I verge on doing the same now, albeit ungraciously as Charles steps into the room. But first I’ll see what’s left of his decency, if any.

Seated at my mirror, I close the gap in my satiny stage robe—indeed to cover my brassiere but also the residual quake in my hands—and eye his reflection. Already he’s switched into his trousers and undershirt, quick changes being a necessity of the trade. When the fall of the curtain launched me seething from the stage, I left him and his cohorts to corral our supplies.

He has nerve, approaching me so soon. I’ll grant him that much.

Then again, it’s a trait I personally helped cultivate.

“Swell space ya got,” he says, easing in, glancing around. His practiced stage diction is replaced by his casual Louisianan speech. “I reckon we could do a whole lot shabbier.”

The remarks would once have been laced with playful irony, given the pitiful accommodations we’ve endured, specifically while traveling with variety shows before breaking out on our own. Surrounding me here are theatrical posters neatly hung, a proper costume rack, and a pair of cushioned chairs accented by a table—each incredibly with all four legs. Most comforting of all, I have a window large enough for an emergency exit.

So yes, the room is rather nice, if smaller and mustier than the one assigned to Charles. I’m certain of this without having to check; he’s a man and the star. And long gone are the days when he at least offered to trade.

“What do you want, Charles?”

“Just, uh, making sure you’re okay.”

“Oh?” I say, since we’re apparently playing games. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He goes to speak but resorts to a shrug, both shoulders draped with a towel. “I…guess ya put two and two together.”

“If by that, you mean your reckless, pompous, devious—”

“C’mon, Fenna. Don’t be sour.”

“Sour? You think I’m being petty?”

The quirk of his thin lips says everything before he drops into one of the chairs. Even without the shadows from my vanity lights, he appears a decade beyond our common age of twenty-four. Escapology can wear on a body, it’s true. But his accumulating vices have by no means helped. Only his drying natural curls provide fleeting evidence of the friend I used to know.

“Look, I’m sorry it shook you up. I swear it.”

“Is that so? Because you didn’t appear to regret a thing. And frankly you still don’t.”

He hesitates, unable to argue. “Ah, geez. You heard ’em out there. We were a smash!”

Typical misdirection. Another lesson I passed along.