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“I know everyone,” Dallas says. “But what a pleasure to put a face to a name.” They look at me when they say this, their eyebrows raised, mischief written all over their face.
I roll my eyes at them, and all of us have a sip of our drinks.
Ian slides back to rest his head against the back of the couch again.
“How’s it going with the techie?” Dallas asks me quietly, half-murmuring into their drink.
“Better. Although I think Anastasia only cast him because she has a crush on him,” I say.
“What a little bitch.”
I roll my eyes in agreement.
“But he’s not so bad,” I say, sliding my eyes over to Ian pinching the bridge of his nose with his face all scrunched. “He works hard, and that counts for something.”
“Should have been us,” Dallas says.
“Should have been us,” I agree, but I don’t think I totally mean it. “But also, thank god it isn’t, because, um, hello, Puck?”
Dallas blushes, tucking their hand under their chin like they’re posing. “Um, yes,c’est moi,” they sing. “It’s probably for the best that I didn’t get cast in the one-acts. Gives me more time to work on auditions for a few Shakespeare companies I’ve got my eye on.”
“Any auditions coming up?” I ask and take a larger sip of my drink. It’s almost gone by now.
“Most of them are in the spring, but it’ll be back-to-back. Atlanta Shakespeare Tavern, Baltimore Shakespeare Factory, Chicago Shakespeare Theater. Lots of options, so we’ll see. What about you, queen? I bet you’ve got opportunities coming out of your fucking ears.”
I finish my drink, not really wanting to answer. Here we go again with everyone wanting to talk about graduation all the time . . .
“I’ve got my eye on some options, but I’m waiting until the winter break to really do some research and make decisions,” I say, hoping that will quell any extra questions Dallas might have.
I love Dallas, but I won’t even tell Jessie the whole reason I won’t commit to grad school plans. And if I’m not telling Jessie, I’m probably not telling anyone.
“Oop,” Dallas says suddenly, “douchebag at twelve o’clock. That’s my cue.” They slide away dramatically.
Part of me is relieved the conversation ended so quickly, and yet the sinking feeling in my stomach tells me it wasn’t for a good reason.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the village slut,” says a voice from across the room before I have time to register what Dallas meant.
I’d recognize that voice blindfolded.
Nicholas fucking Clarks.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the department disappointment,” I say, not bothering to look at him as I sit down next to Ian again.
“Why did he just call you that?” Ian asks, quiet enough that only I can hear it. I don’t have to look at him to know his brow is furrowed. The level of concern in his voice is practically parental.
“Everyone calls me that.”
“That doesn’t make it okay,” he says. He doesn’t sound tipsy like he did when Dallas was here. His voice is deadly serious and low enough that it borders on a growl.
I wave him off.
“Who’s this poor sucker you’ve got with you, Jade?” Nick approaches us with Tyler and Jackson—beefy meatheads who never get cast as anything but ensemble and the most minor of speaking roles—flanking him.
Ian shifts next to me, and in my peripheral I see him straighten a little, sitting taller.
“Nick, meet Ian. Ian, this is Nicholas Sparks, writer of mediocre love stories and general dickhead.”
“Nicholas Clarks, you dumb bitch. No wonder you’re in theater—you’re not smart enough to make it doing anything else.”
