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Chapter Text

Scene 1: The Mark Family Guest Room

[The shades are drawn lopsidedly. Light from the cloudy afternoon casts weak light on a clearly inhabited room: the bed is unmade, and meager items of clothing, including several pairs of worn jeans and three crisply folded button-down shirts are folded neatly into an open set of drawers.]

[OLIVER stands in the middle of his room, looking lost and unhappy. He wears a rumpled T-shirt and jeans, as if he hasn’t changed since he woke up, though it’s already afternoon. One hand holds a phone to his ear, the other hangs empty and unmoving by his side.]

OLIVER: [into the phone] You’re sure he didn’t—didn’t leave you anything?

ALEXANDER: [through the phone] Yeah I’m fucking sure. I was sure the last five times you asked, too.

OLIVER: Sorry.

ALEXANDER: [sighs. Does not acknowledge the apology.] You need to let it rest, alright? Pip’s been worried about you, apparently you’ve also been asking her if James—

[OLIVER sucks in an audible breath. ALEXANDER pauses.]

ALEXANDER: [resolute] Whether James left her a personal note. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

OLIVER: [sharp] Excessive grief? It’s been two weeks for me, Alex. I didn’t have five years, like you.

[ALEXANDER is silent for a beat. The barb sits in the air. Alone in his room, OLIVER, looking shaken, slumps on the edge of his bed.]

ALEXANDER: I’m sorry we didn’t tell you. You were his Juliet, you know? We thought, if you knew he’d—he’d drunk the poison…

OLIVER: [grim] O happy dagger, / This is thy sheath. There rust and let me die.

ALEXANDER: [soft] Yeah.

OLIVER: I wouldn’t have.

ALEXANDER: You confessed for him. Ten years, Oliver.

OLIVER: I know.

[In a practiced way that suggests he repeats this motion often, OLIVER pulls a folded piece of paper out from his jeans pocket. Phone still in one hand, he unfolds it clumsily with one hand and stares uncomprehendingly at it.]

ALEXANDER: Oliver?

OLIVER: [preoccupied with his own thoughts] Yeah?

ALEXANDER: I’m… It’s good you’re finally out. Everyone missed you—things weren’t the same. They weren’t ever going to be the same, not after Richard, but, you know… [hesitating] My worthy Lord / Your noble friends do lack you.

OLIVER: [still preoccupied] Yeah.

ALEXANDER: [pauses] If we can help out, you’ll call.

OLIVER: [absent] Yeah, thanks. And for helping me move home, thanks.

ALEXANDER: [careful, detecting OLIVER’s distraction] Yeah. Yeah, of course. Didn’t have anything better to do, King Lear just finished, so.

OLIVER: [suddenly more attentive] You were in a Shakespeare play?

ALEXANDER: What else?

OLIVER: I can’t believe I didn’t ask if you were doing Shakespeare again. That’s, uh. That’s great.

ALEXANDER: Whatever fucked up baggage we have, Shakespeare is what I know. I was always going to go back to it. Not so happy, yet much happier.

OLIVER: [abrupt] Did you ever read the letter James left me? Any of you?

ALEXANDER: [pauses, taken by surprise by the turn of the conversation. Careful again.] Oliver…

OLIVER: Did you?

ALEXANDER: No, fuck, none of us read James’ suicide note labeled with your name. For God’s sake.

[OLIVER folds up the letter but does not place it in his pocket again. He turns the square of paper in his fingers and stands, his expression suddenly resolute.]

OLIVER: Right, yeah. I think I have to go.

ALEXANDER: [tense, sensing something is wrong] Oliver? Go where?

OLIVER: I don’t know. I guess we’ll see.

ALEXANDER: Oliver—

[OLIVER hangs up the phone.]

—— —— ——

Scene 2: Filippa’s Living Room

[It is a bright early morning, but the shades are drawn and a fan in the corner turns at medium speed. The walls are occupied with a handful of amateurish-looking abstract paintings in bold oil pastel, three square windows, a set of drawers, and a bookshelf, on which there rest several similarly painted small stone animals and Shakespeare’s plays, several copies each.]

[OLIVER and FILIPPA sit across a wooden table, cups of tea before each of them and a plate of grapes, still on the stem, between them. Neither of them are eating or drinking.]

FILIPPA: [matter-of-fact] I get it. You don’t trust me.

OLIVER: I didn’t say that.

FILIPPA: I didn’t tell you he killed Richard. I didn’t tell you he killed himself. I didn’t give you his letter. I know, I get it.

OLIVER: [visibly upset] Please. Just—anything. A… location he mentioned? A play he suddenly became obsessed with, maybe.

FILIPPA: [softening] I’m sorry. I’m not keeping anything from you this time; I really don’t have anything.

OLIVER: [slumps] God, Pip. I’m sorry. I’m going mad—I just—

[OLIVER runs a hand through his already disheveled hair and stares down at his tea. It is no longer steaming. The grapes sit untouched.]

OLIVER: [barely audible] I loved him.

FILIPPA: I know. I think we all knew.

OLIVER: [laughs hollowly] I think we knew, too, somewhere. Alex called me his “Juliet” a few days ago.

FILIPPA: [smiling bittersweetly] You compared your story to Romeo and Juliet yourself, back when it was all happening.

OLIVER: I cast myself as Benvolio!

FILIPPA: So you did.

[Silence.]

OLIVER: [as if to himself] His letter was a monologue—And have no more of life than may suffice / To give my tongue that heat to ask your help.

FILIPPA: [watching Oliver sharply] Pericles.

OLIVER: [speaking with the familiarity of abundant repetition]

Alas, the sea hath cast me on the rock,

Wash’d me from shore to shore, and left me breath

Nothing to think on but ensuing death.

What I have been I have forgot to know;

But what I am, want teaches me to think on:

A man throng’d up with cold: my veins are chill,

And have no more of life than may suffice

To give my tongue that heat to ask your help;

Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead,

For that I am a man, pray see me buried.

[Silence]

FILIPPA: [absent, deep in thought] He cut it up and put it together.

[FILIPPA plucks a single grape but does not eat it, turning it between her fingers. OLIVER nods, but does not speak. FILIPPA starts, and looks up suddenly to stare at OLIVER, her hands freezing in their idle movement]

FILIPPA: Oh—God—oh, Oliver—you don’t think…

[FILIPPA trails off, pale, mouth agape. Her breath is loud. She sets down the grape and clutches one hand in the other tightly.]

OLIVER: [like a dam holding his words has just broken] Pericles is about—Pericles doesn’t die, even though he should have drowned. Thaisa should be dead at sea, but she isn’t. Marina—[fumbling his words] They never found his body. I looked it up—

FILIPPA: [murmuring] So did I.

OLIVER: He knew Shakespeare as well as he knew himself. He knew that when I read this, I would think—he must have expected—

FILIPPA: [gentle] He can’t have planned for his body not to be found. It’s possible he thought any… implications he didn’t mean would be refuted when they found him. Oliver… he’s not Pericles. He’s not Marina, or Thaisa.

OLIVER: You mean he’s Ophelia. Alas, then she is drowned.

FILIPPA: He’s not Ophelia. Or Hamlet, for that matter. He’s not Romeo, and you’re not Juliet or goddamn Benvolio. He’s not Macbeth and you’re not Banquo, and Richard wasn’t Caesar. You’re Oliver. He’s James. You’re not living a tragedy or a romance, you’re just living. But men may construe things after their fashion, / clean from the purpose of the things themselves. I… I’m not saying I don’t see what you see here, it’s— [struggles] James was always too clever for his own good. But I know you, and you can’t—

OLIVER: [Heavily] Get my hopes up, I know. Because he may not….

FILIPPA: [Frustrated] No. Jesus, this is what I’m talking about. It doesn’t matter if—I mean, of course it matters if he’s alive or not—

OLIVER: [horrified] Filippa.

FILIPPA: —But whether or not he is or he isn’t or even if we never find out, you have to live outside of him.

OLIVER: Never find out? I can’t—

FILIPPA: [shouting over OLIVER] I’m not losing you to him again!

[Silence. OLIVER stares at FILIPPA, pale and unspeaking, shock overtaking his expression. FILIPPA stares back, breathing heavily.]

FILIPPA: [quiet] We aren’t losing you to him again. We lost you for ten years because of him—

OLIVER: It wasn’t James’ fault—

FILIPPA: God’s sake, Oliver, I know—it was yours! [She takes a deep breath] It was all of ours. I could have told Colborne myself. James could have stopped you.

OLIVER: No, he couldn’t have.

FILIPPA: [shaky] We all loved you. You. You just threw yourself away for James; you always thought he was… [searches for words] bigger than anything else. We didn’t think so. We loved you too, Oliver. We loved you just as much.

OLIVER: [emotional] Pip…

FILIPPA: [wiping her eyes] Shut up.

[OLIVER and FILIPPA look away from each other. FILIPPA releases a watery, self-deprecating laugh, and after a moment, OLIVER laughs quietly with her. In sync, they stand and look at their cold tea, then begin to wander towards the door without needing to speak.]

FILIPPA: Wren wants to see you.

OLIVER: Yeah, alright. Have you… [hesitates] Meredith?

FILIPPA: [grabbing a blue pen from the bookshelf] Yeah, here, I’ll write you her email. But don’t tell her about Pericles.

[FILIPPA gestures. OLIVER’s hand moves to his shirt pocket, and then away. He rolls up his sleeve and presents her with his forearm.]

OLIVER: [unevenly] I, uh, I don’t have paper with me.

FILIPPA: [writing on his forearm] I’m going to pretend I don’t know you’re lying and I’m not curious why you would feel the need to lie.

OLIVER: [quietly, after a pause] Thanks, Pip.

FILIPPA: [resigned] You’re going to chase after him, aren’t you.

OLIVER: Sorry. Then let me go and hinder not my course.

FILIPPA: I didn’t say you shouldn’t. Just don’t get lost in him. Things without all remedy / Should be without regard. What’s done is done.

OLIVER: I cannot but remember such things were / that were most precious to me.

[OLIVER pulls FILIPPA into a hug and FILIPPA hugs him back immediately.]

OLIVER: For this time I will leave you. / If you please to speak with me, / I will come home to you.

FILIPPA: [continuing the same line] Or, if you will, come home to me, and I will wait for you.

—— —— ——

Scene 3: Oliver’s Car

[A beat-up car rumbles down a windy two-lane road two miles over the speed limit. To one side of the road is a yellow field of grass spotted with half-dead trees. To the other, water laps sluggishly at a rocky shoreline, glinting in the hard summer sun.]

[OLIVER sits behind the wheel. Beside him, in the passenger seat, sits a jumbled pile of familiar road-trip items: a half-unfolded map, a discarded sweater, one partly-drunk bottle of water, two untouched sodas, fast-food wrappers stuffed neatly into a paper bag. In the worn backseat sits a single black suitcase, which slides slightly whenever OLIVER takes the turns too quickly.]

[OLIVER, one hand on the wheel, he swipes his hand on the knee of his worn jeans and reaches over to the controls and turns on the air conditioning.]

OLIVER: Come on.

[OLIVER frowns, holding his hand out over the vent. He clicks on his blinker, despite there being no other drivers on the road. He takes the right exit, which veers inland, and drives nearly half a mile. Abruptly, OLIVER flicks on his blinker again, pulls over to the shoulder, clicks his hazard lights, and picks up the map from the passenger seat.]

OLIVER: [muttering absently, with the familiarity of repetition] “Hell. Del Norte. Anywhere.” Goddammit James. Goddammit James.

[OLIVER refolds the map half-way, puts it back in the passenger seat, turns off his hazards, and pulls back onto the road. He is breathing carefully, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Before him, a quaint beach-side cottage-town unfolds before him like a picturebook; buildings grow more frequent and charmingly painted. The first stop signs begin to crop up.]

OLIVER: Alas, the sea hath cast me on the rock, / Wash’d me from shore to shore, and left me breath.

[People cross streets, walking in the street, carrying melting ice cream cones, stripey paper bags on their arms, and chatting. OLIVER continues until he reaches a residential area, painted in creamy greys and faded pinks. He parks and stares at a house with peeling doors and a sign hanging from the porch that reads “FOOD AND BOARD, please call ahead,” followed by a string of digits.]

OLIVER: [Opening the unlocked door] Hello? Uh… Oh, hello.

[A plump white woman stands in what appears to be a living room. She has short black hair, glasses, and red lipstick. She holds in her hand a clipboard with a pen tied to it with a knotted shoelace. She wears a tight black tank top and black leggings. The room is dressed in sea-side pastels: blue for the walls and pink for the rug under the wooden coffee table.]

AMY: [Beaming, holding out a hand] You must be Oliver? I’m Amy, nice to meet you. You can just call me Amy.

OLIVER: Yeah, that’s me. [accepting the hand] Amy, hello.

AMY: [without pause] Yes, it’s so good you came. Here, just a quick couple of forms for you, nothing much, there’s a pen—

OLIVER: Thank you.

AMY: [still not pausing] What brings you to Del Norte? Lovely area, I’ll tell you—got married here, myself. Divorced, too. [laughs] Nice during the summer. You picked the right time of year! The water is just lovely—have you ever visited around here before?

OLIVER: Yes, I did. [Pauses.] With a friend.

AMY: [triumphant] Well, you know a good place when you see it, or you wouldn’t be back, now, would you? Will your friend be coming here as well? If he does, I have two rooms. I’m only letting you one, and the other’s open right now. And just you wait until tomorrow morning—you’ll swear you’ve never tasted a breakfast like Amy’s.

OLIVER: I don’t know if I’ll be seeing him here. Maybe.

AMY: [confused] The phone’s just in the other room—

OLIVER: No. I—no, thank you. He may have invited me five years ago, that’s all.

AMY: [A pause] Well. Right, the phone’s just in the other room if you don’t have one of those cell-phones, and you want to give anyone a call. I don’t mind so long as you keep your voice down and your calls before midnight. Are you interested in anything specific around here? Good food, or the right time to go to the beach, anything, you just come to me, alright, dear?

OLIVER: I will, thank you..

AMY: [amused] You’re very polite. No need for that—let me show you your room!

[AMY leads OLIVER down a hallway. To one side, a kitchen with pans stacked higher than the edge of the sink and an open cupboard full of spices. To the other, two consecutive closed doors with pieces of cardstock taped to them, each reading “GUEST” in thick black ink.]

AMY: [opening one of the guest rooms] Either of these can be yours; they’re practically the same, I’ll tell you right now, down to the color of the curtains, and the type of mattress. The only thing is the other one—[she taps the wall] is about two steps closer to the bathroom, if that’s something you might find yourself worried about?

OLIVER: Not really.

[OLIVER peers around the room. A modest but neatly made bed is up against one wall and the window is directly above it. Beside the bed is a small chest of drawers, atop rests a clock and a lamp. There is a rug on the floor and a light affixed to the ceiling with a string that reaches the top of OLIVER’s head.]

OLIVER: It’s nice.

AMY: [anxiously] Is it? Is there anything you need?

OLIVER: [with emphasis] It’s wonderful. It has just the atmosphere for my trip, I can feel it.

AMY: [brightening] Well.

OLIVER: Thank you.

AMY: [winking] No, thank you for your money. I’ll let you pack now—what a small suitcase for three weeks! There’s laundry, just the door next to the bathroom, if you need it.

