Page 66 of Birds of California
“Are you going to barf?” Fiona asks him quietly. She’s dressed in full Lululemon as Millennial Nora, helicopter mom of the twenty-first century. “Because I have to say, you kind of look like you’re going to barf.”
“I might,” Sam replies, “but only because apparently this suit was soaked in formaldehyde at some point before it came into my possession.”
Fiona smiles, sliding one hand into his back pocket and squeezing. “Pretty sure that’s your cologne, cowboy.”
“Cute.” Sam nudges her back into the corner. “Didn’t they just call two minutes?” he murmurs, even as his fingertips are creeping up inside her hoodie. “Shouldn’t you be, like, centering yourself or whatever serious theater actors do?”
Fiona nods. “In a second,” she promises, tipping her face up. “Don’t smudge my lipstick.”
Sam smiles against her mouth. He likes seeing her like this—lighter, maybe. Energized about something. Earlier this week she sat down with Erin for the first in a series of interviews for a long piece set to run inNew Yorkmagazine about dropping out of Hollywood—and about what happened with Jamie.“RealisticallyI’m not the only one he did it to,” Fiona pointed out when she asked Sam to help her set up a call with Erin. “Or even if I am, there’s still no guarantee he won’t do it again. If I can make it even a tiny bit harder for him to get away with it, then it’ll be worth it.”
“It’s going to be a nightmare,” Erin warned her immediately. “He’s going to try and make your life a living hell. And not to put too fine a point on it, but...”
“I’m not exactly a perfect vessel?” Fiona didn’t flinch. “Whatever he throws at me, I’ve had worse,” she said, and Sam believed her. “And I’m not afraid.”
Erin nodded. “Okay then,” she said, digging her notebook out of her massive tote bag. “In that case, let’s get the bastard.”
Now Angel City’s ancient backstage speakers crackle, a burst of static making Sam wince. “One minute,” comes the half-garbled announcement from the stage manager. “Have a good show, everyone. Full house out there.”
Fiona grins. It’s the first sold-out run in the history of the Angel City Players. Claudia and Estelle are out there. Erin is in the front row. Thandie flew in from Paris last night just in time to catch the end of their final dress rehearsal, sneaking into the back at the last moment; Sam watched as Fiona hopped off the stage and ran up the aisle to meet her, the two of them wrapping their arms around each other and clinging. Neither one of them said anything for a long time.
Now Fiona digs into the pocket of her hoodie, coming up with what looks at first like a crumpled piece of paper and tucking it intohis hand. “I made this for you,” she tells him quietly. “I thought I was making it for you, anyway. I think actually I made it for me.”
Sam squints at the gift in the darkness, realizing after a moment that it’s an intricately folded bird—its tail tall and proud and delicate, its narrow beak sharp as a blade. He shakes his head, not understanding, but before he can ask what it means: “Say it again,” Fiona tells him, her voice muffled against his shoulder. Sam’s heart stops deep inside his chest.
“Fiona—” he starts, but she’s pulling back now to look at him, her expression calm and steady and sure.
“Sam,” she says. “If you meant it, say it again.”
Sam doesn’t have to ask what she’s talking about. He’s said it to her half a dozen times in the last week, in the car and in the morning and in bed buried deep inside her; he’ll keep saying it as long as she’ll let him. He’ll keep saying it until she believes.
“I love you,” he tells her as the lights go down out in the theater, his voice barely carrying over the applause of the crowd. “Fiona. I love you so much.”
Fiona smiles like the dawn coming up over the hills at sunrise. Then she ducks her head and whispers in his ear. She squeezes his hand and they step out onto the stage together, taking their places side by side.
