Page 29 of Director's Cut

My stomach drops. Why would she be calling me? And at—I glance at the clock on Charlie’s nightstand—9:00 a.m. on a Saturday?

I pick up. “Hey.” Easy, breezy, I didn’t wake up a minute ago.

“Hey,” she sounds a bit more nervous. Her voice seems deeper, but I shake the thought away as best I can. “So weird question, but can you see if my wallet is in your car?”

Right. We walked back to our cars, and Maeve said the beer was hitting her harder than she expected. I—god dammit, I called Charlie, he Ubered from a photo shoot in Downtown LA, and drove us and my car back home. Maeve told me I had a middle-aged straight man’s car, and she was very enthusiastic when Beyoncé came on my shuffle.

“Lemme check.”

I put the phone on speaker and walk out to the garage. Eustace squeezes out the door to join me. I pick him up, kiss the top of his head, and search the back seat.

Yep, there’s a wallet in the floor space. It’s soft red leather and has an Italian label on it. I imagine she got it abroad. It feels very sophisticated. She’s certainly put more effort into choosing it than I did. My wallet is one Gucci sent me for free after the Goodbye, Richard!’s premiere. I use it for convenience’s sake. Eustace leans over from my arm and licks the wallet.

“Eustace, the fuck,” I say, pulling the wallet away and wiping it on my pajama shorts.

I hope she’s not allergic to dogs.

“Who’s Eustace?” Maeve says, still on speakerphone.

“My dog,” I say. “Don’t worry, a strange man doesn’t live in my garage.”

Just in my guest room.

“I’m relieved,” she replies. “I don’t want to inconvenience you. I can Uber and come by to get it. Will you be busy in like twenty minutes?”

My chest flutters. All this time, I still can’t believe she lived twenty minutes from me. “No, that works.” I give her my address.

“Cool. I’ll see you in twenty. Thank you so much.”

As soon as we hang up, I get a text from Trish. Perhaps related to that “CALL TRISH” alarm I set for myself last night.

Trish: Hey V - I’m in the middle of an emergency call with a client but once that’s done, I’m gonna call you. We have news and I want to hear what you think of the scripts you’ve read.

Great. Love when managers say there’s “news” and don’t have the decency to specify whether it’s good or bad. And as for the scripts, Charlie gave the HBO pilot a thumbs-up and has been reading the animated feature for two days now because he had to stop to “collect himself” halfway through. Once I’m back inside, I release Eustace and prepare his breakfast. Maeve didn’t specify what she looks like right now, so what should I change into? Street clothes? Workout clothes? Remembering how close Maeve was to me last night still sets my heart hammering.

I go with workout clothes, back out of my bedroom as quickly as I can. Charlie comes into the kitchen, and I sigh, feeling vaguely guilty about being so needy the night before.

“What do you want for breakfast?” I ask.

“If you’re scrambling eggs, that’s fine with me.”

I decide to add some sharp cheddar, my boy’s favorite, into the scramble as a flimsy apology. While I sauté in peppers and spices, Charlie gets to work on a smoothie for us. God, we are ridiculous. Charlie pours me a glass as I cut up avocado.

“Did I actually inconvenience you last night?” I ask.

I think we’ve slept in the same bed one other time. Maybe twice? It’s the type of thing that only happens in emergencies.

“Sully, shut up. You’re my wife, even if the fake relationship is over. Also who’s coming over? I heard you on the phone.”

My face gets hot. “Maeve. She forgot her wallet in my car.”

Charlie looks down at his uncovered chest. “Well, fuck, man, when’s she—?”

And my doorbell rings. Eustace starts yapping. I take a deep breath, try to ignore my thrumming heart, and scoop him up. Open the door.

Maeve’s in a T-shirt and shorts. Thank god, on level with what I have on.

Maeve smiles as she looks me up and down. “Stars really are just like us, huh?”

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