[AMY begins to leave the room]

OLIVER: Wait—if you don’t mind—

AMY: [turns immediately] Yes? Of course I don’t—go on, dear.

OLIVER: I was wondering… I mean, I’m here—while I’m here, I was thinking I might like to see a local theater production? Would you be able to point me to nearby…

AMY: Yes, well, I suppose I could, yes. We’re not quite known for our theater around here, you know, but of course—there’s a production of Hamlet every evening this week, that I know—or, I’m mostly certain, anyway…

OLIVER: [sudden interest] Hamlet?

AMY: Shakespeare’s very own! I’ve never seen a play of his myself, but then I’ve hardly ever been to the theater—anyhow, I’ll get you a map of the area and show you how to get there. Shall I?

OLIVER: You should. [awkwardly] Thank you.

AMY: Well. Yes. Well, and of course, you just let me know if you have anything else you’re looking for! We have the best ice cream just ‘round the corner…

AMY: I’ll let you settle in! Let me know about that friend of yours!

[AMY exits, leaving OLIVER alone. When she closes the door behind her, his shoulders slump. His faint, polite smile slides off his face, and he drags one hand down his face.]

OLIVER: [to the closed door] Yeah. I will.

Chapter Text

Scene 1: Local Theater

[People carrying French fries and hot dogs fill the plastic chairs of an outdoor theater. OLIVER sits nine rows back and to the right, his eyes fixed on the play. He is very still. The stage is lit by the evening sunset and stage lights.]

ACTOR 1: [as HAMLET]

O, I die, Horatio.

The potent poison quite o’ercrows my spirit.

I cannot live to hear the news from England.

But I do prophesy the election lights

On Fortinbras. He has my dying voice.

So tell him, with th’ occurrents, more and less,

Which have solicited. The rest is silence.

O, O, O, O.

[ACTOR 1 acts his death as HAMLET]

JAMES: [as HORATIO]

Now cracks a noble heart.

—Good night, sweet prince,

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!—

Why does the drum come hither?

[Actors enter from the side of the stage: FORTINBRAS, the English AMBASSADOR, a drummer, and attendants.]

ACTOR 2: [as FORTINBRAS]

Where is this sight?

JAMES: [as HORATIO] What is it ye would see?

If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.

[In his seat, OLIVER watches as if entranced. His lips move with HORATIO’s lines. He is pale. On stage, the lights move as the actors for FORTINBRAS and AMBASSADOR continue to exchange lines, but OLIVER’s eyes stay locked on JAMES even when his HORATIO is not speaking.]

[JAMES as HORATIO is turned to stage-left, speaking to FORTINBRAS and AMBASSADOR, cheating out. His eyes find OLIVER and he visibly startles.]

JAMES: [as HORATIO]

Of that I shall have also cause to speak,

And from his mouth—

[JAMES pauses, shaken, staring into the audience, breaking the rhythm of HORATIO’s lines.]

JAMES: [as HORATIO, speaking blankly, without drama or emphasis]

And from his mouth whose voice will draw on more.

But let this same be presently performed,

Even while men’s minds are wild, lest more mischance

On plots and errors happen.

[FORTINBRAS finishes with his speech to bear HAMLET forth and his march off the stage. JAMES almost misses HORATIO’s exit. OLIVER’s eyes follow him. The crowd applauds, some with polite appreciation but many with real energy, and OLIVER starts, beginning to applaud several seconds too late. The actors return a moment later, their shoulders relaxed, beaming, holding hands, waving at the audience, except for JAMES, who walks woodenly on and immediately finds OLIVER. He nearly misses his bow, following ACTOR 1’s. JAMES claps for his costars, stays a moment too long on stage, and gestures, subtly, stage-left. He turns and exits.]

[OLIVER stands abruptly. Audience members stream up the isles toward the exits, but OLIVER heads down towards the stage, until he meets the waist-high temporary metal barriers that prevent the general public from going around backstage. The entrances are casually blocked off by two women with walkie-talkies clipped to their belts. OLIVER looks down at the metal rail. He puts one hand on the bar and jumps neatly over.]

WALKIE-TALKIE WOMAN 1: Excuse me, sir—

WALKIE TALKIE WOMAN 2: Cast members will be out if you wait—

OLIVER: [obviously lying, pushing past them] Understudy. Hamlet. Still am I called.—Unhand me gentleman. / By heaven, I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me. / I say, away!

JAMES: Oh, god.

[OLIVER turns and sees JAMES, who has not changed clothes. He still has his mic clipped to his shirt, though evidently off. He is ghostly pale with stage make-up, save for a red lip and eye-liner. His heavy, dark clothes are smeared with HAMLET’s fake blood. OLIVER—brown button-down and another pair of jeans—and JAMES are both speechless]

OLIVER: [with feeling] James.

JAMES: [starts] Oh, god. Oh, god, did you even read your fucking program—

[JAMES moves towards OLIVER jerkily, like a puppet on strings. OLIVER moves towards JAMES as if he is falling forward.]

WALKIE TALKIE WOMAN 2: Excuse me, if you two—

OLIVER and JAMES at once: Sorry.

[OLIVER and JAMES, having reached each other, do not touch. Then, JAMES seizes OLIVER by the bicep and pulls him away, out towards the audience exits, reaching with his other hand to OLIVER’s program.]

JAMES: Give me your goddamn program.

OLIVER: Fuck. James.

JAMES: Oliver.

Scene 2: James’ Car

[JAMES and OLIVER sit in the front seats of James’ car, the car doors closed. Both stare out of the windshield at the night sky over the sea, even though the car is still parked and is not turned on, silent and unmoving. JAMES takes a deep breath. Neater and less worn than OLIVER’s decade-old car, JAMES’ car is at most five years old. Its black seats have two neatly kept binders in the back. JAMES’ outer HORATIO coat and vest are discarded as well. The world around them is very quiet, so when they speak, it is similarly quiet.]

JAMES: I have make-up wipes in the glove compartment.

[OLIVER opens the glove compartment and removes an already-opened pack of make-up wipes. He hands them to JAMES and then closes the compartment again with his knee. JAMES flips down the car visor and opens the mirror, peering at himself as he wipes his exaggerated features away.]

OLIVER: You could have gone back. I would have waited for you.

JAMES: I know.

OLIVER: You still have your mic.

JAMES: [without feeling] Yeah, they’re gonna kill me.

OLIVER: You can’t just leave like that.

JAMES: [dropping dirty make-up wipes into his lap] I’m a professional actor, yeah. Spare me the talk.

OLIVER: No, I mean, you can’t just leave like that.

[JAMES looks at OLIVER for the first time since they got in the car, then closes his eyes. He is silent for a long moment.]

JAMES: There’s a plastic bag in the—yeah.

[OLIVER has started opening the glove compartment before JAMES has finished talking. He pulls out a zip-lock with a few crumpled, color-streaked wipes already in it. JAMES holds out his hand for it, but OLIVER opens it and holds it out. JAMES adds his dirty wipes. OLIVER closes the bag, returns the wipes and the bag to the glove compartment, and closes it with his knee.]

OLIVER: [slightly amused] ‘S gross, James. Just throw them away when you get home.

JAMES: [suddenly loud] Oh, god, Oliver.

OLIVER: [immediately solemn] James.

JAMES: Oh, Jesus Christ. [He laughs with no joy or amusement] I don’t know what I thought would happen. I left you that goddamn monologue.

[JAMES runs his hands through his hair, and then over his eyes.]

OLIVER: [after a pause] Yeah, Pericles’ cry for help. I thought you wanted me to come find you.

JAMES: No. Yes, I wanted to be found.

OLIVER: [visibly relieved] Okay.

JAMES: Listen—Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead, / For that I am a man, pray see me buried. It was supposed to be a request, not an order. You shouldn’t have come because you thought I wanted you to. You should have come because you wanted to find me.

OLIVER: I did.

JAMES: [looking sidelong at OLIVER] Yeah.

[Another pause.]

OLIVER: [with hard certainly] Actually—I would have been glad I found you whether or not you wanted to be found.

JAMES: [surprised, gratified laugh] It’s good to hear that.

OLIVER: Is it?

JAMES: I need you to not be doing things because—I need you to not do things for me.

OLIVER: [thickly] Oh.

JAMES: [eyes shut, expression pained] Don’t look like that.

OLIVER: You’re not even looking at me.

JAMES: I can hear it.

OLIVER: [smiling sadly] I don’t look like anything.

JAMES: [spoken like an accusation] You look the same. You look just the same. [He opens his eyes and gazes at OLIVER] You look like I imagined you. Like I made you up. [hesitates] Are you sure / That we are awake? It seems to me / That yet we sleep, we dream.

OLIVER: You look the same, too. Even on stage, although I remember you as Hamlet, not Horatio. You’re older, I guess. And this place has given you a tan.

JAMES: Well, you put on muscle. And your stubble is actually there.

OLIVER: [quietly happy] Fuck off.

[A moment of silence]

JAMES: I can’t believe you walked all the way to the theater.

OLIVER: The weather was nice.

JAMES: Not dressed like that, it wasn’t. Maybe if you wore beach clothes.

OLIVER: I didn’t have anything else to do with my time, and I couldn’t just sit in my room and think. I…

JAMES: [comprehending] You didn’t want to think.

OLIVER: Is there no play / To ease the anguish of a torturing hour? If you knew I was coming, wouldn’t you have kept yourself busy?

JAMES: [abrupt] If I knew you were coming, I probably wouldn’t have gone on stage.

[Silence]

JAMES: Sorry.

OLIVER: [hard] No, you meant it.

[A pause]

JAMES: [apologetic] Tell me which way to go, I’ll take you to wherever you’re staying.

OLIVER: [dryly] Exit the parking lot.

JAMES: Yeah, thanks.

[JAMES starts the car, with a low purr. The headlights turn on, lighting up the thin grass just at the edge of the shoreline before it melts into sand. He gives his own face a once-over in the mirror before closing it and pushing the visor back up. Shifting into reverse, he pulls out of the space and drives.]

OLIVER: Do you know that little shop, Duncan’s Icecream?

JAMES: Yeah. I know of it, anyway.

OLIVER: I’m around the corner.

JAMES: Okay. I know where that is.

OLIVER: Thank you for the ride.

JAMES: [sharp] You of all people don’t get to thank—

[A car crosses the intersection out of turn, and JAMES brakes roughly.]

JAMES: Sorry. [swallows] No problem.

OLIVER: [softly] It’s okay.

[JAMES is over the speed limit on a slow road. His hands are tight on the wheel, his eyes resolute on the road, his mouth a tight line. The white lines on the road rush rhythmically past, but streetlights are far between.]

JAMES: No it isn’t.

OLIVER: It was your right-of-way. It’s fine.

JAMES: No it’s not fine—God, Oliver it’s not fucking fine. Every time I imagined this it was better.

OLIVER: [hurt] Well—

JAMES: No, stop, I didn’t—I mean I was better. I mean, when you showed up, I was going to be happy to see you—

OLIVER: You’re not happy to see me.

JAMES: Oliver—Oliver no, I’m happy to see you, but I’m losing my mind so bad I shouldn’t even be on the road, Oliver, and I was going to be okay.

OLIVER: [evenly] Okay.

JAMES: [speaking faster] I was going to hug you, if you let me, I was going to give you a real apology, and then—I was going to ask about you. And I’d tell you about me. And I was going to say, Oliver, I was going to tell you that I— [stops abruptly]

OLIVER: [more gently] James, it’s okay. It really is. I showed up without warning hour or two ago at the most.

JAMES: [checking the car’s clock] Hour forty-five. I was going to be better at this, Oliver. So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

OLIVER: I don’t need you to be good at this. I’m not good at this.

JAMES: Shut up, you are.

OLIVER: No. I’m not.

JAMES: You’re so good at this, look at you, you’re so—

OLIVER: [loud, ragged] No, James, I’m not.

[There is a long silence. JAMES indicates left and then makes the turn. A few headlights cross them every minute or so, but for the most part, the only people out this late are on each other’s porches, leaning over mostly-empty glasses in warm yellow lighting. There are no shoppers, day-visitors, or beach-goers.]

OLIVER: There.

JAMES: Sorry?

OLIVER: [pointing] There, that one’s the room I’m in.

JAMES: [with genuine surprise] You’re renting a single room in someone’s house?

OLIVER: That was all I could afford if I was going to stay a while.

JAMES: Stay a while? Oh—yeah. Your car’s here.

[JAMES pulls his car up by curb behind OLIVER’s car, unlocks the doors, and turns the car off. Neither OLIVER nor JAMES make any move to get out of the car.]

OLIVER: I have it for a month.

JAMES: A month.

OLIVER: I was lucky you were performing.

JAMES: Yes and no.

[OLIVER casts a glance towards JAMES in askance, and JAMES stares at the steering wheel.]

JAMES: I took any and all Shakespeare they have around here, as a rule.

OLIVER: [with a semblance of joy] Do you?

JAMES: I didn’t want to miss you if you came looking.

OLIVER: [visibly taking this in] Walk me to…

JAMES: Yeah, I’ll walk you.

[OLIVER and JAMES exit the car on opposite sides, meet in the middle at the front and then walk the sidewalk and the stairs up to AMY’s front door. OLIVER watches his feet, half a step ahead of JAMES. From behind, JAMES stares at him openly, chest rising and falling.]

OLIVER: [turning at the door] I don’t need you to be anything but James.

[JAMES studies OLIVER’s face for a long moment, then smiles self-derisively.]

JAMES: You didn’t read the program.

OLIVER: [cracking a smile] Get off my ass about it. Goodnight. James.

[There is a moment where they gaze at each other, and then OLIVER opens his arms and JAMES hugs OLIVER so tightly OLIVER draws an audible breath. OLIVER turns his face into the side of JAMES’ head.]

JAMES: [murmuring into OLIVER’s ear] A thousand times good night.

[OLIVER closes the door. JAMES takes the porch steps two at a time and slams his car door when he gets in. He sits in his car for a long time, his forehead pressed against the top of the steering wheel, breathing deeply. Then he turns his car on and drives away.]

Scene 3: The Beach

[The sand is quite empty for a pretty beach at midday. The quiet is pierced by the occasional seagull’s cry. The sea glints gently in the distance under a sky of white-grey clouds. OLIVER, wearing old jeans and a very new T-shirt reading “The SWEETEST little town,” approaches a short set of steps that lead from a sea-side path down to the beach. JAMES, a black T-shirt and black jeans, waits for him at the top of the stairs.]

OLIVER: Sorry I’m late.

JAMES: [waving away the apology] Did you get lost?

OLIVER: It’s a straight shot.

JAMES: I know. That’s why I picked it. I was joking.

OLIVER: Oh.

[JAMES stands from where he has been leaning against a thin metal rail that lines the stairs and takes a few leisurely steps, turning onto the path. He puts his hands in his pockets and OLIVER falls into step with JAMES easily and naturally. He also slips his hands into his pockets, but immediately pulls them back out. They hang at his sides. For a minute, the two of them simply walk side by side in quiet, cold sea wind swirling around them.]

JAMES: [quiet] It’s nice to see you.

OLIVER: The same to you.

JAMES: How are they? I haven’t… I guess I could have looked them up, but I haven’t.

OLIVER: You’re not in touch with any of them? No one else knows?

