“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.” He smiles one of those new Oliver smiles again. “It’s like you said. We make a good team.”
I smile back at him, and the feeling of it blooming on my face is distinct and easy enough that I know I must have my very own smile for him, too. “We do.”
A car horn blares down the street, and I look out toward the park, knowing we’d better get back soon. I turn to ask Oliver what else is on his Check List for the day, but he speaks before I can.
“Millie—whoever your mom is? I bet she’s a force to be reckoned with.”
He squeezes my hand, and I’m brought back to last night, that same hand on my waist. How he didn’t want me to just hear his words but feel them too. A week ago, I couldn’t have imagined us speaking for more than five minutes. Now it seems like we have our own little language—now it seems like the most natural thing in the world to squeeze his hand back.
“I should hope so,” I say.
Oliver doesn’t say anything back. Just smirks and uses his hand to pull me up from the bench.
“C’mon,” he says. “We’ve got a talent manager to bargain with.”
We make it back just in time to watch Steph hang up the phone, her face creased in a frown. She reaches for Oliver’s Check List, scanning it with enough urgency that she doesn’t notice us walk in until we’re in front of her desk.
“Oh! Hi,” she says, a hand flying to her chest. “Okay. Okay…”
The okays are clearly meant for her, though, and not for us, because she seems to forget we’re here as soon as she sees us.
“Everything all right?” Oliver asks.
By then Steph has already leapt up from her desk, Oliver’s Check List still in hand, and let herself into Georgie’s office.
“That was Georgie,” she says, her voice breathy, like she’s trying not to panic. “She’s sick. She’s … apparently she’s not coming in for the rest of the day.”
“But tonight’s the Greek Life premiere,” says Oliver, hesitating at Georgie’s office door.
“And your audition,” I say, barging right in after her. “You’re going to be late.”
“Yeah, but there’s no way I’m making it now,” she says miserably, running her hands through her hair.
I touch a hand to her wrist. “Your curls,” I remind her, like the future stage mom I’m probably bound to be.
“Right.” She pinches her eyes shut. “Except no, it doesn’t matter now. Oliver, can you stick around until the show starts?”
“Yeah, of course—”
“And you’ve got me,” I remind her stubbornly.
Only then does she stop in her flurry of motion, setting the papers she pulled out of Georgie’s drawers on the desk and turning to face me, her lips in a tight line. “Millie, honey—I’m sorry. She also said that Oliver got the internship.”
Oliver finally steps into the office. “But—”
“That’s fine,” I say quickly. I don’t even give the information a chance to process. “He deserves it. But I’m still on the clock for today, aren’t I?”
“I … I don’t know. Maybe?” says Steph, rifling through the papers again.
“What can I do?”
She shakes her head. “Millie—”
“You’re going to that audition. Tell me what you need us to do. We’ll take care of it.”
Steph stops again, looking straight ahead, clearly conflicted. I stare at her until she’s forced to look back and see just how resolute I am. It’s the kind of tough love that would probably not be super appropriate from a daughter to a mother, but entirely appropriate for what we are—two performers who know each other’s overblown, ridiculous hearts all too well.
“If you’re sure.”
“We are,” Oliver and I say at the same time. I don’t even have to meet his eye to know that we’re in sync for whatever she’s throwing at us next.
“It’s—well, Oliver has his Check List,” says Steph, pulling up his notebook from the pile. “And it’s about to get a lot longer, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m on it,” says Oliver.
“But would you mind running this to Georgie’s?” Steph asks, turning to me. “Her apartment isn’t that far from here. I’ll text you the address.”
It’s Georgie’s outfit for the premiere. I picked it up from the dry cleaner’s yesterday, which now feels like a year ago.
I open my arms up for her to drop it. “Done and done.”
“You’re an angel,” she says.
“An angel with a watch. You’ve got to get uptown. Go, go, go.”
“Right,” says Steph, rushing out. She hands the papers to Oliver, who presumably knows what to do with them. “Thank you both. I’ll text you.”
I follow her, nudging Oliver to follow, too. But he’s stuck at the open door to Georgie’s office, looking stricken.
“Millie, I swear I didn’t know. I’ll still talk to her. I’ll—”
“No, you absolutely will not,” I say firmly. I put a hand on his arm. “I meant what I said.”
“But…” He glances around the waiting room like he’s looking for some kind of out. A way to undo what’s already been done. “It won’t be half as fun without you.”
Steph’s already out in the hallway, beyond our line of sight. I take one quick glance just to make sure, then bounce up on my tiptoes and kiss him on the cheek.
“I’ll see you tonight, Oliver.”
I turn on my heel with the intention of fleeing the scene, Cooper Price–style, before the adrenaline dies down and either one of us can fully contemplate the audacity of what I just did. Then Oliver’s voice pulls me back.
“And after?” he asks.
I stop, turning back. The afternoon light is pouring in through the window, casting warm colors on his face, streaming into his eyes. I drink in the sight of him, doing something I’m usually not very good at: taking my time.
“And after,” I say quietly.
He smiles his Millie smile, and I smile my Oliver one. We’ve said a lot of things to each other over the years, tossed more mean words between us than I could ever count. But making a promise only takes two.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Come in.”
I lower my hand from the door, wondering if I have the right apartment. But the number on the door matches Steph’s text, so that throaty, clogged voice I hear on the other side must be Georgie.
I close my eyes and blow out a breath. It’s not that I’m intimidated by Georgie. It’s just that this is going to be awkward no matter which way we slice it.
I let myself in and do what New Yorkers do best—immediately rake my eyes over every corner of the apartment they can land on, guesstimate the square footage and the rent, and judge every minor decor choice from floor to wall.
I see pale yellow interiors with little gold accents. I see a sunny kitchen with a cookbook propped open to a page for mint chocolate brownies. I see framed prints of minimalist drawings that I recognize as versions of Broadway playbills. What I don’t see is Georgie.