“Ridiculous,” Grace mutters after he’s gone.
I choose to ignore this. I turn to Grace. I look into her stony face that is full of questions, accusations. I smile wide. “Another great rehearsal, wasn’t it?”
“It was long, Miranda,” she says, looking right at me. “And cold. I’m exhausted.”
“Exhausted? You, Grace?” And I laugh.
“I mean it, Miranda,” she says. “These rehearsals are fucking killing me.”
“Oh, Grace, come on. Nothing kills you, am I right? You’re Puritan stock, you’re Plymouth Rock, you’re New England.”
“New England or not, I can barely keep up with you these days.”
“Ha ha. Very funny. You’re funny,” I say. But I’m not laughing, and neither is she.
I notice her dark coat is worn and weathered. Her left shoulder sags under her tote bag with the worn graphic of Degas ballerinas in mid-leap. Gray hairs I never saw before creeping through her brown pageboy cut. She does look pale. There are dark purple rings under her eyes. Clearly, she hasn’t used her rose-petal mask in a while. Those living room nights with Grace come back to me, her face covered in cracking pink clay, gazing gravely at the TV while she poured me more wine. I’ve got it, she said. Don’t get up.
“All right,” I say. “Tell me.”
Grace just stares at me. And suddenly I know what she wants to tell me. That it was fine for me to be a little better. Nice, in fact. Less of a strain on her, on us. For a moment there, she even saw the possibility of rekindling things. But now? Now Grace looks at me beaming as I stand before her on my high, high heels and she’s at a loss. I’m no longer a faded Snow White lying on her living room floor, complaining with her about the English department, drunkenly reminiscing about my days in the sun.
Who are you? her face says. Who are you and what have you done with my wretched friend?
“I don’t know why you had to keep making them kiss like that,” she says. She looks up at me, angry. Always angry these days. But her voice cracked on the word kiss. Because this is awkward for her too. When was the last time Grace kissed anyone besides her dragon?
“Why?” I say. “Because we have to get it right. It’s one of the most important scenes in the play. It’s pivotal.”
“Pivotal?” Grace shakes her head. “It’s not even in the script, Miranda.”
I smile sadly at Grace. Of course she hates the kissing. Of course the idea that Helen might actually get some joy, some tongue after all she’s been through, is revolting to Grace. In her view, Helen should get nothing. Should never have come back from the dead to begin with. Let her perish alone. Let her fade to black.
“You don’t think Helen deserves one kiss after all she’s been through? You’re not going to let her have one moment—one!—of happiness?”
Grace just stares at the flowers on my silk dress, not like they’re flowers at all but little forked tongues sticking out at her.
New dress? she said when I came into the theater.
Old, I told her. Old favorite. Haven’t I worn it before?
Never, she said. Bit thin for this weather, don’t you think?
But I just smiled at Grace. I’m not really feeling the cold these days.
Back when we were closer, I’d watch her swipe through Tinder occasionally. Always with a look on her face like she’d just taken a sip of very off beer. Be fucking glad you’re not out there, she used to say to me. Because how could I be out there when I could barely walk? And I’d laugh like I was glad. But of course I wasn’t glad, how could I be?
“The kiss isn’t just for Helen, you know,” I add, looking away.
“Isn’t it?” she says, but I feel her staring at me intently.
“Not at all. The kiss is for the audience.” I gesture at the empty seats all around.
“The audience,” Grace says. “Really?”
“Of course. The kiss brings the audience in. Lets them feel it too.”
“Feel what exactly, Miranda?”
“Her joy.”
Grace laughs joylessly. “Oh, we felt it, trust me,” she says. “I’m still feeling it, as a matter of fact.” I look at Grace, frowning at Helen’s joy. I think she liked the fact that I was doomed to be single. A fellow spinster. I didn’t even have a pet. Just some plant Grace bought me （to cheer things up!） that I always forgot to water. You need to water it! she’d tell me whenever she came into my office, running toward the sickly plant in the windowsill as if it were on fire. And it shouldn’t be in direct sunlight like this either; it’s delicate. I’d lie there on the office floor and watch her water it, whisper to it. A little annoyed, frankly, that she seemed to show it greater tenderness, concern, a softer touch, than she’d ever shown me.