pinned together.

Darn it. She’s not buying it. “And nothing. He felt bad about the headache his friends caused and gave us the tickets as a ‘no hard feelings’ gesture. End of story.”

Zoe narrows her eyes, her “best friend BS” detector continuing to hum at full volume. She starts to ask something more, but thankfully, the house lights begin to dim.

I’m saved by the swell of the orchestra and the ripple of applause through the crowd. I know this isn’t the end of the interrogation. Zoe doesn’t let things go that easily. But at least I’ll have a solid three hours to table my thoughts.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the opening-night performance of Les Misérables . . .”

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I say, feeling like a preteen who’s been caught sneaking a peek at her mom’s issue of Cosmopolitan.

Zoe, Lina, and I are pressed against a cold metal barrier about five feet from the stage door. There are about twenty other people here too—all women who have their phones, Playbills, and sharpies ready.

“There’s nothing weird about it.” Zoe rolls her eyes, gesturing to the huddle of fans. “They’re waiting for autographs and selfies too. We’ve talked about doing this for years.”

“Yes. The keyword here is talked,” I counter, my voice dropping. “But that was before.”

A beat of silence passes.

“Before Max?” Lina adds helpfully.

Zoe turns. “Is that what you’re worried about? Being embarrassed that the guy who gave you the tickets will see us fangirling?”

I stay silent, which is the equivalent of shouting a giant “yes.”