Page 45 of Director's Cut

With less than twenty-four hours before we need to present our pitch to the dean, Maeve offered up her place for planning so we wouldn’t disturb Charlie. I’m heading there now. This is the kind of high-pressure, we gotta make some magic environment I actually thrive in creatively, but I’m still trying to steady my racing heart as I stare down a wrought iron gate armed with nothing but a code Maeve texted me along with her address: 1341½.

The main house on the lot is nice—old Spanish style with a burnt-redbrick roof, a pouf of drought-resistant foliage outside, well-maintained sidewalks typical of a suburban offshoot in Mid-Wilshire. Overpriced, a little midcentury historical in the architecture, and very, very hip. The kind of place a creative would move to upon receiving their first big check, before being away from people and having space mattered. A long driveway leads to the back of the lot, and even though I figure that’s what the ½ means, I fidget outside the main house.

Maeve leads me down the driveway. “Thanks for doing this.”

The back house is in the same style as the front and is maybe showing a little less wear from the streets. I’ll admit, it’s a lot quieter back here, with some more foliage and a little patio set up in the backyard. The converted garage that Maeve calls home may even have been a two-car once judging by the size.

She puts her keys in the lock, but it takes some jiggling to get them to click and the door to open.

“Sorry if it’s a mess,” she says. “I tried to spruce it up, but my landlord gave me a fixer-upper for the great location.”

The back house is pretty cute inside for what is indeed clearly a “fixer-upper.” The whole place feels worn—old appliances are scrunched into the kitchen competing over minimal counter space, there’s wall-to-wall faded maroon carpet everywhere, and the windows all have old-school white blinds. But there are lovely touches everywhere: a vintage cookie jar in the shape of a strawberry on the kitchen counter, monstera plants perking up the corners of rooms, vintage movie posters framed on the wall. Two doors lead off the main kitchen/living room, which is more than some folks can say they’ve got in LA.

“It’s sweet,” I say. There’s even a swath of airy floral fabric and a sewing machine on the coffee table. “Is this yours?”

Maeve sighs. “It was, but I fucked up. Never try to make curtains when you can’t sew.”

I look over the raw materials. I used to unwind after hard shifts at the dental office by sewing with my maternal grandma. But I doubt Maeve wants advice on curtain-making now. “Who’s your landlord, by the way? Does he live in the main house, or is he some ghoul?”

“He lives here with his wife,” she says. “They’re an artist couple who posted on Craigslist.”

And I don’t want to, but the words Oh god escape my lips. I’m an asshole.

But Maeve just laughs. “I reaped what I sowed. I make decent money, but I wanted something close to work that was cheap enough that I’d have extra to spend. They’re my best bet for now.”

I look her up and down. “I must use my money differently than you do.”

We make eye contact, and she laughs. “No, I don’t mean designer clothing.”

I put my hands up, palms forward. “Some professors do.”

“The ones who are paid half a million dollars for no explicit reason, maybe.” She glances at a shelf nearby, covered in neatly arranged vinyls, CDs, VHSes. “Some collecting, weekend vacations around California, camping supplies, ski season passes, that kind of thing.”

All great activities, but I can’t help but wonder how they connect with her saying she doesn’t make friends easily. Maybe she’s a really good solo traveler, but that idea pangs in my chest for some reason. It’s too early to offer it yet, but maybe I can treat her to a bougie ski trip someday. “Sounds fun.”

“Do you want something to drink?” she asks.

I hold up the water bottle I bring everywhere I go. “I’m good.”

“Let me grab my laptop. Hold on.”

With that, she makes an unceremonious exit through one of the two doors. Leaving me to stew in the apartment she lives in. Where she’s brought her one date a year back to, the place she came home to after watching Needlepoint. Maeve has been acting more flirtatious, but we haven’t talked about what happened in her office. If we’re going to co-teach again, would it be bad form if everyone knew we were together? We only have a month or so with this batch of students and a vast majority of them won’t take our course in the spring. Maybe we don’t have to be explicit about it. Let rumors fly, or just not tell USC people?

“Okay, so,” Maeve says when she returns, dropping onto the couch next to me. “Here’s the thing.” She sighs. “I still get stage fright. I’m fine when I teach, but it’s still there when I have to advocate for myself with anyone. When it comes to”—she shrugs, almost sarcastically—“all bosses ever, I clam up. I know what to say, but I’ve been up half the night trying to nail the delivery.” She rubs her arm. “And I was hoping since you have so much experience with public speaking that you’d be able to help…”

I’ve collaborated with Maeve, I’ve faced her sharp tongue when I took her on, and I’ve kissed the fuck out of her. But Maeve wants my help? My heart flutters. Maeve could still reject me when she gets to know me better. At least I can cushion the blow by knowing I’ve shown her some kindness.

“Yeah, I can help.” I make eye contact with her.

She’s leaning forward—just a tad.

“Are there particular aspects of public speaking that are the hardest for you? Like, is starting out terrible but then you get into a flow? Or do you struggle when you start to get audience feedback?”

Maeve plays with a little gold bracelet hanging off her right wrist. “Both. I always have a hard time starting, and flow is more complicated. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes I can handle a boss’s blank expression, but sometimes I can’t.”

“And this is just an informal pitch with the dean, right?”

“Yeah. No visual aids.”

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