JAMES: [incredulous] You didn’t ask? You came all this way without even asking first?

OLIVER: [hedging] I asked Alex, and he didn’t seem to know anything; he brushed me off too easily for him to have known. I asked Meredith over email, in a round-about way, but I didn’t think you’d have told her. And Filippa clearly didn’t know anything… If you had told any of us, it would have been her.

JAMES: Evidently not.

OLIVER: Well, no. She didn’t know.

JAMES: Oliver, I, quite literally, out of all of them, chose you.

OLIVER: …Yes. Yeah, I guess you did. I guess I’m really just asking if you didn’t tell Wren, then.

JAMES: So… you didn’t ask Wren.

OLIVER: No. I should have. I had opportunities, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk about your, uh, death, with her.

JAMES: Wren doesn’t know either.

OLIVER: Yeah, I’ve gathered that by now. So you haven’t heard anything of them since—

JAMES: Since the day I left.

OLIVER: Yeah, well. You should talk to them.

[OLIVER pauses, waiting for a reply. JAMES does not provide more than a noncommittal hum of acknowledgement. OLIVER takes a breath, choosing his words as he moves on.]

OLIVER: They’re all… okay. They seem haunted, I guess, and they’re the ones who still got to live out their lives. [catches JAMES’ eye and looks away] But—well, Wren’s not in theater anymore, but she seems happy.

JAMES: She’s not in theater anymore?

OLIVER: She’s a small screen actress. You know, advertisements, almost-background characters.

JAMES: The faintly present nice girl in the main character’s English class.

OLIVER: Exactly.

JAMES: Aw, no, Wren. She’s wasted on the screen.

OLIVER: [musing] All of it? Every screen production? Maybe she’ll win an Oscar.

JAMES: She has a presence. She belongs on the stage.

OLIVER: Yeah. No, you’re right. She does. [a pause] Well, she’s doing alright. Of course, it’s different… without him. You know. I think they were always going to be kind of…

JAMES: A unit. They were going to do the whole actor thing together.

OLIVER: Yeah. Something like that. We all were, I guess. [a pause] And Filippa is good, of course.

JAMES: [hopeful] Yeah?

OLIVER: Yeah. She could always roll with the punches, huh. She’s still working at Dellecher, and she’s… how do you say it? She’s kept her head on, I suppose. Alex, he’s finally settled in with Colin. He was doing Cleopatra a bit—a big production. Cameras, snakes, sand.

JAMES: [low whistle] Damn. I can see it on him.

[OLIVER gazes at JAMES, his brow wrinkled, and after OLIVER doesn’t respond right away, JAMES turns his gaze from the dusty path stretched ahead of them to glance OLIVER’s way.]

JAMES: What is it?

OLIVER: [shakes his head, looks away] No, nothing. It’s just, this feels like it did in school. Talking about casting and who’s got which part.

JAMES: [with fondness] Alex, an elaborate production of Antony and Cleopatra. What else could it have been?

OLIVER: He was doing King Lear for a bit.

JAMES: Always Shakespeare.

OLIVER: [rhetorical] Who else?

[Silence. It’s a comfortable one, this time, scattered with the sound of the water beside them, the birds in the air, and their own footsteps, leaving behind little puffs of dust in the wind.]

JAMES: And Meredith?

OLIVER: Television.

JAMES: No.

OLIVER: Yes.

JAMES: Mer…

OLIVER: [mild] It is easier to be the seductress in modern television than it is on the stage in some five-layer dress.

JAMES: Yes, but. You know.

OLIVER: I don’t think she’s ready for Shakespeare yet. Maybe she won’t ever be. He’s… too much.

JAMES: [nodding, quiet, for a moment, before speaking] Well, I hope she becomes a movie star.

OLIVER: Made for it.

JAMES: Is she doing okay? Otherwise, I mean.

OLIVER: I don’t know. I haven’t seen her, actually.

[JAMES looks to OLIVER with evident surprise]

OLIVER: I don’t know why. I guess she is to me what Shakespeare is to her. Too much. She turned you in, and I was pissed when I found out, but I also loved her, and I really did hurt her, you know. We did, we hurt her. And I’m so sorry to her. About everything. She’s too much.

[JAMES is quiet, his expression inscrutable, though OLIVER keeps glancing his way as if waiting for JAMES to speak.]

JAMES: And I’m not?

OLIVER: I—you’re different. I had to come find you—of course I did.

JAMES: [a pause] You didn’t have to.

OLIVER: No, but—You know what I mean. Leave you your power to draw, / and I shall have no power to follow you.

JAMES: [forcefully] No, you didn’t have to.

OLIVER: James…

JAMES: You don’t have to do anything for me, okay? Not a single fucking thing. Am I too much? Is this too much?

OLIVER: Of course it is. But I’m going to do it, right? We’re going to do this.

JAMES: Yeah, well. If you want to leave—

OLIVER: I waited for this for ten years, I’m not going anywhere.

[JAMES looks stricken, and he draws a sharp breath. The pain in his expression is evident, and his shoulders pull up in a reflexive motion.]

JAMES: I’m sorry.

OLIVER: No. It was my decision.

JAMES: I should have—

OLIVER: No, I’m glad you didn’t.

JAMES: You can’t mean that.

OLIVER: I do mean that.

[JAMES’ expression and his posture doesn’t relax, but he closes his eyes for several seconds and opens them with a shaky sigh.]

JAMES: [tentative] What’s it like, being out of prison?

OLIVER: [a slight laugh] Different. I make my own schedule, now, I can go wherever I want—the world is still astonishing.

JAMES: What’s astonishing?

OLIVER: I—the trees, I guess. The city. Buses and cars. Hugging my sister hello, you know. I couldn’t sleep in my bed the first few nights, because it felt so… different.

JAMES: Softer?

OLIVER: Yes, but also, it was quieter. It felt strange lying down and knowing no one was going to wake me up loudly early in the morning; without an alarm I would just keep sleeping.

JAMES: Oh.

OLIVER: That sort of thing.

JAMES: Yeah.

OLIVER: My door has hinges and a doorknob but no lock. And it’s not like my sister comes and bothers me; we just eat dinner together. And—oh my god, James, food. The food is so good.

JAMES: Or, more like, prison food was awful?

OLIVER: Well, yeah, I mean. Like—I thought so much about food out here that I dreamed about it, and even that didn’t live up to really having it.

JAMES: Jesus. I can’t even…

OLIVER: [straining to keep his tone light] It isn’t as if we ate gloriously in our Dellecher years. Instant-cook late-night dinners, chips and soda. But that was a banquet in comparison.

JAMES: [abrupt] Have lunch with me. Anything you want—if they have it around here. Or I’ll drive us. Famine is in thy cheeks. / Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes.

OLIVER: [surprised, pleased] Oh, shut it. I’d love to.

JAMES: Unless it’s more than three hours away.

OLIVER: [amused] Maybe I want to eat at Dellecher. Filippa will let us in.

JAMES: [faltering, suddenly quiet] Yeah.

OLIVER: [a pause] Well, if there’s good Chinese food out here…

JAMES: I know a few.

Scene 4: Amy’s Hallway

[It is night, and OLIVER stands alone at the end of the hallway in dead quiet. The dim lights illuminate the dark wood floor and the pale pink walls. He holds a chunky beige phone in his hands and peers at the numbers on the keypad as he presses them half-heartedly. His shoulders are slumped.]

[The phone rings three times.]

FILIPPA: [through the phone, polite and impersonal] Hello?

OLIVER: [quietly] Hi.

FILIPPA: [a pause. Then, with recognition] Oliver?

OLIVER: Yeah, hey Pip.

FILIPPA: [wavering between happy and angry] I haven’t heard from you in over a week. Why haven’t I heard from you in a week?

OLIVER: Sorry. I was going to call.

FILIPPA: Yeah? Leah told me you left eight days ago.

OLIVER: Sorry.

FILIPPA: No, I just—I would’ve liked a call.

OLIVER: Were you worrying about me?

FILIPPA: [a pause.] Yes.

OLIVER: I’m not going to disappear on you. On any of you.

FILIPPA: [self-deprecating laugh] It’s my own fault, I guess. I can’t blame you any more than I can blame myself. I covered up that damn murder myself. What, will these hands ne’er be clean?

OLIVER: Can we stop with the blame? That’s all anyone talks about—who did the worst thing, who’s fault it is. It’s all of us, okay? It’s all of us, because we all decided not to save him, and that’s it. In the end it was all of us, every single fucking one of us.

FILIPPA: [quiet for a moment. Shrewdly] Who else is talking about blame with you?

OLIVER: [a pause] I… Alex.

FILIPPA: He hardly ever talks about it, usually. He shuts down really fast.

OLIVER: I guess he just… I mean, I just got out, you know.

FILIPPA: Yeah, I guess so.

OLIVER: How have you—

FILIPPA: [Interrupting] So you’re in Del Norte now?

OLIVER: Yeah, I’ve been here a week.

FILIPPA: Well…

OLIVER: [echoing nervously] Well?

FILIPPA: Well, any sign of him?

OLIVER: Who, James?

FILIPPA: [flatly] No, Richard.

OLIVER: [a deep breath] No, neither.

FILIPPA: [sincerely] I’m sorry, Oliver.

OLIVER: It’s only been a week.

FILIPPA: You’re in that town you stayed with him, in third year? Isn’t it a small town?

OLIVER: Yeah.

FILIPPA: [carefully] How long are you planning to stay?

OLIVER: The room is booked for a month.

FILIPPA: What will you do if you don’t find him?

OLIVER: [hesitating] I guess I…

FILIPPA: [gently] You’re going to have to come home someday, even if you never find answers.

OLIVER: [heavily] I know.

FILIPPA: You promised you wouldn’t lose yourself.

OLIVER: I’m not. I haven’t.

FILIPPA: Good.

OLIVER: If I don’t find him, I suppose I’ll visit the locations in Pericles.

FILIPPA: God, Oliver. Who’s funding that?

OLIVER: I don’t know. I’ll pick up a few roles. We’ll see. But I might end up staying here for… more than a month.

FILIPPA: Oliver, I love you… I…

OLIVER: You’re not losing me, I just want a little more time.

FILIPPA: [uncertain] Yeah.

[The clock strikes midnight.]

OLIVER: Pip, I gotta go, I’m not allowed on the phone past midnight.

FILIPPA: Good luck, Oliver.

OLIVER: Thank you. I love you too. Bye.

[OLIVER hangs up the phone.]

Chapter Text

Scene 1: Sam’s Delicatessen

[OLIVER and JAMES stand in back from a deli case, allowing a couple locals to line up and order as they survey the options. The yellow-papered walls are plastered with newspaper clippings about fishing and small mentions of Sam’s Delicatessen over the years, and pictures of smiling men who appear to all be related—Sam’s descendents. In the case are different pastas and salads—spinach-mozzarella-tomatoes, Caesar with no dressing, campanelle pasta tossed in pesto with chopped vegetables and olives, spaghetti with chicken meatballs.]

OLIVER: I should be a cannibal.

JAMES: [sudden, surprised laugh] Oh, fuck, I missed you.

OLIVER: Olives are so good.

JAMES: Spoken with true passion, Marks, well-pronounced.

OLIVER: There were some in the fridge when I got home, and I must have eaten at least half of them.

JAMES: How tastes the flesh of your kin?

OLIVER: Heavenly.

JAMES: What are you actually getting? The campanelle?

OLIVER: Probably a sandwich. We had Italian pasta yesterday for lunch.

JAMES: We did, but it wasn’t this Italian pasta.

OLIVER: I thought we were going to eat something different every day? It was your idea. We can’t have two out of five for Italian pasta.

JAMES: I thought cannibalism might make the dish a new venture.

OLIVER: Ah… maybe I’ll get a sandwich with olives.

JAMES: What, on the side?

OLIVER: Why not?

JAMES: Alright. Are you ready? Want a drink?

OLIVER: Sprite? Yes, are you?

[JAMES steps up to the counter, slipping one hand into his pocket and pulling out his wallet as he orders off the menu on the wall behind the counter.]

JAMES: Sprite, water, chicken sandwich with—uh—swiss—hot, please—and—

[JAMES turns expectantly to OLIVER]

OLIVER: Prosciutto on sourdough baguette?

JAMES: Can we get an—uh. Side of olives?

[OLIVER suppresses a laugh and JAMES’ mouth twitches. The cashier, punching numbers into the register as the man behind the counter begins assembling these sandwiches, points them first to a glass-door drink refrigerator behind them, and then a squat one beside it that opens from the top.]

CASHIER: Sodas in the back, olives in the fridge.

JAMES: [to OLIVER] Grab some, will you?

[OLIVER takes first the Sprite and bottled water from the fridge and then peers down into the glass top of the short fridge containing the olives. His eyes trace the labels, but he doesn’t open the fridge.]

OLIVER: Do we care what kind?

JAMES: They’re for you.

OLIVER: Alright.

[OLIVER selects a plastic container of olives the size of a new roll of duct tape and returns to the counter with it. The CASHIER takes this an approving nod and scans it deftly. JAMES hands over his credit card.]

CASHIER: Are you splitting?

JAMES: No, all of it. Thanks.

CASHIER: Sure thing.

OLIVER: Wait a minute—

JAMES: Not a word from you.

OLIVER: James, you paid yesterday.

JAMES: You haven’t had any income for ten years.

OLIVER: Well—

JAMES: [turning to OLIVER, serious] No, I mean it, stop.

OLIVER: [reluctant] My poverty, but not my will, consents.

JAMES: [smiling] I pay thy poverty and not thy will.

OLIVER: You could have at least picked the olives, then.

[JAMES smiles, takes his card back and puts his hands in his pockets. With OLIVER, he wanders over to peer idly at the cheeses as they wait for their sandwiches.]

OLIVER: Thanks.

JAMES: [hesitates a moment] Yeah. It’s a good place.

OLIVER: Have you been here the whole time?

JAMES: What, you mean living? Or the deli.

OLIVER: [dryly] Take a guess.

JAMES: Yeah, I’ve been here since I left. I had to if I wanted you to be able to find me, you know.

OLIVER: You knew the length of my sentence, though. You could’ve just come at the end.

JAMES: And landed Horatio?

OLIVER: Fuck off, anyone with half a brain would’ve given you whatever role you wanted, even if you showed up in town out of no where, no references. You know that.

JAMES: Maybe.

OLIVER: No one even comes close. You out-did Hamlet on that stage by leagues.

JAMES: Oh, thanks.

OLIVER: You know you did.

JAMES: Maybe.

OLIVER: What I want to know is—why Horatio? Even if you were sick of love-sick fools, Hamlet’s as good of a role as you can get. It’s tragic, it’s heroic, it’s dark, it’s clever. It’s dynamic.

JAMES: [hesitates] I like Horatio.

OLIVER: [searching] Do you.

JAMES: I didn’t realize I’d kept your program from last week until I got home, actually.

OLIVER: I know you were Horatio. I didn’t need a program to figure it out. I’d know your voice anywhere.

JAMES: No, I know. [a pause] You know, Horatio contains multitudes, too. Mysteries. He’s compelling. He’s a really interesting study in loyalty.

OLIVER: Oh, no, I wasn’t saying he didn’t.

CASHIER: Prosciutto on baguette, chicken sandwich!

