Page 34 of A Very Snowed In New Year
I minimize the browser window. “Oh my God. This isn’t my diary, Mom. This is a private conversation that’s actually private.” It’s only when I say this out loud that I realize I haven’t been writing in my diary at all about texting with Holden or Journal Guy. In any of my diaries.
“Okay, okay.” She strokes the back of my head. “You look so happy—that’s all. Are you?”
“I am. Thank you.” I flick my hand at her, shooing her away, and wait for my mother to return to the good sofa and take a seat between my dad and Grandma Carly. She hands my dad a mug of hot chocolate, and he gives her leg a squeeze, just above her knee, like he always does. And now I feel bad for shooing her away. I wait for her to glance back at me, which she does. And I smile at her. She furrows her brow at me, as if wondering if she’s hallucinating or if I’m having a stroke or something. I shake my head, rolling my eyes, and that seems to assuage her.
As I open up the chat window again, I wonder: Am I happy? I am. I like Journal Guy. I can’t seem to picture him as anyone other than Holden Archer, but I also don’t want to picture anyone other than Holden.
ME:You’re so welcome. And I would just like to say that I find it very endearing how thoroughly you seem to have watched these movies you claim to hate!
If you really want to blow your sister’s mind you should watch a rom-com with her ;) If I had an older brother, that would be the best present I could think of.
JOURNAL GUY:That is…a nice idea. I’m already in such a good mood—why not?!
JOURNAL GUY:In return for your excellent advice, I will offer you this to give to your little brother.
“Knock knock.”
(He’ll probably roll his eyes and say, “Who’s there?”)
You say: “The chicken who crossed the road because he farted.”
That’s it. Killed every time when I was eight.
ME:Wow. A crossover joke!
I’m about to send a laughing-face emoji when I get four back-to-back text notifications from Shay Nicholls.
My boss.
My boss who’s at a spa resort in Sedona instead of spending Christmas with her family.
Maybe she’s having some kind of aromatherapy-massage emergency.
So I close the Google Chat to read the texts, because God forbid she fire me and I can’t continue to deceive my favorite hot-guy movie star for her.
SHAY:Hi.
SHAY:Can you talk RN?
SHAY:Lots to talk about!
SHAY:On the phone, I mean! Actual phone call.
ME:Sure. Let me just go to another room.
I shut my laptop and take my phone with me to the guest room, closing the door. I don’t turn on the overhead light because this room, like all the others in this house, is lit by strings of Christmas lights. I text Shay to let her know I can talk now and immediately get a call from her.
“Hello?”
“Hi. I finished readingHow We Got Herewhile I was in the infrared sauna today. Here is my Christmas present to you: I loved it. I loved your script.”
“Oh wow.”
“Love the dialogue. Oh my God—the banter! Love the concept. So romantic. Love the twists. I have some ideas about the lead characters. We can address that in the rewrite—which Iwill pay you for as per WGA standard minimums contract. But congratulations! I’ll talk to my agent about this in the new year.”
“Wow.” That’s the only word my brain is letting me use right now. I’m happy. I think I’m happy. “Wow.”
“I know! Seriously, I am so excited. Believe it or not, I’m getting tired of getting cast as the hot mean girl. My agent says we have to develop our own passion projects if I want to show people what I’m capable of. And this is a perfect vehicle for me. I feel so lucky you wanted me to read this.”
