Chapter Text
It isn’t the most embarrassing thing Michelle Simms has ever done, not with holding the bird during a doomed magic show in Henderson, Nevada, on her resumé. But crying at a Manhattan bar just a few blocks from her theater has got to be up there. Because crying is a bit of an understatement. It might’ve started as crying, but whatever it is now is closer to a full-on breakdown.
“You said it, sister,” a voice from the next barstool chimes in. Michelle attempts to look over, blinking through her tears, but a vague, thin brunette is all that swims into her vision.
“Can I buy you a drink?” the voice says. There’s a tinge of something familiar in it, something playful, but Michelle can’t place it. Not while she's this distraught.
“Ahhhh,” Michelle dabs at her eyes. “You’re speakin’ my language, mysterious fellow bar patron, but—” she pauses when the person next to her comes into focus. “Wait. Sasha?!”
It is. It’s Sasha Torres, in the flesh. Michelle is… stunned. She’s—is she sweating? Well. It’s been a day.
Sasha’s eyes go wide. “Michelle?!!”
Michelle stands up and spreads her arms wide, a grin shining through the tears. “Hey, stranger.”
Suddenly, Sasha’s leaping up to hug her, and Michelle’s pulling her close. What a blessing, to run into someone nice right now. It almost makes her want to start crying again. “Wait,” she says into Sasha’s ear. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Sorry?” Sasha steps back and cocks her head to the side.
Michelle takes her in. It’s been—how many years since she’s seen her former student? It wasn’t that long after that pointless audition, where they’d all shown up to support her but the dancers had already been chosen, that she’d hit on a string of luck. The pianist from that audition had tracked her down and invited her to a showcase in New York. Finally, a foot back in the performing door, which led to another gig, and an audition, and another, and ultimately… here. At the cost of, well.
And now, as Sasha’s look descends towards a glare, she remembers that she was asked a question. She squirms. “Uh. You seemed to… commiserate? When you saw me, you know, blubbering a second ago?”
“Commiserate?” Sasha asks, apparently already forgetting the exchange.
“‘You said it, sister,’” Michelle prompts, imitating Sasha.
“Ah.” Sasha nods and sits back down, and Michelle follows suit.
“So…” Michelle says.
Sasha looks down at the bar top. “No, it’s nothing. I was just– trying to be supportive!”
Michelle studies her, then she starts to laugh. “Are you even old enough to buy me a drink?!”
Sasha scoffs. “Michelle, I’m twenty-two.”
“Right,” Michelle says. How is that possible?! Michelle thinks.
“So, what’s wrong with you?” Sasha shoots back, a hint of aggression rising in her voice. It makes Michelle nostalgic.
“Ah,” Michelle smiles. “My show’s closing. A big flop. We’re just six performances in. Six! I mean, Cats ran for eighteen years! You know Cats?”
“I know Cats,” Sasha says disdainfully.
“Sure, this show wasn’t exactly headed for Hamilton-level glory, but what is? It was better than Blank Up, It’s Time, I know that much.”
Sasha squints in confusion.
“And sure, so the director was always insisting that I emphasize the wrong word in my lines. And the rest of the cast was weirder than Truly after she lost Sparkles. And so my character’s arc never even remotely made sense! But really, that’s a lot to ask! Since when do things in life have to make sense?!” Michelle exhales, running out of steam.
Sasha fixes her with a piercing stare. “It’s not a lot to ask, Michelle,” she says quietly. “You deserve great parts. And great shows.”
Michelle opens her mouth, then closes it.
“And anyway, it wasn’t your fault,” Sasha goes on. “I mean, closing after six performances? Clearly, there’s bigger forces at work there. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”
Michelle feels like laughing and crying at the same time. Sasha Torres, giving her advice. It feels new. It feels nice. “Yeah,” she says. “But… it was work.”
“Well,” Sasha taps her hands on the bar. “You know what they say. Every ‘no’ is an invitation to find the opportunity that’s meant to be.”
“Who says that? Gandhi?”
“Madame Fanny.”
“I was close.” Michelle makes a mental note to call Fanny soon. They keep in touch, though not as frequently as Michelle intends. This latest career development is the type of thing she wants to share with Fanny. Fanny deserves to know the good and the bad.
Michelle looks back at Sasha. “So, what brings you out tonight?”
Sasha scrunches up her face and glances down at the bar. It looks like she’s debating something. Finally, after turning back to stare at Michelle for an almost uncomfortably long time, she exhales a deep breath. “I’m… meeting my girlfriend. It’s our anniversary. We’re seeing a show tonight.” Sasha’s jaw shifts, as if steeling herself for Michelle’s reaction.
Michelle raises her eyebrows. She’s surprised, but not opposed, of course. She’s in theater, for God’s sake. It’s just, the last Michelle knew, Sasha was with that Roman character. Hell, all the girls had seemed pretty boy-crazy at the time. The idea that Sasha would be nervous to share this with her makes Michelle’s stomach do a guilty little flip. This is the kid who asked me about sex, who slept on my couch, who opened up about her family stuff. She should know.
“Your… that’s great, Sasha!” Michelle smiles, trying to convey her unconditional acceptance through her eyes.
Sasha stares some more until something clicks in her expression. “Okay, no need to throw a brick on my behalf or anything.”
“Huh?” Michelle says, and Sasha rolls her eyes.
“You know, for a theater person, you really should know more about gay history and culture.”
“Sorry,” Michelle throws up her hands apologetically. “So. What would your girlfriend think about you offering to buy another woman drinks?”
“I said one drink,” Sasha corrects her. “And I think she’d understand.” She gives a sly smile that Michelle can’t read. “So, is that you taking me up on the offer?”
Michelle shakes her head to try and clear it because, in what universe is Sasha offering to buy her a drink? “No, come on,” Michelle says. “I’m buying. What are we having? Oh God, don’t say shots—it is not that kind of night for me. If tonight goes that way, I’ll end up passed out in Times Square in a puddle of my own tears.”
Sasha rolls her eyes again. “Michelle, I’m not looking to get wasted before a Broadway show.” She seems to realize that Broadway is a sore subject for Michelle right now, and she sighs. “You’ll book another show,” she says, somehow casual and fierce at the same time.
Michelle’s eyes widen. She’d forgotten this side of Sasha—the intensity, the indomitable belief in people that occasionally revealed itself beneath her cynical exterior. She missed it. “Thanks, Sasha.”
Their eye contact is broken when someone rushes up, places a hand on Sasha’s shoulder, and plants a kiss on Sasha’s cheek. “Hey, baby, so sorry I’m late! My class ran long, and I was helping one of the—”
“It’s fine!” Sasha cuts her off, her eyes suddenly glowing. She seems to have grown an inch since Michelle last saw her—one second ago, before the dirty blonde blur came in. And she has the biggest, dopiest grin on her face. Michelle didn’t even know Sasha could make that face. Michelle has to get a closer look at whoever caused that face.
She turns back to the blur, who’s now sitting down on the other side of Sasha. When Michelle leans back to peek, her jaw drops.