Page 97 of The Love Haters

And then a funny thing happened.

I realized I’d forgotten my extension cord.

“Do you have an extension cord?” I called to Hutch in the other room.

“In the closet! At the bottom! In a plastic tub!” he called back.

And so then I was opening Hutch’s closet, having some kind of visceral pheromone reaction to the sensation of all his clothes hangingthere together, then pulling out the plastic tub, only to find something else behind it.

Back in the corner of the closet, dropped and forgotten by the look of things, was my little hot-pink hibiscus hair clip. The one Rue had given me. The one I’d lost during the Great Splinter Removal.

I stared at it for a second.

What in the world was my hair clip doing in Hutch’s closet?

Was it there on purpose? By accident? Was it a keepsake? A memento? Had he found it and saved it for me—but then forgotten to return it?

I wondered if I should just take it back. Or ask him about it. But I had a feeling like it being there might mean something—which might be embarrassing for Hutch. Or it might mean nothing—which would be embarrassing for me. So when I put the tub back, I set the flower back in place where I’d found it.

Better to let things unfold on their own.

THE INTERVIEW WENTreally well. Maybe all Hutch had needed was practice. Or maybe it was the comfort of being in his own bedroom, instead of at work. Or maybe it had been a long day and he was ready to let his guard down. But he told the story of rescuing Jennifer Aniston’s dog simply and clearly—in a way that was nothing short of page-turning. I sat beside him on the bed with my headphones on, holding the mic and letting that sandpapery voice of his just flood every nook and cranny of my ears and then wash on down through the rest of me.

And this was before I’d added visuals.

This “Day in the Life” was going to be epic, and gorgeous, and unforgettable.

Too bad nobody would ever see it but me. And Sullivan.

AFTERWARD, WHEN ITwas time for bed, Hutch tried to insist on giving me his bedroom.

“I changed the sheets and everything,” he said.

“I’m fine on the sofa,” I said.

“That doesn’t feel polite—to make a guest sleep on the sofa.”

“I’m not a guest. I’m a filmmaker.”

“Still—”

“Look,” I said, “this isn’t some corporate thing I normally make in my normal job. This isn’t some stiff executive reading cue cards. This is journalism. This is cinema verité. I’m trying to do something important here. I’m trying to capture something true—something that matters about the human spirit. I have to film what’s real. I’m trying to capture your actual life. Would I be in your bed in your actual life?”

Hutch blinked.

“That didn’t come out right,” I said. “You know what I mean.”

He nodded. “Okay, then. But don’t be surprised if you get licked.”

Now it was my turn to blink.

But then I followed Hutch’s gaze to George Bailey, dozing on a rug nearby.

Ah.

“This room is kind of his territory.”

“Fine. That’s fine.”

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