[JAMES reaches across the counter, accepts two sandwiches wrapped in white paper and closed with stickers that read “Sam’s Deli” with two hands, checks the red scrawl on the wrapper, and gives one to OLIVER.]

JAMES: Thanks.

[JAMES glances at the sandwiches and hands one to OLIVER.]

OLIVER: Thank you. Do you want to eat by the sea?

JAMES: Sure.

[JAMES and OLIVER exit the shop with a gentle jingle. It is sunnier than their cloudy day on the trail along the shoreline; in this heat, ice cream is melting down the fingers of the kids chattering across the street.]

OLIVER: Maybe not. There’s cover here.

[OLIVER points to a circular wooden table with two rickety looking chairs on either side of it, shaded by the striped awning of the delicatessen they’ve just exited. There’s a penny on the seat of one chair and a thin, crumpled paper napkin on the table.]

JAMES: We can sit under a tree if you’d like. There’s a bench that way.

[JAMES points vaguely in the direction of the shoreline, and to their right.]

OLIVER: Oh, yeah, that’s good.

[JAMES and OLIVER set off, sandwiches in their hands.]

Scene 2: Bench Under a Tree

[OLIVER and JAMES walk together towards a wooden bench with sandwiches in their hands. They are close enough to the shore that the breeze ruffles through their hair and rustles the leaves above them.]

[JAMES and OLIVER unwrap their sandwiches and begin to eat. They cover their mouths when they speak and sit a few feet apart.]

OLIVER: Is this the one?

JAMES: Yeah. I come here when it’s warm, and I don’t feel like being at home.

OLIVER: Do you like it here? The town, I mean.

JAMES: Yeah, it’s grown on me. It didn’t seem—it felt too quiet at the beginning, when I first moved in. I mean, no, that’s not true. When I first moved in I didn’t want anyone to notice me—not the waiters, not the lady at the visitor’s center help desk. No one but the bartender.

OLIVER: [with realization] Oh.

JAMES: [perceiving the question] It’s not a problem anymore. It used to be really bad. They stopped serving me for my own good after the first few times I blacked out. The last time they thought I might have—you know.

OLIVER: [draws a sharp breath] Jesus.

JAMES: [grimly] What else would you expect from me? You knew I wasn’t doing so well.

OLIVER: [obviously guilty] I know. Sorry.

JAMES: Oh, for fuck’s sake.

[OLIVER seems unable to find a response. He peels the paper around his sandwich down lower.]

OLIVER: What was that you were saying about Horatio and loyalty?

JAMES: [thoughtfully] He’s so secondary to Hamlet. If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart / Absent thee from felicity awhile, / And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, / To tell my story. The only reason he doesn’t die with Hamlet is because Hamlet asks him not to.

Hamlet is the tragic hero—but Horatio’s probably the most heroic character in the play.

OLIVER: [with disbelief] You really think so?

JAMES: Hamlet is acting on behalf of his father, right, but he’s also acting on his own desires—to punish his mother for betraying her father, and to bring vengeance on Claudius. Horatio is acting on loyalty alone. Hamlet needs him, and so he is there.

OLIVER: I don’t think it’s about loyalty. It’s about friendship.

JAMES: Maybe so. But Horatio never falters, and Hamlet never… pays it back, if you will. When he starts to act, it even likely damages Horatio’s reputation—

OLIVER: That’s not what friendship is about. He believes in Hamlet—that’s all there is to it. Now cracks a noble heart. Goodnight, sweet prince. He doesn’t begrudge Hamlet anything.

JAMES: That’s what makes him such an interesting character.

OLIVER: What does?

JAMES: He doesn’t begrudge Hamlet anything. He doesn’t find fault in one goddamn thing.

OLIVER: Gwendolyn might call that a “surface level reading.”

JAMES: It’s interesting, it’s compelling.

OLIVER: Maybe. Not more so than Hamlet himself.

JAMES: Oh, come on. Hamlet’s been analyzed to death.

OLIVER: You’re not wrong.

[They’re quiet for a moment, a comfortable silence punctuated only by their crinkling sandwich wrappers.]

OLIVER: You were right. Good sandwiches.

JAMES: I’m glad to finally be getting you some good food.

OLIVER: That’s the first thing I did after I got out: I asked for real food.

JAMES: [with delight] Did you really?

OLIVER: No, I asked where you were, so I could see you.

[JAMES is silent for a long moment, clearly trying to understand this statement.]

JAMES: [tense] None of them knew. They thought I was dead. You told them I was alive?

OLIVER: I—what? James, they didn’t tell me you had—well, presumably died. They didn’t even give me your note until I was out. I asked because I thought you were still alive.

JAMES: [blank] What?

OLIVER: Yeah, I didn’t know.

JAMES: What—what did you think when I didn’t visit?

OLIVER: I didn’t know what to think. I guess I thought you just didn’t want to see me anymore—maybe because of the guilt. Maybe you just wanted to leave it all behind.

JAMES: You weren’t completely wrong. Not entirely.

OLIVER: Yeah. I thought not. Is’t I / That chase thee from thy country?

JAMES: Don’t be an idiot.

OLIVER: Sometimes, I thought you just couldn’t forgive me.

JAMES: There’s—me? Forgive you? What for?

OLIVER: James.

JAMES: I’m the one who’s sorry. You know that, right? You understand? I’m fucking—it’s like you forget I killed Richard. I did that, Oliver. Me, with my hands, with that boat hook, because I couldn’t handle it when he called me queer.

OLIVER: That’s not why you killed him.

JAMES: No, it was. He was pissing me off.

OLIVER: No it wasn’t.

JAMES: Were you there?

OLIVER: That’s not what you told me the first time, and I know you were telling the truth the first time.

JAMES: What did I tell you?

OLIVER: [sighs] He was drunk. He was violent. He wouldn’t let you leave, he was shoving you and provoking you and calling you a coward. Don’t twist yourself into a villain. You never were.

JAMES: [bitterly] Oh, coward that I am, to live so long / To see my best friend ta’en before my face!

OLIVER: You’re not a coward either.

JAMES: [ignoring this] I cannot believe they didn’t tell you. I never thought… every time I imagined what it would be like for you, you were still in prison when you read it. You had years to think about the monologue—

OLIVER: It wasn’t a difficult monologue to parse.

JAMES: You just sat there, without any visits, not knowing where the hell I was? Did they at least give you a fake story?

OLIVER: No. I had no idea. But maybe it was for the better—I can’t imagine agonizing over Pericles’ monologue for that long without being able to look for you. It would’ve driven me mad.

JAMES: I hadn’t thought of that. God, I don’t know why I didn’t think about that.

OLIVER: When I first read it, I didn’t even know if I was reading it right. I thought maybe—I was seeing what I wanted to see.

JAMES: If which you shall refuse, when I am dead…

OLIVER: Yes, I know.

JAMES: Was it a difficult note or not?

OLIVER: It wasn’t difficult to understand. It was just difficult to see past my hope, I guess.

JAMES: Oh. Yeah. Oliver…

[JAMES doesn’t keep speaking, though OLIVER looks at him as if waiting. Instead, they stare at each other for a long time. OLIVER’s fingers smooth over his pocket, and JAMES’ eyes flicker towards the motion before returning to OLIVER’s face.]

JAMES: What is it?

OLIVER: Nothing. You were saying something.

JAMES: [quietly] You’re the same person. You’re the exact same.

OLIVER: Was it meant to be? It couldn’t have been.

JAMES: Was what? Did I want my fake suicide note to be a complicated riddle?

OLIVER: [looking away] I don’t know. That sounds worse than it did in my head.

JAMES: It’s pretty bad.

OLIVER: I suppose I just wonder why… what you were thinking when you did all of this.

JAMES: Not trying to torment you with a difficult riddle, that’s for sure. Come on.

OLIVER: No, yeah. Sorry.

JAMES: [softening] Don’t. I am. I don’t know what I was thinking. I thought about it a lot more after I did it than before. You were right—I wanted to get away. I wanted to be someone else, and I didn’t want to see you, or Filippa or Wren, or Alex. Or Meredith.

OLIVER: [half-question] Not Wren.

JAMES: They all knew it was me. And then you were locked away, and they all knew I let you. It was—I think a part of each of them hated me a little.

OLIVER: [half-heartedly, understanding JAMES’ statement to be at least partly true] Oh, no…

JAMES: No, they did. Maybe it would have been better if Alex or Meredith had gone, but it had to be you. You were the best of us, you know—you were good. I mean, no one else has a heart like you and we knew it.

OLIVER: [with real conviction] Not at all.

JAMES: [without pause] We all knew it. It was like, it was infinitely worse that it was you of all people taking my place. It felt twice as wrong—first that it wasn’t me and second that it was you. I just, I couldn’t stay. I must be gone and live or stay and die.

OLIVER: God, that’s morbid.

JAMES: You don’t get it. I really thought I’d do it.

OLIVER: [slowly, as if afraid of the answer] Do what?

JAMES: Stop. You know. A lover that kills himself, most gallant, for love.

OLIVER: [weakly] You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.

[JAMES’ mouth twists humorlessly, and he wraps the rest of his paper in its wrapper, putting it aside. He runs his finger over the ripped sticker that sealed it shut. OLIVER watches JAMES intently, tense and taking deep breaths. He wraps the remainder of his sandwich with shaking hands.]

JAMES: From this instant / There is nothing serious in mortality / All is but toys.

OLIVER: But—you didn’t.

JAMES: I would set my life on any chance / to mend it or be rid on’t. And I couldn’t do either.

OLIVER: [a pause. OLIVER looks like he is struggling to speak.] What happened? I—I get out after doing ten years for you and I hear that you’re dead, and then I get this—this monologue from you and I drive all the way here and you’re alive.

[JAMES stares at OLIVER for a long moment, as if gathering himself. His expression is pained, his body still. Jerkily, OLIVER raises a shaking hand and rakes it through his hair, making him appear even more distraught. After a pause, JAMES opens his mouth to speak.]

OLIVER: [sudden, upset] Jesus Christ, shut up. Stop. Will you use your words?

JAMES: [blank] You asked.

OLIVER: [words coming faster, turbulent] You were going to quote more at me—what, Romeo and fucking Juliet?—I didn’t spend a third of my life in love with William Shakespeare, alright? I’m in love with James Farrow.

[JAMES stares at OLIVER. OLIVER stares back. There is another long pause. OLIVER slowly tames his audible breath, JAMES watches him.]

OLIVER: [whispering, turning his gaze away] Sorry. I told you, I’m not good at this either.

JAMES: It was going to be Macbeth.

OLIVER: [thickly] Christ.

JAMES: [with slight humor] No, you’re right, I did consider more Romeo. [a pause, when OLIVER doesn’t laugh or smile] Sorry.

OLIVER: No. Just—stop. I’d rather not hear about it than riddle through we but teach bloody instructions, or something.

JAMES: [mindlessly, finishing the line on autopilot] which, being taught, return to plague th’ inventor. I didn’t think of that one. It fits.

OLIVER: It doesn’t. You’re alive.

JAMES: Well, I… It took me a long time to realize I didn’t want to die. I just wanted to not live the life I was in.

[OLIVER draws a sharp breath and swallows hard, but doesn’t interrupt. JAMES is speaking without looking at him, his head tipped up towards the tree branches above them. His eyes are closed. His Adam’s apple bobs several times before he continues.]

JAMES: I had the Xanax—You heard about it?

OLIVER: [quietly] Yeah, they found the it empty. In the car.

JAMES: And I was really going to, and I was writing you letters—all of you. What I wanted to say to each of you…. In all of them, I ended up apologizing so much. For killing Richard, for not saving him, and for letting you take my place. I mean, it felt like I was doing everyone wrong by doing you wrong.

OLIVER: You didn’t—

JAMES: [deliberately talking over OLIVER] And then I was looking at yours, and I had no idea what to say. Not a clue. There was no way to say sorry to you—even Shakespeare didn’t have anything good enough for you. And I wanted to tell you… things that I didn’t think you wanted to hear.

OLIVER: [shaky] Your death didn’t start out fake.

JAMES: I gave up. [OLIVER makes a quiet noise of dissent.] Not on life, on writing your note. And I just thought… the worst part was living like this—sorry to everyone and unable to say one goddamn thing to you, and being right in the middle of it. Every day, I was just looking at the people I’d stolen you from. And Richard. I went back to the notes, and I went back to Shakespeare, and I just started writing to you. I thought it was going to be—sorry—I was going to write you R and J.

OLIVER: No.

JAMES: No, I was. And then I started writing, and it was Pericles. It started with Here to have death in peace is all he'll crave, and such. But—I don’t know, I changed my mind.

OLIVER: [quiet] James.

JAMES: I should’ve known when I switched to Pericles, I guess.

OLIVER: [a long pause. His eyes are wet.] Alright.

JAMES: Alright?

OLIVER: Alright, thanks. You can quote Romeo and Juliet now.

JAMES: [laughs, surprised, like letting out a long-held breath] My grave is like to be my wedding bed—?

OLIVER: [cracking a smile] Oh my god, James.

JAMES: Is this better—By a name / I know not how to tell thee who I am. / My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself / Because it is an enemy to thee. / Had I it written, I would tear the word.

OLIVER: [speaking lines out of order] Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

JAMES: [smiles] I used to be.

Scene 3: Amy’s Guest Room

[OLIVER is sitting in sweatpants on his bed. The curtains are open, but the sky is dark, swirling with the threat of rain. OLIVER is fingering a letter with one hand, the paper so worn that the folds of it are fuzzy. From the other pocket, he is idly fiddling with a lighter. He holds the two beside each other: the letter and the flame. Then he closes the lighter and puts it back in his pocket. He puts the folded letter back in his other pocket without opening it.]

AMY: [through the door] Oliver?

OLIVER: Yeah, I’m here. Come in.

[AMY opens the door, first her head and then, after a moment, the rest of her body coming through the doorway. She’s wearing a bright yellow dress with large pink roses printed across it.]

AMY: There was a young man on the phone for you the other night—you got back late, so I forgot to tell you when you woke up.

OLIVER: Oh. I was at Hamlet again.

AMY: [smiling warmly] I thought you might be.

OLIVER: Did he leave a number or a name?

AMY: Alexander Bass?

OLIVER: [with surprise] Oh.

AMY: You know him.

OLIVER: Yes, yes, he’s a—uh. He’s a friend from school, I guess. [small laugh] Yeah, a friend from college. It’sVass, with a V.

[OLIVER stands and makes his way to the doorway. AMY moves aside to let him through, and then follows him out as OLIVER walks down the hallway towards the phone.

AMY: [pleasantly] Vass. Vass. Where’d you go to college?

OLIVER: A little place, you wouldn’t know it. Dellecher.

AMY: [apologetic] No, I haven’t heard of it.

OLIVER: That’s just as well.

[AMY leaves OLIVER alone in the hallway as OLIVER rings up a number and holds the phone up to his ear. He does this all with the sluggishness of apprehension. It rings all the way out. OLIVER sighs.]

OLIVER: [to himself] One more time.

[OLIVER calls again, and the phone rings nearly out.]

ALEXANDER: [flat] Oliver, hi.

OLIVER: [apprehensive] I guess Filippa told you this number?

ALEXANDER: Yeah, you really need to get a phone.

OLIVER: On the list of things to do, yeah.

ALEXANDER: You can drive who-knows-how-far to look for a dead guy but you can’t be assed to get a phone?

