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Hakeem came into the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe. The light in the kitchen was warm. The window above the sink showed the early December dark outside, and the old glass reflected the three of them back in miniature—Layla on the counter, Antonio at the stove, Hakeem in the doorway.

It looked, Hakeem thought, like a life. It was a kitchen with people in it who had chosen to be there.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out expecting a text—his mother, maybe, who had been calling more frequently since he'd told her about Antonio, or one of the new guys from the bar who kept sending him memes about haunted houses that had stopped being funny approximately never.

It was an email.

The subject line read: After Amy — Next Steps

Hakeem's thumb hovered over the screen. Kitchen noise swirled around him: oil sizzling in the pan, Layla remarking on the surprisingly good gas-station wine, Antonio's answering laugh. None of them were looking at him. The moment was entirely his, held in the small rectangle of his phone screen, and for one suspended second, he let it exist before opening it.

He opened the email.

Dear Hakeem,

Thank you for your patience through our extended review process. We watched your self-tape several times and shared it with our director, who asked me to pass along a direct quote: "Where has this person been?"

We'd like to offer you the role of Cole.

Attached you'll find the preliminary schedule, location details, and a letter of intent. We'll need a signed copy returned by January 10th. Rehearsals begin in late February. The shoot is planned for March through early May in a house in Topanga Canyon.

We're very glad you didn't edit yourself before being seen.

Looking forward,

Mariah Reeves

Casting Director, After Amy

Hakeem read it twice. Then a third time, because the words formed a sentence he'd waited his whole life to hear but never truly expected would arrive.

We'd like to offer you the role of Cole.

His eyes were hot. His hand was shaking in the way it had shaken on the night he recorded the tape. Tremors from a body that understood what was happening before his brain had fully processed it.

"Hakeem?" Layla said from the counter. "You look like you just got either very good news or very bad news, and I need you to tell me which one before I finish this wine."

He looked up.

Antonio had turned from the stove. He was holding a wooden spoon and looking at Hakeem with attention that felt like the steadiest thing in the room.

"I got the part," Hakeem said.

The words came out quietly. He felt shy and brave saying something so monumental and true to two of the three people who pushed him toward it.

Layla's wine glass hit the counter. "You got the⁠—"

"Cole. After Amy. They want me."

Layla screamed.

It was not a small scream. It was the full-bodied, wine-fueled, structurally significant scream from someone who earned the right after repeating record the tape for weeks. Now the tape was unfolding into a potential career. She jumped off the counter and threw her arms around Hakeem hard enough to knock him back a step, and she was laughing and possibly crying and definitely spilling wine down the back of his shirt.

"I knew it!" she yelled into his shoulder. "I knew it, I knew it, I knew it⁠—"

"You're ruining my shirt."