Page 3 of Friends with Benefits

She learned the choreography and perfected it until her feet bled.

After the recording session, her calves burned. Her ankle screamedenough. And Evie loved every minute of that day. She is so drawn to Foley because of the physicality, the musicality, the rhythm required. Being in the studio, Evie is almost a dancer again, and it felt incredible to actually dance, to be Ginger’s feet.

Thank fucking God, Ross said when Evie played back her work for him.

It’s the closest she ever got to a thank-you from Ross Snyder.

“Well. I tried,” Imogen says with a shrug, then pulls out her phone and starts typing, her eyebrows rising in the amused expression that is for one person only. “It’s Sloane, asking if I need anything from Costco and… since when are weCostco people? How did this happen?”

“You moved in together after three months like a sapphic cliché, Gen. Ofcourseyou’re Costco people.”

Imogen flips her off. “Valid.”

Evie laughs, then reaches for her phone after it vibrates with a new text:

You’re Ginger tonight. I’m so proud of you, Evelyn.

It squeezes her heart, those nine words from her best friend.

“Theo?” Imogen assumes.

Evie nods.

“I sort of feel bad. He would’ve been a better plus-one.” She checks her teeth one final time for lipstick. “Just in terms of, like, appreciating the dance of it all. I would say sorry for calling dibs as your blood, but I’m not. So.”

Evie snorts. “You’re a great date. And anyway, it’s a school night.”

Theo Cohen—Mr.Cohen—would never be out past 10:00 p.m. on a school night. He has twenty children that he’s responsible for in the morning, teaching the next generation multiplication and assigning book reports and doing experiments to learn about weather systems that don’t exist in Southern California.

“Bitch, Iknewyou invited him first.”

Evie laughs because of course her extra ticket was Imogen’s first, always, forever.

But she’s just too easy to mess with.

Anyway, Evie will watchGingerwith Theo from the comfort of her couch when it’s on Netflix next week—when they can rewind and rewatch and analyze the dance routines like they’re seventeen again, in search of inspiration for their next duet. If it’s even good. Evie’s feet had to be approved by so many sets of ears—Ross’s, the sound mixer’s, the music supervisor’s, the director’s, Annaliese Fallon’s. Still, she must approve her work with her own ears before she allows the person whose opinion she cares about most in this world to listen, too.

She rereads Theo’s text, then tucks her phone into her clutch as the lights dim and the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lion roars. Evie’s feet are the opening beat. Ginger is rehearsing one of her routines with Fred Astaire inSwing Time. Annaliese Fallon looks incredible. Evie sounds incredible. And for the next two hours, she’s lost in the beautiful, intricate sound design. Sound is taken for granted, but Evie loves the art, the science, themagicof shaping an audience’s experience through what is not seen but heard. It’s kind of blowing her mind, that every time the music starts and the dancing begins, everyone is seeing Annaliese but hearing her. Evie’s art and talent are an integral part of this movie.

It’s an indescribable feeling.

It is purpose.

A sort of fulfillment that is notably absent when she opens Pro Tools every day and works on the latest podcast for the reality dating showEver After. She loves these podcasts as a listener—their smart, feminist, intersectional takes on a franchise that refuses to progress beyond the patriarchal foundation upon which it’s built. But spending forty-plus hours a week in front of a screen editing them?

It. Is. Torture.

Evie isn’t meant to sit in front of a computer screen.

She’s meant to move.

“Evie,” Imogen whispers, dabbing a tissue to her eyes as the credits start to roll. “Holy shit.”

Evie squeezes Imogen’s hand.

“I felt you,” she continues. “Like, I closed my eyes and we were at a competition again.”

Imogen danced, too, following in her big sister’s tap shoes. But she danced for the fun of it, for the costumes, for the unrequited crushes she always had on other dancers. Dance never became Imogen’s identity. It was simply a thing she did, not who she was.

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