OLIVER: [a pause] Okay, just tell me what I did.

ALEXANDER: God, what do you think, Oliver? Look for James without saying a word to me about it? You even called me to fish for information. You know—not just that—the fact that you’re looking for James at all.

OLIVER: I have to.

ALEXANDER: By heavenly command?

OLIVER: Look, I’m sorry it upsets you, but I’m not going to stop.

ALEXANDER: I’m not upset.

OLIVER: I’m not going to even entertain that.

ALEXANDER: I’m fucking worried.

OLIVER: [a pause] I’m not going to hurt myself. Why is everyone worried I’m going to hurt myself?

ALEXANDER: If James hurled himself off a bridge you wouldn’t follow?

OLIVER: You pretty much told me a month and a half ago that he did and I’m still here, aren’t I?

ALEXANDER: So far.

OLIVER: Alex. I’m not James. His life is not inextricably tied to mine.

ALEXANDER: [quiet] You know, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.

OLIVER: Oh, thanks.

ALEXANDER: [sudden] You’re a good actor, but you’re not a good liar.

OLIVER: Meaning?

ALEXANDER: You’re shit at lying to people you care about.

OLIVER: Ah.

ALEXANDER: [sighs] Do I have to ask right out? What’s going on. There, I gave it to you.

OLIVER: [a pause] Nothing.

ALEXANDER: [sarcastic] Sure as shit.

OLIVER: [abruptly] He’s not dead.

ALEXANDER: What? James?

[OLIVER’s expression morphs quickly from frustration to horror, and his forehead creases. He drops his head back against the wall behind him and holds the phone out in front of him for a minute, looking at it.]

OLIVER: I’m still in love with him. [choosing his words carefully] He’s not… dead to me yet. He was alive in my mind for four years, and I hadn’t even seen him once that whole time. It’s hard to kill that, even when I know he’s—gone.

ALEXANDER: [a long pause] Oliver, listen. I’m only going to say it once.

OLIVER: Hmm?

ALEXANDER: If you need me to ditch this production and drive over there myself I will do it. We can throw that stupid letter in the sea and I can introduce you to my lovely boy toy. Every drink will be on him.

OLIVER: [smiling] Are you talking about Colin?

ALEXANDER: Yes. My boy toy.

OLIVER: Your boy toy of ten years.

ALEXANDER: I said what I said.

OLIVER: [serious] Thank you.

ALEXANDER: [with reluctance] Meredith wants to see you.

OLIVER: Oh, God.

ALEXANDER: [sarcastic] Let not your ears despise my tongue forever / Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound / That ever yet they heard.

OLIVER: Fuck off.

ALEXANDER: Is it so hard? It was all ages ago.

OLIVER: Does it feel far away to you? [a long moment] Yeah, I suspected as much. [Another pause] I don’t know how to see her. I miss her like hell.

ALEXANDER: Tell her that.

OLIVER: She didn’t tell me she wanted to see me. We email.

ALEXANDER: You expect her to ask?

OLIVER: [awkwardly] Does she have a—is she, you know, seeing anyone?

ALEXANDER: [suggestive] Oh? Oliver Marks? Excuse me?

OLIVER: [quickly] No, God. I don’t want to—I just thought it would be—she would have less of a grudge, maybe, if she wasn’t, you know…

ALEXANDER: [an audible smirk] Free to love?

OLIVER: [huffs] Well, is she?

ALEXANDER: She’s seeing some up-and-coming director.

OLIVER: [with interest] You’re kidding.

ALEXANDER: You’ve missed a lot.

OLIVER: Is he younger? Mad for her?

ALEXANDER: Both.

OLIVER: [sincerely] That’s good to hear.

ALEXANDER: [with amusement] You were very worried about it?

OLIVER: I treated her like shit.

ALEXANDER: If it makes any difference, she clearly knew you were mad for James when she decided she wanted you.

OLIVER: Not really.

ALEXANDER: Well, it’s been forever anyway.

OLIVER: I’ll visit her. I just have to…

ALEXANDER: Judging from the way Pip’s reacting to this, I guess there’s something I don’t know?

OLIVER: Alex…

ALEXANDER: Just asking.

OLIVER: Sorry.

ALEXANDER: Great. Yeah. Well, I guess good luck finding a dead man. If he is even dead.

OLIVER: [guilty] Thank you. I’m sorry.

ALEXANDER: Yeah, yeah. What am I going to do, beat the information out of you? I’m gay.

OLIVER: What happened to sexually amphibious?

ALEXANDER: [a pause] You remember that?

OLIVER: I remember a lot from those weeks.

ALEXANDER: [strained lightness] One of these days I am going to beat it out of you. But I have to go.

OLIVER: Thanks for calling.

ALEXANDER: You’re getting stitches if you don’t show up here in a month.

OLIVER: [with amusement] Bye, Alex.

ALEXANDER: Bye.

[The phone line clicks. OLIVER hangs up his end of the call. Then he drags his hand down his face and exhales heavily, sagging against the wall. He pulls out the lighter, and turns it in his fingers as he walks back to his room. When he gets there, he digs through the pockets of his suitcase, sitting in the corner, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, and shakes one out.]

Scene 4: Local Theater

[OLIVER stands from his seat in the center of the second row, and pushes towards the front against the tide once again. The two women at the railing let him through with reluctance.]

[JAMES stands in a crowded, curtained-off section backstage that functions as a dressing room, pulling off Horatio’s many layers. His curls are slightly damp with sweat around his temples and at the back of his neck, the hair darker. His make-up has been wiped clumsily off, and there’s a touch of red at the corner of his mouth, a dark smudge of shadow over his right eye.]

OLIVER: James.

JAMES: [blinking] Oh—uh, hi. How was I?

OLIVER: Just as good as before. Better.

JAMES: Are you talking about in school, or last week?

OLIVER: Last week. Of course you’re better than you were in school, no competition.

JAMES: Sometimes I think I never will be what I was in school.

ACTOR 1: You were even better in school?

OLIVER: You wouldn’t believe it, but he was good, actually. Once.

JAMES: Oh, shut up. [to ACTOR 1] He was a classmate of mine. In the conservatory.

ACTOR 1: [holding out a hand] Nice to meet you. Challan.

OLIVER: [accepts handshake] You too, your Hamlet is very good. I’m Oliver.

JAMES: Oh, fuck.

ACTOR 1: Two Olivers? What are the chances? No wonder you two became friends, huh? Two Olivers in one little conservatory class.

[OLIVER looks at JAMES blankly. JAMES looks back with bugged-out eyes, mouth tight. He has taken off all of his costume, now, and stands in a plain white tank top. He has wrangled on shorts without notice.]

JAMES: Yeah. No, it was his Banquo that did me in.

OLIVER: [uncertainly, still watching JAMES] Your Macbeth did me in. Literally.

ACTOR 1: [delighted] You’re a Shakespeare actor too, Oliver Two?

OLIVER: [dryly] No, I’m Oliver One.

JAMES: [tensely] We went to a—a school where they focused only on Shakespeare.

ACTOR 1: Oh, wow, that sounds like an incredible experience.

JAMES: It was incredible.

OLIVER: Certainly was an experience.

[OLIVER and JAMES stare at each other. Now OLIVER’s mouth is tight, too. ACTOR 1 has finished changing and is putting on a sweatshirt. The rest of the cast around them is also beginning to file out, some with stage make-up still on.]

ACTOR 1: Well, ‘night, gentlemen. I say, farewell. I’m off to the kiddos. [to OLIVER] Nice to meet you. I think I learned more about this one than I have in all three years I’ve shared the stage with him put together. [to JAMES] See you tomorrow night, Oliver.

JAMES: ‘Night. See you.

ACTOR 1: Jess?

[ACTOR 1 exits backstage, the last woman in the changing area—the player for OPHELIA—picking up her bag and accepting ACTOR 1’s offered arm. OLIVER and JAMES are left alone backstage, which is silent.]

OLIVER: So.

[JAMES sits in a chair, changing his shoes, his eyes fixed on his feet.]

JAMES: One might read one’s program.

OLIVER: I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know what roles you’d played, yet.

JAMES: Horatio.

OLIVER: Yeah, but.

JAMES: Benvolio, Banquo.

[A long pause. JAMES turns in his seat and stares at himself in the mirror. OLIVER stands behind JAMES and stares at JAMES in the mirror, and puts one hand on JAMES’ shoulder, seemingly mindlessly, as he leans over and grabs a make-up wipe from the pack in front of the mirror.]

OLIVER: You have a smear of blood, Oliver.

JAMES: [turning in his chair towards OLIVER] Don’t tell me we’re doing this.

OLIVER: What, you want to talk about it later?

JAMES: Where’s the blood?

OLIVER: Just…

[OLIVER gestures for JAMES to lift his chin, and when JAMES does, he looks for a moment, uncertain, before putting a couple fingers on JAMES’ jaw and turning his head to the left. It’s dry and artificially red, caked thickly. OLIVER leans closer and wipes at it.]

JAMES: Thanks.

OLIVER: Talking isn’t helpful.

[JAMES hums.]

OLIVER: [not entirely kindly] Can I ask why you’re taking all my roles? And my name? Or am I not supposed to ask?

[JAMES hums.]

OLIVER: [not looking for an answer] Is that why you quoted Romeo at me? By a name / I know not how to tell thee who I am. / My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself / Because it is an enemy to thee. / Had I it written, I would tear the word.

[OLIVER folds up the make-up wipe in his hand and finds a clean area. He tips JAMES’ face back down and begins on the missed eye-shadow. Both of them talk quietly, breathless.]

JAMES: I think you’re mad at me.

OLIVER: I think you’re mad.

JAMES: I didn’t quote Romeo at you by accident, no.

OLIVER: Good to know. Do you have to be out of here?

JAMES: We were supposed to be about ten minutes ago.

OLIVER: [sarcastic] Nice, James. Or Oliver—should I call you Oliver?

JAMES: [with impatience] Oliver, please.

OLIVER: I’m done.

JAMES: [pleading in earnest] Oliver—please. I don’t know why you’re upset. I’m sure you’re right, okay? I’m sorry.

OLIVER: [begrudgingly] I meant with your make-up.

JAMES: [slightly sheepish] Oh. Thank you.

OLIVER: Don’t think you’re off the hook.

JAMES: [weakly] Of course not.

[JAMES looks at OLIVER, as if waiting for a response, but OLIVER doesn’t give one. JAMES picks up his own jacket from the back of his chair and puts it loosely on without putting his arms through the sleeves. Reaching over, he pulls his keys from the left pocket.]

JAMES: [looking away from OLIVER] Come on. It’s late.

Scene 5: James’ Car

[OLIVER and JAMES sit beside each other in JAMES’ car. The moon lights the white lines of the road faintly before JAMES turns the ignition and his headlights flick on, flooding the small parking lot with light. For a minute, they drive in silence, JAMES’ gaze flicking between the road and OLIVER, who stares at the dashboard.]

JAMES: I really don’t know why you’re angry, by the way.

OLIVER: No, why would you.

JAMES: Sorry.

OLIVER: I didn’t—I didn’t mean for that to be sarcastic. I didn’t expect you to guess at it.

JAMES: [quiet] Alright.

OLIVER: [distressed] I’m just. I’m sorry. I’m just upset.

JAMES: Alright. [A long pause] Sorry for using your name.

OLIVER: I’m not mad about it.

JAMES: Oh, no? Oh.

OLIVER: Yeah. No, I just don’t understand it, is all.

JAMES: [low] You know, I can’t make it right if I don’t know what I did. I want to… get this right. If that’s not clear.

OLIVER: [quiet] I don’t know.

[A pause]

JAMES: Is that what it is?

OLIVER: You know, Filippa’s called. She and Alex know I’m here.

JAMES: I wondered. I didn’t want to ask.

OLIVER: Filippa knows I’m looking for you.

JAMES: [looks suddenly over] She knows I’m—alive?

OLIVER: No, but I did… I did let her read the monologue. I’m sorry. I just wanted to know if she saw what I saw.

JAMES: [quiet for a moment] Yeah, that’s okay.

OLIVER: You’re sure?

JAMES: [with certainty] Yeah. It’s not like I didn’t think you might.

OLIVER: Really.

JAMES: It didn’t occur to me that you would—consult with them about what it meant. I just thought you might gather them all up and come to find me.

OLIVER: Would you have preferred that?

JAMES: [with emphasis] Oh god no.

OLIVER: But I might have done. You were just going to let that be a possibility?

JAMES: You’re not the type.

OLIVER: [disbelieving laugh] Hence forward do your messages yourself.

JAMES: Who’s pulling R and J now?

OLIVER: You were.

JAMES: [smiling] So they’re asking about what you’re doing here?

OLIVER: Filippa knows why. I guess Alex does too. They ask how I’m doing, and whether I’ve found you. They’re convinced I’m going to lose myself chasing ghosts or drown myself or both.

JAMES: [quiet] Oh.

OLIVER: I hate lying to them.

JAMES: Yeah.

OLIVER: I’m just—what the hell am I doing here?

[JAMES makes a small sound to indicate that he’s listening and signals his upcoming turn. The road is empty, and he is watching OLIVER. OLIVER’s tense, angry expression has melted, and he slumps in his seat. He runs a hand over his face.]

JAMES: [carefully] Seeing me?

OLIVER: I’ve seen you for about six hours every single day for over a week. What’s my endgame here? My month is going to end; am I going to rent it another month?

JAMES: Are you?

OLIVER: [deflated] I probably can’t afford it.

JAMES: You can stay at my place, if you like.

OLIVER: [searching] Do you want me to?

JAMES: Only if you like.

OLIVER: [with frustration] That’s what it is.

JAMES: What’s what what is?

OLIVER: I have no clue what you want from me. What was I supposed to do once I found you? Just—live with you? Leave, knowing you’re alive? Tell people? Keep it a secret for the rest of my life?

JAMES: [frustrated] You’re not supposed to do anything. I’ve told you—it’s up to you.

OLIVER: No it’s not. It’s about the two of us. There are two of us.

JAMES: Oliver. It was a request that you come find me. You want to know what I wanted? I wanted to see you out of prison. Sleeping in a good bed, driving a car, eating real food. I wanted to be able to—[faltering] to touch you. Instead of staring at you through glass. [quiet] That’s what I wanted. You didn’t have to give me that—because, and I literally cannot emphasize this enough—it was a request—but besides that, all I wanted was for you to know I was out there.

OLIVER: [taking this in] Okay. A true devoted pilgrim is not weary / To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps.

[OLIVER shifts in the passenger seat. Without saying anything more, he offers his hand, palm up, over the gear shift. JAMES pulls in an audible breath and takes OLIVER’s hand. He swallows and breathes out. OLIVER squeezes his hand.]

OLIVER: [soft] Is that all?

JAMES: Your virtue is my privilege. For that / It is not night when I do see your face. [a pause] What do you want from this?

OLIVER: [strained] You know what I want.

JAMES: Do I?

OLIVER: Come on. The same thing I always have.

[JAMES appears surprised and slightly frightened by OLIVER’s directness. He looks quickly away from OLIVER. They are passing by Dunan’s Ice cream, it’s awning flashing pink when the headlights catch it, the sign flipped to “closed.” OLIVER, catching JAMES’ reaction, releases a small breath.]

JAMES: Do you want to tell Filippa and Alex?

