Melina

June 2027

In the three years since 's father's bypass surgery, he'd healed, and so had she. She'd moved back home and watched his relationship with Beth blossom. He seemed perpetually in awe to have found himself in a situation where he was the one being cared for, instead of doing the caring—and could not begrudge him that. Beth wasn't her mother, but she never tried to be, either. There were times she caught Beth with the little shoebox she kept in her closet, spinning her late husband's wedding ring around her thumb. There was a beauty, realized, to knowing that there would always be a door closed off to your new significant other, where you stashed the pieces of your heart that had broken before you met.

At their wedding, had walked her father down the aisle. Beth and her father were going to Mexico for their honeymoon—some all-inclusive senior resort—and was alone in the house with her dog, Typo—a six-year-old Jack Russell terrier she had rescued. Every morning she got up and dressed, fed Typo, and then took him for a two-mile walk into the center of town. As she went, she'd pick up the newspapers that the cranky preteen delivery girl tossed heedlessly into the street, moving them onto driveways. She'd pull the trash can over the curb for Mr. Chandrashakar, who was eighty-eight and living alone.

It wasn't strange to be back in the Connecticut town where she had grown up. If anything, it was familiar as hell. knew, to the minute, how long it would take to reach the general store at the center green. She knew the brand of coffee they brewed. She knew there would be two stacks of newspapers for sale— The New York Times and The Boston Globe, papers from the big-sister cities between which her hometown sat squarely—and she knew she would pick up a copy of the Globe and read it on the porch while birds serenaded each other and Typo chased squirrels.

had not read The New York Times in three years, and she had no intention of doing so again.

Since leaving Manhattan, had taken on freelance writing jobs. It turned out that wrestling with language was a tool as much as an art, and could be applied broadly. She wrote mostly for technical journals, but every now and then a company would ask her to do an instruction booklet. relished those tasks. There was something about making things simpler that appealed to her. In her own small way she believed helping other people find clarity would balance the fact that she hadn't been able to find it herself.

How to assemble this nightstand.

How to take a pregnancy test.

How to install an electric fence.

Sometimes, would wake from a dream in which she'd written her own instruction book: How to be happy.

But every time she peeked inside the pamphlet, it was blank.

—

Andre's newest play was a retelling of A Doll's House, in which the main character (Neveah, instead of Nora) was a Black woman who marries into a Southern white family. The play put race—especially the sexualization of Black women—under a microscope, and when first read a draft, she knew this was the one for which he'd win a national drama award. He was developing it at Goodspeed Opera House and was either on his way to a set visit in East Haddam or headed home from there— couldn't remember which. But he was coming for lunch, so she had thrown together a salad and a flatbread with caramelized onions and Gruyère. He sat across from her in clothes he couldn't have afforded three years ago, hot cheese strung like a clothesline between the crust and his lips. "I am having an orgasm," he murmured, his mouth full.

"Things does not need to know," she replied.

"Seriously, where did you get this? I want to eat it every day for the rest of my life. I want to buy the restaurant and make the chef my love slave."

"Hard pass," said, "since this is the restaurant and I'm the chef."

Andre reared back, surprised. "You couldn't pour milk into cereal three years ago."

"And now I am someone who makes homemade pizza dough." She shrugged.

There had been a plan. was going to leave New York City for a few weeks until the scandal died down. Soon enough, there would be a fresh scandal in the Broadway community and hers would fade. She would stay in Connecticut and help her dad with rehab. But when weeks turned into months and still had not returned, Andre found a new roommate. Then his play transferred to Broadway, and he got a bigger place near Lincoln Center, where he lived alone. There were fresh scandals—Andre told her about them when they FaceTimed—but eventually, he stopped asking when she was coming back.

"I have news," Andre announced.

"What?"

He folded his hands on the table. "I told my parents I'm gay."

felt her lips twitch. "And did the house catch fire? Did locusts descend?"

"Do not say I told you so, " Andre warned. "It's gauche. Anyway, they did not care, provided I'm still planning on giving them grandkids."

"I would hazard a guess that your sexual orientation didn't rank as news for your parents, either," said.

"That's because I buried the lede. I think I may have found a baby daddy."

grabbed his wrist. "What? Who!"

"His name is Josiah. He built the set for the Goodspeed show. Wears a carpenter belt without any irony and serves Village People vibes."

