New Town, New Nemesis

I had been in this town for exactly twenty-three minutes and I already had three solid facts to work with: the theater was six blocks from my apartment, there was a coffee shop directly across the street from it, and I was, against all odds, going to like it here.

This was a very good ratio of facts to minutes, honestly. I was proud of myself.

"Rehearsal starts at eleven tomorrow," the director said, dropping a key ring into my palm like he was handing off a relay baton. Two keys, one plastic tag, 3B written on it in permanent marker that had started to fade at the edges. "Company meeting, read-through, music, all the usual first-day stuff. You have the address?"

"Saved in my phone."

"Good. You can walk it. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen if you're slow."

"I don't walk slowly."

He laughed like that was a personality trait he'd have to file away for later, which, fair, because it absolutely was. "There's a grocery store half a mile that way, laundry in the basement. Anything else you need?"

I need approximately four months of confidence and a plan for how I'm going to make an entire town fall in love with me in ninety days, I did not say.

"I think I'm good," I said instead.

"Welcome to town, Tessa."

New apartment. New town. New job. New everyone.

I dragged my suitcase up two flights of stairs that were doing their absolute best impression of stairs from a horror movie and let myself into the place I'd be calling home for the next three months.

It was fine. One bedroom, a kitchen the approximate size of a walk-in closet, carpet in a beige so aggressive it felt personal, and a couch that had clearly survived several previous casts and at least one questionable decision involving red wine.

I unzipped my suitcase on the bed, stared at the chaotic pile of clothes inside for a solid five seconds, and zipped it right back up.

Unpacking was a problem for Tomorrow Tessa. Today Tessa had a town to case.

I changed out of my travel clothes, found the coffee shop across from the stage door, and spent the rest of the afternoon walking around like I owned the place until I actually believed it a little. By seven that night I'd bought groceries, made friends with a bartender named Alex, and still hadn't unpacked a single item. A wildly successful first day by any reasonable metric.

At 10:47 the next morning, I walked into the rehearsal room holding an iced coffee like a shield and knew instantly that I was the new girl.

Nobody stared. It was the hugging. Full-body, squealing hugging in every corner of the room.

"Wait, you're doing this show too?"

"You're in housing on Pine?"

"I haven't seen you since Denver!"

Apparently half this company had a group chat I wasn't in. Fine. I'd earn my way in eventually. I always did.

I stood just inside the door taking inventory. Actors clustered around tables, talking over each other with the specific energy of people who'd never once worried about interrupting. Dancers were already on the floor stretching, despite there being zero reason yet to need a hamstring.

"Hi!" A woman with short brown hair materialized in front of me with terrifying speed. "You're Tessa, right? I'm Claire."

We shook hands. Firm grip. Good eye contact. "Nice to meet you," I said. "You're playing Anna?"

"Guilty."

Her smile didn't drop, but something behind her eyes did a very fast, very quiet bit of arithmetic.

"I understudied Anna last summer," she said.

Ah. There it was. Day one, and I already had a rival. I was setting personal records.

"Then I'll know who to scream for when I forget all my lines," I said.

She laughed, a beat too polished. "Hopefully you won't need to."

Someone called her name from across the room and she peeled off toward the piano. I filed her under a category I'd developed over several contracts: Watch, Don't Engage, Yet.

"Company, circle up!" the director called out.

Everyone drifted toward the center of the room for introductions. Names, roles, hometowns, that one credit everyone mentions to sound impressive. I retained roughly thirty percent of it.

Then Danny introduced himself.

I'd clocked him already, somewhere in the general chaos of the hugging. Tall. Dark hair doing something annoyingly good without visible effort. Blue eyes. Shoulders built specifically to be leaned against in a slow dance number. He was playing Ben.

Ben, who was, conveniently, my love interest. In the show. Which was a technicality I fully intended to make irrelevant.

Danny caught me looking and smiled, easy and a little knowing.

I smiled back. Why wouldn't I? I had manners.

Three months, I thought, doing some very optimistic math. Three months was practically a whole relationship arc if you played it right.

Then we actually started working, and here was the extremely rude thing about Danny: he was good.

Genuinely, actually good. Beautiful voice, prepared, and a generous scene partner who gave me everything I needed instead of hogging the moment. During lunch he told me, casually, that he liked a choice I'd made in our scene.

Then he walked away.

No lingering. No sitting with me. No obvious flirting.

By the end of rehearsal, I knew three non-résumé facts about Danny: he drank his coffee black, he'd worked here before, and he was either not interested in me or extremely good at faking it.

Fine. I liked a challenge.

Rehearsal ended a little past six. I was shoving my script into my bag, half-listening to the company making evening plans around me, when I heard Danny's voice nearby.

"We're just walking over," he was telling a small group.

"To the lake?" someone asked.

"Yeah, it's like fifteen minutes."

Danny was standing with Claire and a cluster of returning company members. The tight little ecosystem that existed here before I showed up.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked right over, because subtlety had never once solved a problem for me.

"There's a lake?" I asked.

Danny glanced at me. "Yeah."

Claire smiled, sweet as a knife. "It's really pretty."

"Great," I said, flashing them a grin. "I'm in."