Most of the forty-eight performances of Into the Woods had been sold out, and the reviews had been relatively positive. Yet the production had devolved into a backstage circus because of the dramatic nature of a few choice actors. Nothing new, but not Lauren’s favorite type of ensemble. Her goal was to get them to the end of the run the following evening without The Baker’s Wife killing The Baker, without Little Red Riding Hood wandering away to Instagram her face eighty times a show to the world while missing her act 1 entrance, and without The Narrator, a functioning alcoholic, performing so soused that audience members noticed. She could do it! She saw the homestretch in front of her with a glass of wine blinking like a 7-Eleven sign on a lonely highway at midnight.

God, she couldn’t wait for this trip.

She’d earned this vacation. Dreamed about it. In forty-eight hours, this production would be another successful entry on her already impressive résumé, and The McAllister would bring a new show to the main stage, and enter rehearsals for another. The system was in constant motion.

“Mona—the dresser for the princes?—hit on me tonight,” Trip said, leaning against her table in the booth. “She grabbed my ass, and it hurt like hell. Mona has traumatized me.”

“Do you want me to write it up?” Lauren asked with a sympathetic grin. She was also the first step to Human Resources for such claims, before the union got involved. “Call it aggressive ass grabbing?”

Trip rubbed his right cheek. “I do not. This time.”

“I’d do that for you, Trippy. I’ll say Mona’s an ass grabber.”

“Nah. Maybe next time. I just want my boss and friend to sympathize with me.”

She offered him puppy dog eyes and blinked slowly. “I’m so sorry your ass is sore, and that Mona thinks it’s so cute she has to harm it.”

“That’s it,” he said, nodding, warming to the characterization. “I have a harmed ass. I’m glad you’re finally acknowledging my pain.”

“Always, Trip. Always. Want to go home now? Cuz it feels like it’s three a.m. and I’m close to death.”

“Quarter to midnight, but yes, please,” he said, snapping out of martyr mode. A thought seemed to pop into his brain. “Excuse me. Lala?”

“Yes?” Lauren asked, smiling at the use of the nickname he’d assigned her years ago.

“Will you be at the after-party tomorrow night? Please don’t say you need to have lonely wine time at home. Lonely wine time is really sad wine time, and you don’t want to be that lady.”