Page 95 of Director's Cut

“I love you too,” she says back.

We hold each other, somewhere between peace and semiconsciousness, until Maeve finally passes out from jet lag and I have to get ready for the after-party. I don’t mind that she’s missing this one. I know she’ll be around for plenty of other ones.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

ONE YEAR LATER

On the morning of the one-year anniversary of our getting back together, Maeve tells me to meet her at Literatea and to wear my favorite outfit. I’ve already made a reservation at one of our favorite bougie restaurants, so I don’t know why she wants to go somewhere else to eat beforehand. But I do as my girlfriend says and show up to the little coffee shop in a brown patterned blazer, the softest white T-shirt I own, jeans, and booties.

Maeve’s smiling as I approach, two iced drinks in her hands. “All designer, or are you not fully disconnected from the hoi polloi yet?”

I roll my eyes. She says stuff like that, but Maeve’s actually slotted into my world remarkably well. Besides moving her out of her backhouse to come live with me, she’s been happy to come visit me on set when I’m filming in LA, laughed at the free products people send me, tagged me in photos on social media despite the influx of my fans to her page. Plus, she knows as well as I do that she requested a Burberry winter coat on her past birthday. “I will not be seen in my previous workplace in a hoodie.”

She kisses my cheek as she hands me my coffee. “I’m glad.” Our fingers brush as I take the drink. “Exactly as you like it.”

As in, a splash of oat milk and decaf because it’s 4:00 p.m. I take a sip, relishing in my favorite on-campus coffee spot. Ty, Maeve, and I came a bunch last fall, and I’ve really fallen in love with the place.

“Thank you.”

“So,” she says, tugging at her earlobe, “this isn’t going to be as nice as what we’re doing tonight.”

Despite my bougiefication of Maeve’s life, she’s remained as grounded as ever. In fact, thank god none of the celebrity has bled into her work. She’s now teaching two 400-level seminars she designed on top of the intro courses she has, and she’s been using her grant money to take trips to Europe to do research for her upcoming book. The paparazzi don’t bother her, although the fact that I no longer teach here and only occasionally visit her on campus might play a part in that.

“I wasn’t rich less than ten years ago,” I say. “I’m sure whatever you have planned is perfect.”

“Then let’s walk.”

We walk the couple of hundred yards from the edge of USC’s campus and head over to Exposition Park. It’s the same stroll we took when we first had our truce dinner, but, unsurprisingly given the hour, now the park is much more crowded. We wait in a sea of people—students in their USC apparel, professors and administrators in their business casual, families with screaming little kids headed over to the museums. A year and a half ago, I wouldn’t have been able to stare straight ahead without disassociating or feeling faint. A year into taking medication, though, I remain stable, neutrally aware of my surroundings. The smell of the asphalt, the hum of dozens of voices speaking at once, the rumble of the metro as it leaves the station, I feel a part of it. I don’t really want to be here—I’m holding my breath hoping there’s a break in the crowd—but I’m okay.

I take Maeve’s hand, jumping back into society like a kid riding a bike. The familiar ridges of her knuckles fit perfectly under my thumb. Sometimes I can’t believe these hands have been mine for over a year.

I have no idea where Maeve is taking me. We’ve thoroughly explored LA in the year we’ve been together, everything from its best beaches to shopping spots, hikes, and museums. In fact, we’ve been inside each of the museums in Exposition Park already, and at this point the area feels nearly as familiar as USC’s campus. Plus, it’s not like now is a particularly practical time to be dragging each other out of our scheduled days—between Maeve’s increased course load, paper and book writing, and conference attendance, and my acting and directing commitments, we rarely drag each other to the other’s side of town, finding it more convenient to meet somewhere in the middle. The only explanation I can think of is that we’re closer to the airport. Maybe we’re going to pick up Maeve’s parents? I knew they were getting in today for a conference, but I thought Maeve had decided to let them Uber.

“Did you decide to pick your parents up from the airport?” I ask. “I thought you were religiously opposed to LAX pickup.”

Maeve laughs. “I am.” She studies me. “Are you trying to figure out what we’re doing?”

I hug her from behind, rocking her in my arms. My shoes have a little lift, and I’m relishing being tall enough to rest my chin on her head. “You’re never this cryptic.”

The light changes, and Maeve leads me across the street by the hand. She’s moving even slower as we head toward the rose garden near the Natural History Museum. The crowds disperse around us.

“I decided this is one of my favorite spots in LA,” she says as we stop in front of the fountain where the bench we sat after our first outing is. We’ve ended up back here a few times since then, sober enough to really appreciate it. “Nothing compares to color in cities built to be devoid of it.”

I get it. Maeve’s facing one of the grass walkways, and bursts of yellow, pink, and red roses surround us like low-hanging clouds. The air’s tinged with the scent of the flowers.

“You know you never told me what Charlie did to piss off Gwyn,” Maeve says.

I laugh. Far more than I need to. “Charlie took Gwyn’s seat during a party drinking game on the Fourth of July because G went to the bathroom. Dave was drunk and didn’t realize, so he turns to kiss his wife and it’s actually Charlie. Charlie thought it was so funny that he kissed him back just as Gwyn returned from the bathroom. She’s been annoyed ever since.”

There’s a pause.

Then Maeve starts laughing. That perfect, eye-crinkling, dimple-showing laugh that I’ve loved since day one. The butterflies flap inside me. The urges come in a quick succession. I want to hold her hand, I want to skip down the street with her, dip her and kiss her, never let her go.

“Dave is weak,” Maeve says as she wipes tears from her eyes. “Jesus, bless your niece and nephew.”

“I like to think they’re stronger than him, but watch, they’re gonna be doctors too.”

Maeve shrugs. “It’s a respectable position.”

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