Page 44 of Director's Cut

“Trish, we’re coworkers. I can’t ask that of her now!”

“Look, you asked me how you’d turn down this role without angering Ballard. This is how. Could you imagine Ballard saying he’s mad at this lesbian star for finding the love of her life and pursuing her own happiness over a Hollywood gig? You get the public on your side, and the execs can’t openly argue with you. Plus, you get some articles written about you, making his other baby, Goodbye, Richard! the sequel, a gold mine.”

“And the professionalism issue?”

“It’s not illegal for professors to date each other. It might even be good publicity for her, help her make her own moves.”

This is not good.

“What if she doesn’t even want to date me?”

Trish smirks. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

Why am I freaking out? This is what I wanted. I get to see Maeve tomorrow and I’m not going to be leaving her in a matter of months. I have a chance to see where this goes. If I do have to get her on board with the Oscars, it’s in five months. That’s five months I get to date her, pull out all the stops and get her to fall for me the way I feel I could fall for her. This is a win. I have to get it together.

“Fine, deal,” I say, although the thought of seeing Maeve tomorrow now fills me with more terror than joy.

I know I taught today. I know I lectured on Mamma Mia! and the jukebox musical. I know Maeve gave particularly strong background information on seventeenth- and eighteenth-century vaudeville. It is moderately embarrassing how hard I have to work to hide my swoon when she goes into her professor zone.

I love women who can deconstruct big, pretentious words and make them accessible. I used to think I just liked intelligent women whose speech was peppered with SAT words. But being with Emily was like being in a continuous game I didn’t sign up for, dodging snickers and snarky comments when I didn’t understand academic language and procedures the way she did. It was a lot of Sorry, I should know that. But Maeve doesn’t hoard language and knowledge. She’s an incredible teacher. It gets me breathless.

That feeling gets worse when Maeve and I make eye contact after class. It’s like I’m having a sapphic awakening all over again. And this time, she’s not running away from me. I have to wonder whether she did any processing after what happened in her office. I’d ask, but part of me is satisfied already. Maeve’s still here, still looking at me like that.

She walks toward me, and it feels like we’re tied together by an invisible rope that tightens with every step she takes. This wanting, Jesus.

“Hey, can I talk to you about something?” Maeve asks.

Her words are like a kick in the gut. I’m suddenly terrified. Maybe she isn’t dragging me back to her office to make out.

“Val, stay with me. It’s just about work,” Maeve says, catching the look in my eye. “Can we walk and talk? I need to work off some of the adrenaline from class today.”

I take a deep breath as inconspicuously as I can. Okay, we’re still in the neutral zone. “ABBA can really get a gal going, I know.”

Maeve shakes her head, a tiny smile on her face. “Do you ever get nervous about getting up in front of people?”

Oh, the answer to that. “Not really.”

When we walk out of class this time, there’s a different feeling in the air. Less the searing electricity that forces us to glue our hands to our sides to avoid touching each other in public. But something’s still there. An ease, maybe? Like Maeve doesn’t care if we bump hands or shoulders as we weave through the crowds of students and make our way to the faculty parking lot.

“So, I doubt you’ve been keeping up with faculty gossip,” Maeve begins, “but one of the other adjuncts dropped their course after getting a writers’ room gig.”

That is so intensely a USC problem. “Tragedy.”

Maeve snorts with laugher. “Truly. But that means there’s an open slot for a new class. The dean is scrambling to fill it, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity for me to try to pitch something. They’ve never even come close to hearing me out before, and this feels like the one time I have some leverage, you know?”

“Of course. You definitely should.”

I suddenly realize why she’s telling me this. And I swear to god Maeve is flustered, rubbing the back of her neck. “And I was hoping if you aren’t already booked with projects, maybe you’d want to teach another course with me. Me filling in on the adjunct’s course is just a temporary solution. But come May, if he doesn’t get kicked out of his writers’ room, an application will open for his job. You’d have a real chance, especially if you have two successful courses under your belt…”

The idea hits me with a jolt to the heart. I’d intended to keep seeing Maeve after the semester ended, but if we were still teaching together—god. Excitement shoots up my spine. More evenings tucked away in her office grading papers, the opportunity to start doing viewings with her, just the two of us, to discuss our syllabus movies, being able to see her in her professor attire for an additional eight hours a week? I never imagined a world where I’d get to keep teaching now; it feels like an invitation to step into a dream future early.

“I’d love to,” I say. “When are you pitching this?”

She sighs. “Tomorrow.”

I push my hair out of my face, smirking. “Well, then, bud, I guess we gotta get planning.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

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