"How long have you been together?"

"Six months," Andre said.

"You kept this from me for half a year?"

"I had to make sure it was going to last!" he argued. "But enough about me. Who's keeping you warm these nights?"

shook her head. "I told you, there is no one within a sixty-mile radius I want to go out with. I went on one date with a mortician who asked if I wanted to see his collection of death photos. Another guy stole my credit card and cash from my wallet."

Andre frowned. "What about the one with the dimples?"

The last time Andre had been here, he wouldn't leave until they'd gone through Bumble and matched with someone. "Nice guy. Narcoleptic. Fell asleep twice during our dinner, which sort of undermined my confidence," said.

"And then?"

She reached down and pulled Typo onto her lap. "Then I got a dog."

"Don't you miss it?"

"Sex?"

Andre shook his head. "Making theater."

had five finished plays hiding in a drawer in her childhood bedroom. As it turned out, you did not have to have readers to be a writer. "No," she lied. "Not one bit, Andre."

"I don't believe you."

"I'm still writing, " pointed out.

He scoffed. "Yeah, manuals on how to unclog your toilet. What's the endgame here, Mel? When your dad comes back and you're living with the newlyweds—"

"Technically, I've been living with them both since I moved out of our apartment."

"So you're just going to become like those trees in California?"

frowned. "Redwoods?"

"No! The ones turned to stone."

"The Petrified Forest," corrected. "It's in Arizona."

"I don't care where it is," Andre said. "You are going to waste away here in Mayberry, USA, sleeping in the same bed you slept in as a kid."

looked down at herself. "I am hardly wasting away," she said. "I'm busy. I'm fine."

She remembered nights when she was little that storms rolled in. Jagged lines of light would split the sky and thunder shook the entire house. When she called out in terror, her father couldn't always come. He was with her mother—giving her meds, sponge-bathing her, whatever. So would pull the covers up to her chin and tell herself, I'm fine.

It didn't make the lightning any less intimidating or the thunder softer. But if she said it often enough, surely it would come true.

"I'm fine, " she repeated now.

Andre took the last slice of the flatbread. "Hair is fine. Sharpies are fine. Idris Elba is fine. You," he said, "are delusional."

—

When Andre left, sat on the porch with her laptop, working on edits for a scientific journal article, while Typo leaped in the yard, trying to eat fireflies.

A soft ding alerted her that an email had landed in her work inbox. She had a very rudimentary website so that clients could see samples of her work and, she hoped, hire her.

opened the message.

To whom it may concern,

I am writing on behalf of the Athena Playhouse in Cape Elizabeth, Maine. We would like to discuss a production of the play By Any Other Name during our next season. Please contact us to arrange a meeting.

If this is not the correct Green, apologies.

Best wishes,

Katherine Marsh

Associate Director, Athena Playhouse

quickly closed the email. She shut her laptop, went into the house, and got a large glass of wine. She drank it all, then called Typo in and went to bed.

The next day, she didn't look at any email at all.

The third day, she could feel the message in her inbox festering like a sore.

With a groan torn from deep inside, opened her computer, hit Reply, and started to type.

—

She was picking wild strawberries in the field behind the house when she got the call.

"Is this Green?" said a woman's voice.

stood, squinting into the sun. Typo circled between her feet. "Yes?"

"This is Katherine Marsh. I'm the associate—"

"I know who you are," interrupted, and her face instantly flamed. Had she been a recluse so long she had forgotten how to have a polite conversation?

"I'm so glad you responded. I'd like to arrange a meeting in person to discuss this further."

In the space that the woman left for her reply, thought: Of course you would. You want to make sure you won't get canceled, like I was.

"I can work around your schedule. And I'd be happy to cover the cost of your travel," Katherine said into the silence. "If that's an issue."

"I have a car." wanted to be able to beat a hasty retreat if she did not gather enough courage to cross the threshold of a theater again.

"If I may say so…I've never read anything like your play," the woman gushed.

looked at Typo, who cocked his head. Her father would not be home for a week. Tomorrow was Trash Day. "How's Wednesday?" she asked.

—

Explosives.

Opioids.

Nuclear weapons.

None of them could hold a candle to hope, the most dangerous commodity in the world.

had awakened before dawn, packed an overnight bag just in case, threw in a Ziploc bag of dog food and some bottled water. She and Typo crossed the Connecticut border before the sun rose.

