Page 102 of Business or Pleasure

The reunion is, in a word, delightful. The cast share their favorite moments, behind-the-scenes secrets, and answer questions, and the audience savors every minute of it.

Also delightful: the fact that Ethan makes an absolute idiot of himself onstage. The whole time, he seems distracted, rubbing at his elbow or reaching into his pocket, like he wants to check his phone but knows he can’t.

“I would have been happy to keep both of them,” he says with a sly smile when Zach Brayer, the series creator, asks him to settle a debate once and for all: Alice or Sofia. “But for some reason, Zach wasn’t too keen on it.”

Toward the end of the show, when it’s time for audience questions, someone asks about rumors of a reboot or spin-off swirling around the internet. I’ve seen the rumors, too—they all seem to stem from the fact that Zach said last month that he’d love to write something else set in the Nocturnals universe, maybe even with some of the same characters.

“A reboot? I don’t think so,” Ethan says with a laugh. “No offense, but it would feel a little like going backward. I think I’m just at a different stage of my career right now.”

A wave of gossipy murmurs moves through the audience.

“So he’s just determined to be the worst, huh,” Noemie mutters.

“I mean—” Ethan says, fumbling, clearly seeing the fans are souring on him, but Hallie’s already talking over him.

“For those of us who aren’t above the show that jump-started all of our careers, I would love to do a reboot. Or a spin-off,” she says. “Meg at age thirty, trying to balance being a werewolf with her job as a museum curator? Here for it.” This gets a few hoots and a round of applause.

But the best part is when Finn catches my eye, his gaze lingering on me for a long, lovely moment.

In that one glance, I can tell there’s hope.

Afterward, Noemie leaves to get drinks with some fans she met years ago in a forum while I head backstage, searching for Finn’s dressing room. The crew recognized me from rehearsals, waved me right back. The halls are narrow, my feet unsteady, and by the time I find the door with Finn Walsh scrawled on a moon-shaped placard, my heart is in my throat.

I smooth out a wrinkle in my shirt, adjust the heavy messenger bag I’ve been carrying, and knock.

“Just a minute,” Finn calls. When he opens the door, jaw going slack, it’s clear he wasn’t expecting me. His face is a little pink, like he’s just wiped off his makeup, and his fingers freeze in the middle of loosening his tie. I have to fight the urge to grab it myself and tug him closer, because suddenly that’s all I want to do.

“You were amazing,” I say instead.

“Thank you. Uh.” He glances backward, rakes a hand through his hair. “Do you want to come in? It’s not much, but...”

“Right, sure. Of course.” This awkwardness between us is new. He opens the door wider, revealing a vanity and costume rack, a half dozen flower arrangements crowding a tiny desk. The room is so small, I wonder if he can hear the racing of my pulse.

This is Finn, I remind myself. The man who has never given me a reason to feel anything but confident. I can do this.

He leans back against the vanity as I pull the spiral-bound manuscript from my bag. “I know no one uses hard copies anymore. But every time I imagined walking up to you like this, I was holding a massive stack of paper. For dramatic effect, and all that. Oh, and there might be a coffee stain on pages eighty-five and eighty-six—sorry about that.” I pass it to him with trembling hands. “So... here it is. Your book.”

A breath catches in his throat. He opens it up as though it’s something delicate and not something I printed for forty dollars at Office Depot, his eyes lingering on some paragraphs longer than others. I hope he can see how much love for his work is in there. How much love for him, even when I tried to leave my own voice out of it. Because it’s just like he said: I can’t hide completely, and Finn is the last person I want to hide from.

When he speaks again, his voice is thick. Emotional. “No,” he says, giving the plain white cover a pat. “Our book.” For once, I don’t fight him on it. “I love it. Some part of me feels like I don’t deserve a book this good, but I’m not going to protest. I fucking love it, and you are fucking phenomenal.”

“Thank you,” I say, meaning it. “And you’re welcome.”

He places the book on the vanity, right next to a card that says howl never forget you—xx bree.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets, nudging my shoe with his. “And I know I might have sounded a little harsh that day at my house. I might have pushed you too much. Whatever you do, whether you’re writing for yourself or for other people, you’re going to be incredible at it. What you’ve done for me, with this book... I’m not sure if ‘thank you’ will ever be enough. All of this has made me think I’m not just a washed-up has-been. You helped me realize that.”

“You’ve helped me, too.” I pick at my nail polish. “I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more confident in my writing than when you’re the one reading it. And—I’m going to finish my book,” I say, more determination in my voice. “After that, I’ll see how it goes.”

He nods. “I like the sound of that. And I like your shirt, too, by the way.”

“Thanks, but... this isn’t my ship.”

“No?” A quirk of his mouth as he inches closer.

“I actually prefer Hux with someone else.”

“Blasphemy.”

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