Willa makes that easy. She laughs. Tells funny stories. I feel like I could talk to her forever. I even like answering her questions about me, because Willa has this way of looking at you that makes you feel like, in that moment, there’s nobody else in the world as important to her as you are. It isn’t anything she does, it’s just the way she listens. I’ve seen her do it in rehearsal, too. Not just to me. To Lex. To Val. To Jude. Even to the kids who only have one or two lines in the whole show.

When Willa is listening to you, you feel like somebody. It’s like a little bit of her spark leaks out and bleeds onto you. And it’s the best. Like some kind of drug.

As soon as lunch ends, though, the euphoria of having Willa’s undivided attention starts to fade, and the fear of what happened to me last night starts creeping back in. It’s like I keep opening that file drawer to peek inside. Even though I’m telling myself not to.

When I show up to work with Glory, she’s watering the plants on the bookcase behind her desk. I say hello and pick up a stack of papers from the TO FILE tray. Glory is turned away from me, so I can’t see her face when she says, “I knew your mother. She was a friend of mine.”

I drop the papers I’m holding, and they flutter to the ground. They’re all out of order now. “Shit,” I say. “I’m sorry.” And I bend down to scoop them up. My hands are shaking, so it isn’t easy. I wasn’t prepared for that.

Glory turns around to look at me. Her face is completely white and she blinks a few times, like she’s just as stunned as I am. “I had no idea I was going to tell you that until I heard it come out of my mouth,” she confesses. “I almost told you so many times yesterday, but I stopped myself. I wasn’t planning to say it yet. Not until we got to know each other a little better.”

“Willa told you,” I say, but Glory shakes her head.