Page 88 of The Best Wrong Move

“You . . . you really likedForget Me Evermore?” His eyes turn soft. He leans back in his chair, and, for the first time, all his bravado is gone. Replaced with the soul of him shining out of both eyes.

Bingo.

“Of course! I thought it was underrated. A treasure, no — a gift — that no one took the time to fully unwrap.” I spell it out in measured tones for him, pouring my eyes into his as he soaks up the praise that he no doubt longs to hear. “Only a true genius could have turned the tables on Rita after Luca did that to her.”

His eyes glisten in the final rays of the sun.

“And the ending?” he asks, as if hanging on my every word. Like a conductor pulling out the final notes of his own symphony.

The ending got destroyed by film critics, so I know what my answer could be based on those reviews alone. I’m curious if he saw the error of the ending post-production, after he was scalded by the backlash of those hoping for a happy ending that never came. I take a risk, hoping he maintains that his ending was right. That the critics got it wrong.

“The ending was . . .”

He’s leaning into the table, watching me closely. I think he’s scarcely breathing.

I take a deep breath and go for it. “Quinton, the ending was a work of art.” He throws his hands in the air, as if I’ve just won the winner-takes-all round of Texas hold ’em. Relieved, I go on. “It was perfection. The critics got it all wrong. You were skewered for giving your audience the most humanistic ending you could, which went against the Hollywood fluff everyone usually wants. You gave us the most ugly side of being human, instead of the beauty we all have in us. It was bold. You were utterly destroyed by the critics for those last ten minutes, which put you on their radar. But I loved it. I hope you never second-guessed how that ending went for you.”

He sits back in his chair, as if my words have both thrilled and exhausted him.

“You have an eye for the arts,” he says appreciatively. “I knew I liked you when we first met.”

Just then, Selma reappears with two bottles of wine. One chilled and white, one crimson red. I assume the white is to finish before we enjoy the other with the ahi Dom is carrying toward the grill to sear.

She holds a corkscrew out with an eyebrow raised. “Olive, can you open this for me?” I’m sure this woman could open a bottle of wine in her sleep. But why ruffle feathers when I’ve just made progress? I reach out to take the corkscrew and bottle, just as Quinton intercepts and takes it from her instead.

“I’ve got it, honey,” he says to his wife.

Then he rips the foil from the top of the bottle — which I’m sure cost more than I make in a year — while he keeps talking.

“Sweetheart, you must have misheard her earlier during introductions. Her name isn’t Olive or Veronica.”

Selma crosses her arms, still standing beside him as he starts to work the cork out of the bottle. It pops open and he grabs my glass to fill first, leaving his wife burning a hole in the side of his temple with her eyes.

“Surely you can remember it now though. Our guest’s name is Olivia.”

Chapter 60

Selma is on her third bottle of wine by the time we’ve finished dinner. Quinton has had at least four bourbons. Dom is tipsy from trying to keep up with his brother. And I’ve been sneaking cans of ginger ale into my glass of white wine each time I go to the fridge for more water. The yellowed liquid mixed with chardonnay passes off as white wine quite well, especially to my liquored-up hosts who haven’t noticed the difference. I know they’d likely feel awkward if they knew they were drinking each other under the table while I snuck nearly virgin drinks, so I keep it to myself.

Quinton has thoroughly warmed up to me after the discussion about the finale ofForget Me Evermore, which has made Selma pink with envy. However, I’m somewhat convinced that poor Selma deals with fangirls fawning all over her husband not infrequently — her jealousy quickly turned to boredom.

“I’m going to bed,” she announces suddenly, after we’ve all had dessert.

It’s only nine thirty, but I take it as my cue to head out as well.

“Goodnight, Selma.” I’m half-panicking that I’ll be leaving without pitching Quinton my script. I feel like I’ve made a high-powered friend in the industry, and, for tonight, that may need to be enough. “Thank you again for having me. It was so nice to meet you.”

“Let me walk you back,” Dom says to Selma. “I’ll show you where I’ve been storing all the new towels and linens you had sent over.” He winks at me subtly, then rises from the table.

He’s giving me one last shot. His absence will give me the opening I need to pitch Quinton after all.

“Take your shot,” he whispers to me in the kitchen, before disappearing down the hall with Selma.

I’m left standing in the kitchen with Quinton.

“Since you seem to have an eye for beautiful things, I’d like to show you my plans for the pool.” Quinton’s eyes shine at me like a kid waiting for his friend’s approval.

“Oh, um, you’re not . . .” I point my thumb toward Selma and his bedroom. I thought he might follow her to bed after saying a quick goodnight to me.

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