Page 7 of Director's Cut

Something soft passes through Charlie’s expression, but it’s gone so fast I can almost convince myself I’m just falling into a salt, fat, and sugar coma. “It’s more about the documented dumbassery part,” he says.

A mental note: next time Trish wants me on a late-night show that does serve you wine beforehand, stop offering up terrible home videos Gwyn has taken of me and her children and start offering to teach Baudrillard. “Is that seriously my brand other than gay?”

“Yeah, but don’t change it. It makes you seem approachable.”

I throw my hands up. “This co-professor must think I’m an idiot!”

Charlie picks up his phone. “Wouldn’t he have to read your dissertation to work with you? I mean, if anyone thinks you’re at least a smart idiot, it’s him.”

“Her.”

I don’t know why I bother correcting him. I flip open the lava cake box.

“Her.” Charlie pauses again. “What’s her name?”

“Maeve Arko.”

I only remember that because my mom asked the other day and then made a point to tell me the last name is Jewish. As if that’s going to affect how well we work together.

Charlie looks to his phone, his eyes lighting up a moment before he looks back at me. “Also, not to be that guy, since I am second-billed in your movie, but have there been any updates on Sundance?”

All it takes is the mention of Sundance to tighten my stomach. The first of many festivals that Oakley won’t get into. Not to mention it’s one of my least favorite festivals because of the altitude, which makes my usual press anxiety even worse than usual—

I rub my arms. “We find out in November.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “You don’t seem excited.”

I stab at the lava cake. Use the extra few seconds chewing and swallowing to think of the right words. The cake tastes vaguely like Oreos, and suddenly I understand why my niblings love this thing so much.

“There’s no reason to get our hopes up.”

Charlie gives me a weak smile. “I may be biased, but I hope Oakley in Flames gets in. We need a win.”

I’m moments from asking about Maeve Arko again. But then I see it: Charlie’s lips have been turned down over neutral the whole night. “What did you lose?”

I have a feeling before he says it, my stomach twisting as the seconds wash by.

“Star Trek got canceled, even with the great ratings and reception.”

The lump clinging to my throat is a familiar pain. This business is all about rejection and having your dreams cut off. Even in our positions, with fairly consistent jobs and teams that find us genuinely great projects, there’s so little guarantee. And I loved Charlie in that Star Trek role. It was one of those roles he slipped into like a glove. Even his press interviews about the show were some of his best work.

But he keeps going.

“And I…” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I—I’ve been an idiot. I didn’t invest well. I have back payments on my house that I was gonna pay off with the check from Star Trek’s new season. I’ve already sold all my assets to get the Feds off my back, but I can hardly afford to live in a shithole motel for a week—”

My first instinct is to slide the other lava cake over to Charlie. The second is to pull him into a hug. He shudders a little in my arms, but no tears.

“Hey, hey, you can stay here for a couple of weeks until your manager gets you a new gig. It’s okay.”

He mutters “Thank you” into my skin as I eye the Domino’s on the table.

Another reminder of how fleeting our careers are. As much as I don’t have a good feeling about Hollywood, the scarier thing remains that I don’t know what’s going to happen after it. Twenty-four hours ago, I was a respected actress and up-and-coming director with a teaching side gig. Now I’m a PR disaster with a brief stint as a professor.

Hopefully it’ll go better than the interview.

CHAPTER THREE

Charlie settles into my house that week, and the two of us end up spending a lot of time cooking together and commiserating over our prospects in Hollywood. He even manages to help me pick out a first-day outfit and accompanies me to my stylist to shorten my sides again. The class I’m teaching meets at 2:00 p.m., but I’ve been asked to meet Maeve Arko and our TA at one thirty. Even given all my preparation, I’m incredibly nervous, and I find myself cursing my ridiculous taste (and Charlie) as I adjust the lay of the blazer on my pinstripe suit. It should be fine—I look amazing in this, and we found a blouse that doesn’t show off my tits—but I swear I can feel the Tom Ford label digging into my back.

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