“Oh no, it is,” says Aimee, hysterical now. “I know it is, because I have good taste. And because I’m a good writer. I’m a good writer who’s doing bad writing right now, and who left it until the last week to finish the play that could have changed my life.”

“I can’t get over the bad grammar in this, speaking of good writing,” says Kiera, putting the phone down, having made her way through the text. “They’re useless. Good riddance, I say.”

“What was I thinking having a party? Or spending time with my children?”

“Okay, let’s all calm down a little,” I say. “It’s a short show. You’re almost done. And you’re not totally out of luck.”

“Uh, really, because it feels like I just lost my life savings on a bad hand in Vegas.”

“Okay,” I say, deciding against perpetuating the Vegas metaphor with something stupid about Lady Luck. “I’m an actress. My show is rarely done until the day we film, sometimes PAs are handing me scripts with substantial changes once I’m already in hair and makeup.”

Aimee and Kiera exchange a look, and I remember I’m not Lana Lord on vacation to visit my friend Aimee. I’m Meg Bryan, their friend who is having—probably—a nervous breakdown.

“Believe me or not, but I can do this. Give me a role. You do the other one. Who better? You know it inside and out. And you were always good.”

“I haven’t acted in ages,” she says, blood draining further from her face. “I’m completely rusty. And the costume would make me look ridiculous. Little stupid dress.”

“Aimee. You kind of have no choice. You’re down to the wire, the only thing you can do is have a ton of coffee, finish this script, get it to tech as soon as you can so they can figure out lighting cues, etc., and then start rehearsing with the final material. I’d say desperate times call for desperate measures, but frankly I cost a fortune these days, and I’ll do it for free.”

I smile to show I’m kidding, and to hopefully show how manageable and chill this all is.

“You’re right. I have no choice.”

“I mean.” I turn to Kiera. “Unless you act.”

She furrows her brow and makes a pouty face as she shakes her head slowly. “I go all stiff and sound like I’m reading a nutrition label.”

“She’s based on you, anyway. Lola.”

I turn to Aimee. “On … me?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes. Ugh. Fine. Okay. Let’s figure this out. You’re Lola. I’m Hailey. Let’s finish this script.”

Our eyes linger on each other’s.