“The other day—you caught me—or I caught you—it was strange,” he said.

“It’s really not a big deal,” I said. I really didn’t expect an explanation from him, though now that he’d nudged the door open, he seemed intent on barging through.

“The thing is, I’d just flown in from Australia. I was scrambled. I was mostly ranting to my agent. I’m doing this theater festival mostly as a favor to him—the festival’s artistic director is a friend of his—and I was feeling taken advantage of. I thought I was alone. I’m sorry I was rude to you. I’m sorry I was late today—I fell asleep. And I’m glad you watch the show; I’m really glad that people watch the show. I’m really—sorry, it’s just been a hard first week here. I’m not really this way. I don’t think.”

I felt myself soften. Weirdly, it was the I don’t think that did it for me—a hedging over his own self-assessment, the slightest moment of self-doubt that struck me as extremely human and made me more inclined to believe him.

“I don’t know your name,” he said. “What is it?”

“Celia Gilbert,” I said.

“Hi, Celia Gilbert,” he said. “I’m Oliver Teller.”

“I know,” I said. “Remind me which play you’re in?”

I was relieved to find that I had actually forgotten this piece of information, which helped assuage any lingering fears that maybe I had been stalking him or I was a deranged superfan. Sure, I knew that he’d sprained his wrist while filming a sex scene on roller skates, and I could now tell you the exact measurement from his knee to his ankle in both inches and centimeters, but I didn’t know everything about him.

“The new play,” he said cautiously.

“Oh, right. Abominable? What’s that one about? I haven’t heard very much about it. Besides, um… what you said. That day.” And that the director was in the middle of a divorce with its star.

“It’s about scientists,” he said. He was clearly trying to be diplomatic, to speak cautiously and generously this time around, especially having just asserted that he wasn’t an asshole. “In search of the yeti. It takes place in the Himalayas.”

“Oh,” I said again. Oliver obviously had opinions about the play—I’d heard them loud and clear while I was hiding in the tree, and I could see them bubbling now just below the surface—though I didn’t quite see what the problem was yet. “I mean, that doesn’t sound like”—what was the phrase he’d used?—“horrible, unrivaled rubbish. What’s your role?”

At this he put his head in his hands.

“That’s just it,” he said miserably. “I’m the yeti.”