Because she had reached Maine hours before her scheduled meeting time, she pulled off at a public beach. She let Typo loose, removed her sneakers and socks, and rolled up the legs of her jeans to walk down to the spot where the ocean lapped at the rocky shore. Although it was June, the water felt like ice, and she jumped back.

Typo barked at a crab that scuttled beneath a jut of rock. He looked curious and comfortable away from home, while could barely take a deep breath because of her anxiety.

She forced herself to put her toes in the surf again, gasping at the frigid rush.

Do not get your expectations too high, she lectured herself. The theater probably has seven seats. Or it's run by a phantom in a mask. Or they want to perform the play with puppets.

She looked at the horizon. The ocean bled blue into the sky.

Somewhere across this sea was the country where Emilia Bassano had struggled and loved and lost and survived.

realized her ankles had gone numb, or maybe she had just become accustomed to the temperature.

It was amazing, really, how quickly one could adapt.

—

The theater was tiny but charming. One hundred seventy-eight seats, arranged three-quarters of the way around a thrust stage that was bordered in pickled white shiplap. A peaked, vaulted ceiling swathed in white satin for noise reduction. The satin gave it the feeling of a circus tent, and thought this was fitting for whatever spectacle was about to occur.

It was cool enough to leave Typo in the car, windows cracked, while she approached the box office. had told the summer intern working there that she had an appointment with Katherine Marsh. "Oh, right," the kid said. "I'm supposed to bring you into the theater."

But the theater had been empty—lights dimmed, the ghost light lonely on the stage. The intern told to make herself comfortable while she found the artistic director.

stood in front of the stage, her hand resting on the scarred flooring. She could hear echoes of soliloquies and sword fights and tap dancing, like aftershocks of the stories that had been told here.

"Don't leave."

whirled around to see a figure silhouetted in the back of one aisle. Before he stepped into a shaft of light that illuminated his cornsilk hair and before she saw the glasses perched on his nose, she knew. She could tell from the way he moved, from how the air in the room bristled like a thunderstorm.

"You are not Katherine Marsh," said to Jasper.

"No," he admitted. "Sorry to disappoint."

"It's not the first time," she retorted. It had been three years, surely whatever anger she'd had toward him had dissipated a little. Surely she could act like an adult for five minutes. "Why are you even here?"

He came to stand in front of her, studying her face. "I work here," Jasper said. "I'm the artistic director. Katherine works with me."

He could not have shocked more. " You run a theater?"

His mouth curved. "Someone once told me that a critic shouldn't be allowed to criticize without getting his hands dirty and writing or directing a play himself."

"What about your column?"

"I quit the Times three years ago. Not long after we…" His voice trailed off.

She hadn't known, because she studiously avoided that publication. And Andre hadn't told her, because they had a long-standing pact to never utter Jasper Tolle's name.

"I started Athena because I made a promise to you, and I intended to keep it. We only perform works written by women or nonbinary writers," Jasper said.

's jaw dropped.

"I know you don't believe me," Jasper hurried to add, "and that you may never believe me. But I wrote the piece I told you I'd write. My editor made those changes. He didn't think a story on gender discrimination was going to get as many hits as one about racial discrimination. And it turned out, he was right. It forced a lot of white theater makers to stop making excuses for their choices."

knew this was true; Andre was one of the writers of color who had benefited.

"But all that good came at a really significant cost." Jasper rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, grimacing. "I truly did want everyone to know your name. Just not…that way."

's head spun. As apologies went, this was the grandest of gestures. Jasper had been a household name, the most famous theater critic. He was telling her he'd walked away from all of it out of a sense of…what? Guilt? Responsibility?

Love?

Her lips felt wooden, her tongue stiff. "Was the email just a trick to get me here in person?"

Jasper shook his head. "No. I really do want to direct your play. I want the whole world—fuck, at least all of southeastern Maine—to know what Emilia wrote. And I want everyone to know what you wrote." Very slowly, he reached for her hand. "I made a bigger table," Jasper said quietly, "but I've been saving a seat for you."

glanced down at their palms pressed together.

The initial discussion between a writer and a director typically explored their joint vision for the production. 's eyes met Jasper's. She asked a question that had a dozen others nested within it.

"So," she said. "How does it start?"