OLIVER: Do you want me to?

JAMES: I asked you. I’m not telling you to, I’m asking if you want to. I’m not even saying you can if you want to.

OLIVER: I’m not going to do it if you don’t want me to.

JAMES: [flatly] Jesus fucking Christ.

OLIVER: [unhappy, impatient] Alright, yeah. I kind of do.

JAMES: Okay. Thank you.

[There is a long silence. JAMES has reached AMY’s house and is pulling up close to the curb. OLIVER watches AMY’s front door through JAMES’ window and looks miserable. JAMES and OLIVER are still holding hands across the gear shift, loosely, as if they have forgotten or as if neither want to be holding on but neither want to draw attention to their hands by withdrawing them either. JAMES cuts the engine and then lets go.]

OLIVER: Goodnight, Oliver.

JAMES: There’s a program—your program—in—

OLIVER: In the glove compartment?

JAMES: Yeah.

OLIVER: Are you trying to tell me I should take it?

JAMES: If you—[glances at OLIVER’s expression] Yes.

[OLIVER takes the program from the glove compartment and closes it with his fingers. Then he gets out of the car.]

OLIVER: [hard] Goodnight, James.

JAMES: Yeah.

Chapter Text

Scene 1: Local Library

[The local library is small and contains no visitors, save for JAMES and OLIVER. There is one person behind the desk, a book propped on the desk in front of them, leaning against a boxy computer. The novels are mostly paperback and worn. The nonfiction is a collection of atlases, encyclopedias, and books about sea life.]

JAMES: [murmuring] Are these shelved in alphabetical order?

OLIVER: Looks like.

JAMES: All’s Well that Ends Well, Antony and Cleopatra, Comedy of Errors—they don’t have As You Like It?

OLIVER: Don’t see it.

JAMES: Coriolanus—oh, no Cymbeline either.

OLIVER: Hamlet.

JAMES: Of course.

OLIVER: Henry Four one and two, Henry Five…

[OLIVER and JAMES both pause. JAMES’ hand, which was counting off the spines as they named the plays, falls to his side.]

OLIVER: You’re thinking about him.

JAMES: When Holinsheld said he’d be a good Henry Five, in front of everyone, I felt like he was talking to just us.

OLIVER: The whole time I felt like he was talking to just us. Except when he got Richard wrong.

JAMES: When?

OLIVER: I remember thinking—he wouldn’t want us to move on. He wouldn’t have wanted the show to go on.

JAMES: [bitter] No. He would’ve wanted rotten fruit and real blood.

OLIVER: Yes, exactly.

JAMES: He was right, though. About Richard making a good Henry Five.

OLIVER: [heavy] Yeah. [humorless laugh] Look. Julius Caesar.

JAMES: I haven’t done it. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to, take another Caesar.

OLIVER: But you did Banquo for Macbeth?

JAMES: Did you read your program?

OLIVER: Yeah. Listen—not to sound arrogant, or make assumptions—

JAMES: You literally never do.

OLIVER: [amused] I will now.

JAMES: Go on then.

OLIVER: Why my roles? Not that they belong to me, obviously…

JAMES: No, they do. To me, they do.

OLIVER: So it’s not a coincidence, then.

JAMES: This many times? This many parts? How could it be?

OLIVER: Just wasn’t sure.

JAMES: First Pericles and then this. Trust yourself.

OLIVER: Well?

JAMES: [abrupt] Why did you want to come to the library?

OLIVER: I just wanted you to point me where it was, you didn’t have to come with me.

JAMES: Oh well.

OLIVER: I need to send an email.

JAMES: Oh. That is boring.

OLIVER: I warned you.

JAMES: Well, I’ll be over here, reading Othello.

OLIVER: I’ll come grab you when I’m done.

JAMES: Sure.

[JAMES pulls Othello from the shelf, a paperback with a cracked spine. He takes it to a seat at one of the two small plastic tables set up in the one-room library. OLIVER leaves him there, pulling out his own chair in front of the wooden school desk in the corner, upon which there is a single large grey computer set up.]

[OLIVER clicks several times with the mouse before the screen lights up, and then waits for the internet page to open. He logs into his email and then, when it’s open, selects the unread email in his inbox marked with a star.]

JAMES: Who is it? Or am I not allowed to know.

OLIVER: Meredith.

JAMES: [uneven] Ah. Yeah, cool.

OLIVER: [awkwardly] She’s seeing someone.

JAMES: Is she.

OLIVER: [muttering] You know, if that means anything to you.

JAMES: [ignoring this] I hope she’s doing well.

OLIVER: Planning to ask.

JAMES: What else?

OLIVER: [typing, responding absently] What else am I writing her?

JAMES: Yeah. She’s still quoting the Bard?

OLIVER: [smiling] Of course. I’m just… responding to some of the things she said in her last email… asking how she’s doing… [typing] Asking when I can come visit her, and whether she’d let me stay with her. How her boyfriend is doing—I’ll add that.

JAMES: You’re going to visit her?

OLIVER: Hopefully.

JAMES: [tense] When?

OLIVER: Maybe in a couple months? It’s a little overdue, I think. I mean, I haven’t seen them in years. Alex moved me in, Pip had lunch with me a handful of times when I was back in the area.

JAMES: Uh huh.

OLIVER: Wren’s called, at least. She came and spent a day and a half with me in the first week.

JAMES: Just Meredith left then.

OLIVER: [turning in his chair] You know we’re nothing.

JAMES: You and me, or you and her?

OLIVER: [quietly] I don’t know what you want from me, James.

JAMES: [deflating, picking Othello back up again] Nothing.

OLIVER: Not to push—

JAMES: Why do I get the feeling you’re about to push?

OLIVER: I’m getting the very distinct feeling that that’s not true.

JAMES: Just write your email. I’m sorry.

OLIVER: God, would you stop telling me sorry and start telling me when you’re mad?

JAMES: I’m not—I’m really not, I’m sorry.

[JAMES opens Othello again, running a finger over the cracked spine with act-thoughtfulness, and does not look back up. OLIVER looks at JAMES a moment longer, opens his mouth and closes it again. He turns around in his chair, and resumes typing. Approximately ten minutes later, OLIVER logs himself out and turns the screen off. He looks at the screen a minute longer.]

JAMES: [not looking up] Are you done?

OLIVER: Yeah.

JAMES: Should we go, then?

OLIVER: Do you want to stay and read more Othello? Or are you going to check that out? Do you have a library card?

JAMES: [as if it is obvious] I have all of his plays at my place. And of course I have a library card.

OLIVER: Of course.

[JAMES considers the copy of Othello in his hands for a moment, then takes it to the single librarian.]

JAMES: [handing it over the desk] Othello, William Shakespeare.

OLIVER: Yeah, I thought so.

JAMES: It has a different introduction.

OLIVER: [warmly] Oh?

JAMES: Stop looking at me like that.

[OLIVER, who has been gazing at JAMES with obvious fondness, looks sharply away. His eyes fix resolutely on the cracked spines of the library’s Shakespeare collection. His smile falls away.]

OLIVER: [murmuring, bitter] I still don’t know what you want from me.

JAMES: [to the LIBRARIAN] Thank you.

LIBRARIAN: You two have a great day!

OLIVER and JAMES: You too.

Scene 2: James’ Kitchen

[JAMES opens a cabinet above a small counter and pulls out a box of sugar that has a plastic tablespoon measuring spoon in it, then a box of assorted teas. The kitchen is small, cramped, and cluttered. There are dirty dishes in the sink that OLIVER is staring at openly, his hands hanging at his sides. A kettle sits on the stove, releasing steam. The stove is off. JAMES points over OLIVER’s shoulder with his free hand.]

JAMES: Mugs are behind you. What tea would you like?

OLIVER: The same, I guess.

[OLIVER turns and opens the cupboard behind him, pulling out two white mugs. One is slightly chipped on the rim. JAMES, who started pulling out a tea bag before OLIVER began to speak, pauses his movements.]

JAMES: You guess?

OLIVER: [shrugs] They didn’t have it at home. Haven’t had it… since.

JAMES: [uneven] Right, yeah. Hand me those.

[OLIVER hands the two mugs to JAMES. JAMES makes two different teas with the hot water from the kettle. He pulls open a drawer, draws out two small spoons, and idly stirs the two at the same time.]

OLIVER: [thoughtful] You have a nice place.

JAMES: Yeah, I do. A little small, but I’ve never needed space for two.

OLIVER: [dryly] I can see that.

JAMES: Hey, I like it.

OLIVER: No, I do too. It’s so much more yours than your room ever was back during school.

JAMES: I thought our room in the attic fit us.

OLIVER: No, I know. You know what I mean. At home.

[JAMES brings the two mugs over to OLIVER and hands him one, then picks up the sugar container and the two of them walk to a squat coffee table. There is no dining table, but there is a bookshelf the height of OLIVER’s waist that has an empty plate on it. OLIVER hesitates, but follows suit when JAMES puts his mug down on the top of the bookshelf.]

JAMES: It wasn’t really home.

OLIVER: I guess not.

JAMES: You were always home for me.

[OLIVER startles, looking up from stirring his tea.]

JAMES: [quickly] All of you. Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, / Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel.

OLIVER: Do you miss them?

JAMES: [unhappy laugh] Wild guess?

OLIVER: They miss you too.

JAMES: To them, I’m gone.

OLIVER: And they miss you desperately.

JAMES: Stop—you know what I’m saying. It’s a lot easier to forgive someone who’s dead.

OLIVER: [with emotion] I didn’t know that’s what you thought.

JAMES: What, you were there. You don’t think we would have gone on violently hating him if Richard hadn’t—if I hadn’t—?

OLIVER: Yeah, we’d be fucking pissed off at him all the time. You’re not Richard. And anyway, you have agency. You could ask for forgiveness. Perhaps they’re not angry.

JAMES: It was easier to leave. [checks watch] Here.

[JAMES passes the sugar box to OLIVER, who measures in approximately one half of the tablespoon and stirs it into his tea.]

OLIVER: You have a dish?

[JAMES looks around and picks up the empty plate at the other end of the bookshelf. He hands it over to OLIVER, who fishes out his teabag and then hands JAMES the plate. JAMES pulls out his teabag and doesn’t add sugar.]

OLIVER: Thanks.

JAMES: No problem. [A pause. Awkwardly] So, how’s Leah?

OLIVER: Asking where my boyfriend is.

JAMES: [involuntarily] What? She didn’t know I—

[OLIVER’s eyes fix on JAMES, and JAMES breaks off abruptly, slightly shaken. OLIVER presses his lips together. His shoulders drop.]

OLIVER: No, she didn’t. She doesn’t keep in touch with any of you.

JAMES: Didn’t you tell her we’re not…?

[There’s a long moment. OLIVER watches JAMES for the end of his sentence, but JAMES doesn’t provide it. OLIVER stirs his tea and his metal spoon clinks erratically against the sides of the mug. He sets the mug down abruptly and turns away from it. Hugging himself around his middle, he takes a deep breath.]

OLIVER: [uneven] We’re not?

JAMES: [a pause] Why, what did you tell her?

OLIVER: I told her we never were.

JAMES: And?

OLIVER: That was it. I didn’t want to tell her you were—I couldn’t.

JAMES: What, did you not have any… you know, anyone else? A boyfriend? Or Meredith?

OLIVER: [sharply] What are you trying to do, James?

JAMES: [muttering] Just asking about you and your life.

OLIVER: What about you and yours? Have you had anyone—here?

JAMES: Of course not.

OLIVER: [echoing] Of course?

JAMES: [slightly apologetic] No, I haven’t.

OLIVER: [unkindly] I guess it’s hard to make deep human connections when you’re using a fake name. When do you tell them, and such.

JAMES: That’s not why.

OLIVER: No? Is it because you don’t tell anyone about yourself at all?

JAMES: Yes, but you know. That’s not why.

OLIVER: James Farrow, why are you Oliver?

JAMES: I wanted to be.

OLIVER: [prompting] You wanted to be.

JAMES: I don’t know, okay?

OLIVER: You didn’t choose Oliver by coincidence.

JAMES: You belonged here, alright? Maybe that’s why. Not here, in Del Norte, but here, out in the sun, reading the Bard, giving people the best Banquo they’ve ever seen.

OLIVER: [quietly] Yeah?

JAMES: I wanted to bring you out here. I stole the world from you—or, I stole you from the world.

OLIVER: That’s— [breaks off]

JAMES: I know, I know. But it felt right. To bring a little more of you. The world doesn’t deserve you, but it doesn’t deserve to be robbed of you.

OLIVER: [with irony] James Farrow’s biggest, longest role: Oliver Marks.

JAMES: That’s so dumb.

OLIVER: I’m not the one who came up with it.

JAMES: [whispering] I just wanted to switch places with you so badly. You don’t understand.

OLIVER: I do. That’s why I switched places with you.

JAMES: Jesus Christ. Just drink your tea.

[OLIVER brings his mug to his mouth, blows, and takes a few experimental sips.]

JAMES: How is it?

OLIVER: [warm, wondering] Just as I remember it.

JAMES: [with emphasis] Good.

OLIVER: [experimentally] Oliver.

JAMES: I just wanted to drown myself in you.

[OLIVER stares at JAMES, putting his mug down and swallowing loudly. His eyes fix on JAMES’ face. His mouth opens, but he says nothing. JAMES holds the gaze for a moment and lets out a self-deprecating laugh. He looks away and closes his eyes.]

JAMES: I can’t do this with you.

OLIVER: What, talk to me? Tea? Having me over?

JAMES: [thickly] I can’t stand it when you look at me like that.

OLIVER: [bitter] Be not offended; for it hurts not him that he is loved of me.

JAMES: I’m not—

OLIVER: You’re not mad?

JAMES: I’m not upset with you.

OLIVER: [unhappy] Yeah, I expected.

JAMES: [weary, upset] Will you just leave it?

OLIVER: [a pause] Thanks for the tea.

JAMES: [uncertain] Leaving? I never gave you a tour of the place. Come see my room, at least. I’ve posters from each show I’ve done…

OLIVER: [evenly] Another time.

JAMES: You’re going to the library?

OLIVER: I was at the library yesterday, I think I’m just going home. I’m—

JAMES: Oliver—

OLIVER: [loud] I’m tired.

JAMES: Okay.

OLIVER: Alright. Bye.

[JAMES reaches out as if to stop the door from closing, or to hold it for OLIVER, but does neither. OLIVER pauses in the doorway, as if to speak or wait for JAMES to speak, but he does neither. JAMES stares at the door as OLIVER closes it behind him. When OLIVER has closed the door, JAMES covers his face in his hands and breathes in heavily. His body trembles with it.]

Scene 3: Amy’s House

[JAMES stands on the porch of AMY’s house, eyeing the peeling paint of the door and blowing out a heavy breath. The evening night is clear and the stars are bright. The moon sits atop a tree, making JAMES look pale. He raises a hand, pausing for a moment before knocking. He shifts from foot to foot as he waits. AMY opens the door.]

AMY: Hello? Are you here about the room for rent?

JAMES: Uh—no, I’m here for Oliver? Oliver Marks?

AMY: Oh! Yes, he’s here. I can go get him; he’s reading in his room. Quiet man, isn’t he? Seems to be quite the reader. It always seems to be Shakespeare—makes me wish I had gone to see that production of Hamlet they were doing just about a week ago.

