[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 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.]