JAMES: Yeah, it was really good.

AMY: Oh, did you go see it?

JAMES: Yeah. Something like that.

AMY: Fancy that. Well, you just stay here, dear, I’ll go get him. Who should I say is at the door?

JAMES: James Farrow.

AMY: Nice to meet you! Come on in, you can have a seat, come on in.

[AMY gestures to the chairs around the table and waves a hand vigorously to invite JAMES in. He watches her for a moment, clearly reluctant, before taking a seat. His shoulders straighten out, as if he is fortifying himself.]

AMY: Well. I’ll be back in just a moment.

JAMES: Sure. Thanks.

[AMY gives JAMES a nod and a wide smile and disappears into the hallway. There’s the sound of a knock and the click of a door. AMY returns. JAMES sits up straight, looking at her intently.]

AMY: [confused] Were you going to pick him up?

JAMES: I… Whatever he likes. I’m just here to talk to him.

AMY: Oh, well. I see. He says come on in. It’s the first door.

JAMES: [with relief] Oh. Yeah, I will.

[JAMES stands, looking lost for a moment before he makes his way into the hallway.]

AMY: [calling loudly] I’ll be out, don’t mind me!

OLIVER: [calling back] Thank you, Amy!

[AMY picks up a purse hanging on a row of hooks by the door, then leaves by the front door. In the hallway, there is another click of the door.]

OLIVER: O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle. / If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him / That is renowned for faith? Be fickle, fortune, / For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long, / But send him back.

JAMES: [dryly] Fortune had nothing to do with it.

OLIVER: [a pause] Come in.

Scene 4: Amy’s Guest Room

[JAMES steps into OLIVER’s room and closes the door behind him. OLIVER stands at the foot of his bed, a copy of Titus Andronicus open on his bed, face-down, spine cracked and the edges of its cover fraying. The room is bare and neat, save for wrinkled bedclothes and a jacket thrown over the end of the bed. The curtains are open, but the light comes from the yellow ceiling light and the white bedside reading lamp.]

JAMES: I’m sorry.

OLIVER: Oh.

JAMES: [abrupt] Are you still in touch with Filippa? Do you call her often?

OLIVER: [uncertain] Yeah?

JAMES: And Alex?

OLIVER: Yes.

JAMES: [in a rush, fumbling the cadence of the line] Say to him, I live; and observe his reports for me.

OLIVER: [startled, disbelieving] What? James. What are you saying? [fumbling] Use your own words.

JAMES: Say to him, I live. How more obvious can I get?

OLIVER: [uncertain] If this is because I was mad at you…

JAMES: No, just call them, would you?

OLIVER: What—why? Listen—I want to believe you and everything, but I feel like I’m missing something here.

JAMES: [sharp] I want you to. I don’t know, okay? Maybe I just miss them. You want me to tell them, don’t you? Obviously you do. [A pause. Quieter] You make me miss them more, you know.

OLIVER: Oh. Maybe you should sleep on it…

JAMES: I don’t have time to sleep on it! You’re leaving at the end of the week.

OLIVER: [studying JAMES] What does that have to do with anything? You could call them or email them yourself. I’ll give you their contacts.

JAMES: No… Oliver, if I wanted you to stay with me—leave them and lie to them for possibly the rest of your life—would you do it?

OLIVER: [speechless for a long moment] Would you even want that?

JAMES: You know how I feel about you.

OLIVER: Not always.

JAMES: [avoiding OLIVER’s eyes] Don’t make me say it.

OLIVER: I honestly don’t know what you’re not saying.

JAMES: But would you?

OLIVER: Would I…?

JAMES: Stay with me.

OLIVER: [pained] I don’t know.

JAMES: Yeah.

OLIVER: I would really rather not have to choose.

JAMES: Yeah.

OLIVER: James—they were everything. Weren’t they everything to you?

JAMES: That’s my point. You wouldn’t want that.

OLIVER: No. I mean if it was one or the other—I don’t know. What would we even—I mean. You and I? You know I—

JAMES: Don’t.

OLIVER: I don’t know what I would choose. Why?

JAMES: Well. Then I want you to call them.

OLIVER: [grabbing JAMES by the shoulders] Will you stop for one fucking second and just say whatever it is that you’re thinking?

JAMES: [releasing a sharp breath] I don’t want you to have to choose.

OLIVER: [dropping his hands, sounding lost] Oh, fuck’s sake.

JAMES: What?

OLIVER: You can’t—[a deep breath] I can’t—

[OLIVER runs his hand through his hair, shoulders slumped, and closes his eyes. JAMES moves towards him until they’re standing less than a foot apart, as if to offer a hug, but does not touch OLIVER.]

OLIVER: You do want me, then.

JAMES: I—Oliver.

[OLIVER looks up to see JAMES gazing at him, hand hovering above OLIVER’s shoulder. OLIVER swallows and puts his arms around JAMES gently, in invitation. JAMES folds into them.]

JAMES: [muffled by OLIVER’s shoulder] You’re too much for me, sometimes. Like Meredith is for you.

OLIVER: [carefully] James… are you mad at me?

JAMES: What?

OLIVER: [with more certainty] I asked if you were mad at me.

JAMES: I—no, I—

OLIVER: I mean it.

JAMES: [with frustration] I don’t know.

OLIVER: [soft] Okay.

[OLIVER and JAMES stand there for a moment: OLIVER’s arms wrapped loosely around JAMES and JAMES’ hands linked behind OLIVER’s back. Then, at the same time, OLIVER tightens his hug.JAMES returns it, turning his face into OLIVER’s neck. OLIVER bows his head. The two stand there, breathing.]

Scene 5: Amy’s Hallway

[OLIVER stands in AMY’s hallway, the phone held in one hand, the other in his pocket. JAMES stands beside him, tapping one heel lightly against the wall without pause, his bottom lip white between his teeth. OLIVER checks his watch.]

OLIVER: Filippa should be out by now.

JAMES: [harsh breath] Yeah?

OLIVER: [hesitating] Should I…

JAMES: Call her.

OLIVER: [hesitating] Tell me if you change your mind.

JAMES: Yes, I know.

OLIVER: Okay. Here goes.

[OLIVER runs his fingers over the numbers on the phone and presses in FILIPPA’s phone number. It rings four times.]

FILIPPA: Oliver!

OLIVER: Filippa.

FILIPPA: I didn’t expect to hear from you before you went back home.

OLIVER: [awkwardly] Well.

FILIPPA: [hearing something off] Oh, fuck. You are coming home, aren’t you?

OLIVER: I—Well—look, could I talk to you—

FILIPPA: [with apprehension] I thought that was what we were doing right now.

OLIVER: We are. Yeah, we are. It’s just—there’s something I have to tell you.

[Beside OLIVER, JAMES presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and breathes out heavily.]

FILIPPA: [voice steely] Are you coming home or not?

OLIVER: [looking with alarm at JAMES] [weakly] I… look, my house isn’t even all that much closer to Dellecher than Del Norte.

FILIPPA: Oliver—

OLIVER: Just give me a minute, okay?

[OLIVER covers the receiver and turns to JAMES, who is still covering his eyes and breathing in deeply, although less desperately.]

OLIVER: [quitely, to JAMES] You’re sure?

JAMES: [dropping his hands, keeping his eyes closed] I didn’t tell you to stop.

OLIVER: Well—

JAMES: [with distress] Goddammit, just give me the damn phone.

OLIVER: [looking alarmed] Give you the phone? James, are you insane?

JAMES: Just give it to me.

OLIVER: James—

JAMES: Just fucking do it.

[OLIVER hands the phone over to JAMES with clear apprehension and watches JAMES the way one watches a child playing by the edge of a cliff. Terrified, unable to look away, unable to watch.]

JAMES: [a heavy breath] Hello.

FILIPPA: …Who’s this? [a pause] [with breathless feeling] Oh, shit.

JAMES: Hi, Pip.

FILIPPA: [whispering] James?

JAMES: Yeah.

FILIPPA: Oh shit, oh shit. [Fumbling through the phone]

JAMES: [unevenly] Yeah.

FILIPPA: [sudden, short, hysterical laugh] I guess Oliver found you after all, then?

JAMES: He did. I’m sorry I didn’t tell the rest of you.

FILIPPA: We thought you—you know exactly what we thought. You made sure of that.

JAMES: [heavily] Sorry.

FILIPPA: I—You’re alive. [audible breath] Can we see you?

JAMES: [looking quickly towards OLIVER] I… I’d like that. But—don’t tell the rest of them. I’ll do that myself.

FILIPPA: You fucking better.

JAMES: [with weak humor] I haven’t heard you this discomposed since you found me with that bloody boat hook.

FILIPPA: [without missing a beat] I haven’t heard you this alive since you drowned yourself.

OLIVER: Oh, fuck you, Pip.

JAMES: In her defense, I made jokes about Richard’s death.

OLIVER: We were all half-mad after Richard’s death.

FILIPPA: I may be fully mad, now. I’m hearing ghosts. If our graves must send / Those that we bury back, our monuments / Shall be the maws of kites.

JAMES: [indulgent] The time has been / That, when the brains were out, the man would die, / And there an end. But now they rise again.

FILIPPA: [with amusement] I guess you’re definitely James, then. The best Macbeth I ever saw.

JAMES: Aw, Pip.

FILIPPA: [suddenly serious] James. It’s—it’s nice to hear from you.

JAMES: [soft] You too, Pip.

FILIPPA: But please put Oliver back on.

[JAMES hands the phone back, and when his mouth is no longer close the receiver, releases a heavy breath. He puts his hands in his pockets and leans back against the wall, dropping his head back. OLIVER takes the phone back and puts it to his ear.]

OLIVER: [sheepish] Hi, Pip.

FILIPPA: Fuck you.

OLIVER: [slight smile] No thank you? Good job, detective?

FILIPPA: I can’t believe we thought you were an awful liar.

OLIVER: You couldn’t see me trying to hold a poker face.

FILIPPA: [grudging] Good job, detective.

OLIVER: Thanks.

FILIPPA: I’m glad to hear James is alive, but I’m…

OLIVER: You need time?

FILIPPA: Are you going to be there in two weeks?

OLIVER: I… [glancing at JAMES]

JAMES: [quietly, to OLIVER] Stay with me.

OLIVER: I, uh. [to JAMES, whispering] You’re sure?

[JAMES nods.]

OLIVER: Yeah, I will be.

[JAMES smiles unevenly, as if trying to suppress it and failing.]

FILIPPA: Anywhere I can stay?

OLIVER: [smiling] Yeah, I know a couple of rooms for rent.

FILIPPA: I’ll see you then? Email me the details?

OLIVER: I will.

FILIPPA: Put James on.

[OLIVER hands the phone back.]

JAMES: Hey.

FILIPPA: Don’t pull that again.

JAMES: Jesus, I can’t fake my death twice.

FILIPPA: Alright, because we love you.

JAMES: [less cavalier] Yeah, I know.

FILIPPA: Goodbye, James. I’ll see you soon.

JAMES: Goodbye. See you then.

[JAMES hangs up the phone and then turns to OLIVER, his posture sagging, not with unhappiness, but with relieved exhaustion. OLIVER reaches over and squeezes his shoulder, JAMES smiles faintly.]

OLIVER: [quietly] Good job.

JAMES: One down, three to go.

[JAMES reaches for the phone, gently stepping away from OLIVER’s hand on his shoulder.]

OLIVER: Wait.

[JAMES pauses.]

OLIVER: I’m—staying with you at the end of the week?

JAMES: [uncertainly] Unless you don’t want to. I thought you said you didn’t think you could afford to keep renting here.

OLIVER: I did.

JAMES: [nervous] Well?

OLIVER: If you’re sure.

JAMES: Of course I’m sure. You… you came here to find me.

OLIVER: Do you even have another bed?

JAMES: I—no. We’ll figure it out.

OLIVER: [a pause] I’ll sleep on the—

JAMES: [louder, over OLIVER] We’ll figure it out.

OLIVER: Are you ready?

JAMES: To call Alex?

OLIVER: Yeah.

JAMES: As I’ll ever be.

[JAMES picks up the phone.]

Chapter Text

Scene 1: James’ House

[OLIVER and JAMES enter JAMES’ living room. OLIVER carries in a small suitcase; JAMES closes the door behind him. For six seconds, the two of them stand there, shifting on their feet. JAMES watches intently as OLIVER looks around the room.]

OLIVER: I forgot you don’t have a couch.

JAMES: I have my bed to lie in and chairs to sit in. I never needed a couch.

OLIVER: …Where am I going to sleep?

JAMES: [matter-of-factly] On my bed. I’ll put something together for myself—I have pillows, blankets, sheets… [with amusement] I could sleep on the coffee table.

OLIVER: [dryly] You’re going to set up a bed on the coffee table at this hour. Yes, brilliant thinking.

JAMES: It wouldn’t be this late if you didn’t insist on that awful wait…

OLIVER: But it was the only Thai place. Blame yourself for choosing this tiny town.

JAMES: Blame yourself for taking my place and forcing me into hiding.

OLIVER: Oh, stop dodging responsibility. Blame yourself for killing Richard in the first place.

[Silence falls. JAMES looks away and his posture slumps nearly imperceptibly. OLIVER, by contrast, stiffens at his own words and appears to freeze up.]

JAMES: You can be sure I do.

OLIVER: [gently] C’mon, we’ve shared a bed before.

JAMES: [glancing over sidelong] Wouldn’t bother you?

OLIVER: I still count myself lucky to have a real bed at all.

JAMES: [wincing] God, I can’t wait until you’re a rich and famous Shakespeare actor and you pamper yourself rotten.

OLIVER: You flatter me.

[JAMES cracks a smile and picks up OLIVER’s luggage from his loosened grip, setting off towards the hallway before OLIVER can object. OLIVER follows him down the hallway to a bedroom.]

JAMES: You really are traveling light.

OLIVER: No other way I can travel.

JAMES: [unhappy] Oh. I should have known—

OLIVER: If you’re about to apologize, I swear—I’m staying in your house! It’s fine, you’re making it up to me.

JAMES: Hardly even.

OLIVER: Well it doesn’t matter anyway, because I did it gladly. How many times do I have to say it? I chose it for myself.

JAMES: I… The love that follows us sometime is our trouble / which we still thank as love.

OLIVER: It is love.

JAMES: [quiet] I know it is.

[OLIVER waits. He shifts from one foot to the other, his shoulders curling in.]

JAMES: Come on, then.

[JAMES opens the door and flips a light switch, illuminating a room that contains a dresser, a bed, and a small bookshelf littered with programs for Shakespeare performances and thick books whose spines read Shakespeare under the Microscope, Shakespeare in the 20th Century, Shakespeare on Gender and Sexuality: A close read of Twelfth Night, and other similar titles. There are no windows, but the walls are painted a faded sky-blue.]

JAMES: Bathroom’s…

[JAMES gestures vaguely down the hall and sets OLIVER’s suitcase down on the wooden floor with a gentle thunk. OLIVER remains in the doorway, watching JAMES. OLIVER takes two steps into the room, hands in his pockets, then stops.]

OLIVER: Going to bed now?

JAMES: [glancing at the clock] If you are.

OLIVER: [shrugs] Sure.

[OLIVER turns his back to JAMES and kneels to open his suitcase, pulling out an old, worn T-shirt and soft draw-string shorts. JAMES, who had been watching OLIVER, quickly turns away.]

OLIVER: [without turning] Have you heard from Meredith yet?

JAMES: I’ve been too afraid to check.

OLIVER: [with understanding] Yeah. [a pause] What about Wren?

JAMES: She’s thinking of joining Alex and Filippa. She’s got work, though, a character role, and she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to get away. [a beat] She wants to know if I’m staying around here.

OLIVER: [turning around, with surprise] Are you?

JAMES: I never really thought that far.

OLIVER: You had a long time to think about it.

JAMES: I just thought I’d stay here and wait for you, and if you ever showed up, I’d do whatever you wanted me to do. That was as far as I got.

[OLIVER sucks in a sharp breath but does not speak. He turns back to his suitcase and resumes changing. JAMES begins to change as well, tossing a look over his shoulder after changing his bottoms.]

JAMES: Can stay pretty hot at night.

OLIVER: I’ve noticed.

JAMES: I mean, I… don’t usually put on a shirt.

OLIVER: [even] Sure, I don’t mind.

JAMES: [awkward] Okay.

OLIVER: [awkward] I’m—you said the bathroom was down that way?

JAMES: [fondly] Tiny place. You don’t need directions.

[OLIVER hovers in the doorway for a moment, gazing over at JAMES, who lifts one shoulder in response. OLIVER taps the doorframe, once, as if in goodbye, and sets off down the hallway. JAMES drops his shirt into the laundry basket in the corner and gently closes the door.]

Scene 2: James’ Bedroom

[JAMES and OLIVER stand in JAMES’ bedroom, both dressed for sleep. The bed is made up with only white sheets and a blanket folded into a rumpled rectangle at the food of their bed. They move with a mix of certainty and care, the mark of people doing something that they have done before, but which still feels novel and unsteady.]

[JAMES waits a moment, running fingers through his curls. He makes his way to the bed, turns to look at OLIVER when he reaches the edge, pauses, and then gets in. OLIVER follows carefully, turning off the light. They lie side-by-side, carefully avoiding touching, not looking at each other.]

JAMES: [quiet] They’re coming, soon.

OLIVER: [Just as quiet] Yeah. You’re ready for that?

JAMES: I guess I have to be.

OLIVER: But?

JAMES: It’s going to be excruciating. You know as well as I.

OLIVER: [reluctant] It might be. They’re—you know.

JAMES: They’re worth the pain? Yeah, I know. [a long pause, tentative] What was it like, seeing me again? If you don’t mind.

OLIVER: [staring up] I waited for four years to see you, after you disappeared. I imagined it a hundred different ways.

JAMES: [turning his head to look at OLIVER] Mmm.

OLIVER: This is better than any of them.

JAMES: [incredulous] Better?

OLIVER: Because it’s really you. You’re real. No matter how I try, I can’t imagine how you would really act, or what you would really say…

JAMES: I know what you mean. [a pause] But I’m sure you wish I was different.

OLIVER: No.

JAMES: Be honest.

OLIVER: [turning to look at JAMES] I am. Do you wish it was different?

JAMES: Yes. I mean, I wish I was different.

OLIVER: …Oh? [apprehensive] In what way?

JAMES: [a heavy breath] I am angry at you.

OLIVER: [a pause] I thought you might be.

JAMES: I shouldn’t be. [frustrated] I mean, I can’t be.

OLIVER: Why not?

JAMES: Because—Goddammit, you know why. You’re Oliver, and after everything you’ve done for me—

OLIVER: It doesn’t matter what I did. You’re allowed to be upset.

JAMES: But it does matter what you did. It’s—I’m upset with you because of what you did, and I can’t be. You know I can’t be.

OLIVER: I don’t think that’s true.

JAMES: [sitting up abruptly, quiet] It was like you stole my line.

OLIVER: How do you mean?

JAMES: [quietly] You know what I mean. I mean—you stole my goddamn line. I had it all ready—I knew all my lines. I was ready to perform them, I would have. Colborne played his part, and that was my cue, and you stole my fucking line, Oliver. [getting louder] Right there in front of everybody, opening night, where I couldn’t step on your line, where I couldn’t break character and ask you what the fuck you were doing. Without auditions or rehearsals or even fucking understudying, you said my goddamn line less than an hour after you even found out there was a play. You fucking said my line and you—

[OLIVER sits slowly up as JAMES speaks and now places a hand gently on JAMES’ shoulder, then slides it across his back to put his arm around JAMES, his touch light. JAMES breaks off abruptly, pulling an audible breath.]

JAMES: God, I hate this. I hate being angry with you. I can’t do it.

OLIVER: I… I’m sorry. [swallows] I’m not sorry for doing it, but I’m sorry, truly sorry for how it hurt you.

JAMES: Oliver. Stop talking.

OLIVER: No, I—I am sorry.

JAMES: Oliver. Please. Just—

OLIVER: [quiet] Okay.

[JAMES is quiet for a long moment. Then, he turns towards OLIVER, lifting his head. For a long moment, the two of them look at each other, OLIVER’s arm still around JAMES’ shoulders. Slowly, JAMES leans into OLIVER and brings his arm around to hold OLIVER back just as loosely.]

JAMES: [murmuring] You know I’m grateful, don’t you? I haven’t managed a thank you this whole time, have I…

OLIVER: I know.

JAMES: It’s like if I say thank you, I’m saying I wanted you to.

OLIVER: Well—

JAMES: No, that’s what it feels like.

OLIVER: And apologizing feels like I’m saying I regret it.

JAMES: I cannot believe you don’t.

OLIVER: Well.

[OLIVER and JAMES sit quietly for several moments. OLIVER’s fingers run along the wrinkles of the blanket, pulling away when he follows them too close to JAMES. His other arm stays around JAMES. JAMES remains still, watching OLIVER’s hand in the dark.]

JAMES: It’s late.

OLIVER: It’s the nightingale that sings?

JAMES: [soft laugh] Oliver?

[OLIVER hums.]

JAMES: I’m glad you stayed.

OLIVER: [gentle] Goodnight, James.

JAMES: Sleep give thee all his rest.

OLIVER: [obligingly] With half that wish the wisher’s eyes be pressed.

Scene 3: Duncan’s Ice Cream

[JAMES and OLIVER sit at a light wooden table on blue plastic chairs. JAMES sweeps a napkin over the table, clearing a few traces of melted ice cream and another soiled napkin from the tabletop. JAMES rises, throws away the napkins, and returns to the table. When he does, OLIVER extends a hand across the table in invitation. JAMES takes it and squeezes it.]

JAMES: Five more minutes.

OLIVER: Are you expecting them to arrive on the minute?

JAMES: [strained] You’re not helping.

OLIVER: Sorry. How about ice-cream?

JAMES: You think I can eat anything?

OLIVER: Maybe to take your mind off….

JAMES: I don’t think I can eat anything.

OLIVER: I—you can call it off.

JAMES: I’m not calling it off. Just—talk to me.

OLIVER: About?

JAMES: How are you? How was—prison—? I don’t know. Just talk.

OLIVER: [echoing] How was prison? [sincere, but hurried] I don’t know what to say to you. It was terrible. We could hardly talk to each other. I didn’t often have stimulating conversation, you might say. And no one there really… I guess I had acquaintances. Not much of anything real. Couldn’t read anything. I passed the time running plays in my head, like losing my Shakespeare would be the same as losing my mind.

JAMES: Shit.

OLIVER: I missed you. Everyone, but especially you. Especially after you stopped visiting.

JAMES: [thickly] I’m so sorry.

OLIVER: James. I would do it again.

JAMES: I don’t know what to do with you.

OLIVER: [cracking a smile] Maybe we’re finding out together.

JAMES: [quiet] I hope so. [A pause] Keep talking. About—whatever you want. Just—

OLIVER: Right—of course. I missed the world.

JAMES: Right.

OLIVER: Leah visited.

JAMES: Did she believe… you’d…

OLIVER: I don’t know. I don’t think so, I would’ve been able to tell, I’d think.

JAMES: [relieved] That’s—good to hear. She always was your favorite.

OLIVER: The only member of my family worth talking to, I think I said once.

JAMES: The rest of your family…?

OLIVER: I was convicted of murder.

JAMES: [wincing] Oh no.

OLIVER: I didn’t miss them too much. I guess I missed the miniscule amount of support they did give me. But, you know, I mean, they pulled my tuition in the last semester of our senior year, so maybe it’s better I don’t rely on them anyway. The only reason they put me up when I came out was out of a sense of obligation and Leah’s help. They probably don’t like the look of it at all. Their murderous son staying in their guest room.

JAMES: [struggling for words] You always deserved better.

OLIVER: Whatever someone does or doesn’t deserve doesn’t matter, in the end. The concept never did anyone any good.

JAMES: But you did deserve better. From them, and from me.

OLIVER: [quiet] There she is.

[FILIPPA and ALEXANDER enter together, ALEXANDER in his usual black, FILIPPA in a slightly worn orange T-shirt. They look around when they enter, not at the menu, but at the tables, until their eyes land on JAMES and OLIVER. OLIVER waves, uncertain. JAMES freezes in his seat. After long, long moments of frozen silence, FILIPPA and ALEXANDER walk further into the shop.]

JAMES: That Thaisa am I, supposed dead / And drown’d.

ALEXANDER: [to JAMES] Recommendations?

JAMES: [echo] Recommendations?

ALEXANDER: For ice cream flavors.

JAMES: Ah. Yes. I… I like the blueberry.

FILIPPA: Fuck’s sake, you two.

[FILIPPA steps in and wraps JAMES in a tight hug. Over her shoulder, OLIVER finds ALEXANDER’s eyes and raises his eyebrows. ALEXANDER’s mouth pulls into a tight line, but he steps in and wraps his arms around JAMES and FILIPPA’s hug. OLIVER follows suit. They lose their balance slightly, but don’t fall. Inside the circle of their arms, JAMES begins to cry.]

Scene 4: James’ House

[OLIVER and JAMES side-by-side at a small wooden table with plates of toast in front of them. OLIVER’s is half-eaten, JAMES picks at his half-heartedly. There’s butter, jam, peanut butter, and a couple knives in front of them, and bananas.]

JAMES: I missed this.

OLIVER: This?

JAMES: [hesitating] Living with you.

OLIVER: Oh.

JAMES: I guess it’s not really the same.

OLIVER: What do you—I mean, I missed it too. I missed you.

JAMES: You’re a much neater roommate.

OLIVER: [smiling slightly] I don’t have many things to leave lying around. I’m sorry, I suppose, for being such a mess back in school.

JAMES: No, I was teasing. Besides, I was no better.

[OLIVER gazes at JAMES for a long moment. He hums quietly, an acknowledgment of JAMES’ words. JAMES looks up. He raises his eyebrows at OLIVER, turning slightly in his chair.]

OLIVER: I was just wondering if you were alright.

JAMES: Do I seem any less than alright?

OLIVER: It’s been quite a week.

[A pause]

JAMES: [quiet, thoughtful] It has, hasn’t it. [A pause] I’m alright.

OLIVER: It’s strange, seeing them after so long, isn’t it? They’re very different—

JAMES: [wryly] And they’re just the same.

OLIVER: Yeah.

JAMES: [straightening] Wait—how long did you not see them for?

OLIVER: [shrugs] Pip kept seeing me, all ten years. [A pause] The others kind of fell off after a while.

JAMES: Shit, I’m sorry.

OLIVER: Oh, don’t. We all made it through in one piece.

JAMES: Except for Richard.

OLIVER: James—fuck you.

JAMES: Just saying.

OLIVER: He was in one piece, if you want to get very particular about things.

JAMES: God.

[They both fall silent. JAMES’ mouth turns down. For several seconds, they sit there, OLIVER waiting.]

JAMES: Why can’t you and Oliver just admit that you’re queer for each other and leave my girls alone? That’s what he said.

OLIVER: Richard?

JAMES: Yeah.

[A long pause. JAMES begins to collect their breakfast plates and OLIVER follows him to the kitchen, carrying the jam, peanut butter, and corresponding knives. JAMES puts the plates in the sink and turns towards OLIVER, leaning against the counter.]

JAMES: Sorry I’m just… I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately.

OLIVER: [dry] I can’t imagine why that would be.

[JAMES and OLIVER look at each other for a long moment, JAMES unsure, OLIVER searching.]

OLIVER: [uncertain] Why couldn’t we?

JAMES: [stumbling] What? Admit we’re queer for each other?

[OLIVER shrugs, looking away. JAMES stares at his profile, looking lost, tapping his fingers on the counter soundlessly.]

JAMES: I don’t know. I was scared. And I sort of thought you knew.

OLIVER: [uneven] Knew what?

JAMES: That I…

OLIVER: Oh. No.

JAMES: No?

OLIVER: [looking at JAMES] Perhaps a little bit. But—James, you could tell I loved you. Everyone could tell. Colborne could tell.

JAMES: Colborne knew you spent ten years in jail for me.

OLIVER: [abrupt] Are you still scared, then?

JAMES: [short laugh] Terrified.

[OLIVER and JAMES gaze at each other for a long moment, silent. Slowly, JAMES reaches for OLIVER’s hand and pulls OLIVER closer to him, without breaking his gaze.]

JAMES: [soft] I love you. [a pause] I think you know that.

[OLIVER lets himself be pulled closer still. He gazes down at JAMES, hardly breathing.]

OLIVER: [whispering] James.

[JAMES doesn’t respond. He tips his head upwards and kisses OLIVER lightly, briefly, on the mouth. OLIVER puts his hands on the kitchen counter on either side of JAMES’ hips and kisses JAMES back. After a long moment, JAMES’s fingers tighten around OLIVER’s shirt, keeping him there.]

OLIVER: [pulling away slightly, murmuring] I still don’t know what I’m doing here. I—

JAMES: Just—

[JAMES kisses OLIVER again, longer and harder.]

JAMES: Just stay.

[OLIVER pulls away farther, looking JAMES in the eye. He appears uncertain, unsteady. His hands move from the countertop to JAMES’ shoulders, then to cup JAMES’ face.]

OLIVER: What do you mean, just stay?

JAMES: I want you to stay with me.

OLIVER: With you. Here?

JAMES: Anywhere. Only give me leave / unworthy as I am, to follow you.

OLIVER: A city, maybe. Good theater.

JAMES: Anywhere.

OLIVER: [half-smiling] Somewhere with more Thai options, maybe.

JAMES: [serious] Oliver—anywhere you want to go. As long as I have you.

OLIVER: And Shakespeare?

[JAMES lets out a surprised laugh; OLIVER’s smile widens. They lean in closer to each other again.]

OLIVER: Our parting is a tortured body.

[JAMES kisses OLIVER again in response. OLIVER doesn’t pull away this time. When the two part, OLIVER takes JAMES’ hands and leads him, stumbling, to the bedroom. They lie down in JAMES’ unmade bed, gazing at each other, unspeaking. They lie there for a long time in peaceful quiet.]

JAMES: A city, huh? Maybe near everyone else. I miss them.

OLIVER: I’d like that.

JAMES: Visit Filippa’s class, use Alex’s connections. Perhaps we can even pull Meredith and Wren back onto the stage.

OLIVER: [laughs softly] One thing at a time.

JAMES: Is that not your first priority?

OLIVER: I was thinking—you had better change your stage name.