Page 7 of A Very Snowed In New Year
“Holden Archer! Rita. Thank God you answered—I was gonna leave you fifty messages until you called me back becausethis is extremely important.” Rita Baskin sounds exactly like Joey’s agent onFriends, except she’s actually pretty good at her job. Despite that, we’re at odds most of the time. Which is problematic. “I just read a script that I loved, and I want you to meet with the director before you leave for theRidersshoot.”
“You mean tomorrow? I leave in two days. What’s the script?”
“It’s a romantic comedy—hear me out.”
“No.”
“It’s an elevated rom-com with an ensemble cast likeLove Actually. You’ll be surrounded by respected actors. Like a freshly picked organic grape on an artisanal charcuterie board served at an Oscar party at the Hotel Bel-Air.” I wait for her to stop coughing up one of her lungs before responding.
“Well, thanks for thinking of me, Rita, but I don’t want to be the grape. I want to be the Jamón Ibérico that was cured for five years and then flown in from Spain in Penélope Cruz’s handbag. I don’t want to be surrounded by respected actors in a romantic comedy. I want to be a respected actor who doesn’t do romantic comedies. We talked about this.”
“Youtalked about it. I’m disregardin’ your hotshot young actor opinion because I’m older and wiser than you.”
“You are. I am grateful for all opportunities, and I mean no disrespect to you, Rita. But I am young and stubborn, and we agreed that if I do theRiders of Storm and Fireseries then youwill get me Jennifer Lawrence’s career, not Liam Hemsworth’s. I have to spend time with my family before I fly out, so the only directors I would drop everything to meet with tomorrow are Scorsese, Spielberg, Christopher Nolan, David O. Russell, or Alex Vega—and I would think twice about meeting with any of them if they’re directing an ensemble romantic comedy.”
“Suit yourself. But I made it my New Year’s resolution to put you in a rom-com, so get ready.”
“Well, it’s my New Year’s resolution every single year to never watch or star in a rom-com, so good luck with that.”
“Lemme know if you need anythin’ when you get to theRidersset, hon. Buh-bye.”
“Happy New Year, Rita.”
The elevator dings, and I wish the elderly couple who walk out a happy new year too. I don’t usually talk to strangers, especially in New York, so I have no idea why I have always felt compelled to wish everyone a happy new year for a week every year, but there it is. As the doors close, I stare down at the hardcover journal in my hands. “Seriously, what the fuck am I supposed to do with you?”
A minute later, I call out as I let myself into my parents’ apartment. “Hey, I’m here!”
“Oh, hello, darling! What a lovely surprise.” My mum’s at her desk in her study, fully dressed in a crisp white blouse and trousers, wrapped in a red shawl, staring at her computer screen, squinting because she needs a new prescription for her glasses. She’s surrounded by books and potted plants and more table lamps than the small room needs, but it’s so inviting and perfect I get a little choked up. She slides her reading glasses up to rest on top of her head as she takes a sip of tea and then says, “I’m composing my lecture for the new year—should I open with Tennyson or Hardy? What say you?”
“Ah.Ring out wild bells to the wild skyorI leant upon a coppice gate / When Frost was spectre-gray.Why not infuse your undergrads with what little hope Thomas Hardy had to offer?”
“Huzzah! ‘The Darkling Thrush’ it is! You staying the night, then? Or are you off to see the girl?”
“Yeah, not sure yet.”
“Excellent! The cherub is at her perch in the living room, as ever.”
On my way to find my little sister in the living room, I pass by the family room. My dad’s in his overstuffed easy chair, watchingLaw & Orderin the only way anyone watchesLaw & Order—half asleep.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Mmmph,” he mumbles.
Exactly.
The Christmas tree is still up in the living room. My dad usually takes all the decorations down first thing in the morning on December twenty-sixth, every year, like he’s ripping off the holiday Band-Aid. Bam. Back to real life. Then he makes us all write out our resolutions for the New Year and read them out loud at dinner on December thirty-first, for accountability. As soon as my dad puts all the Christmas decorations back in storage, my mum, who’s from England, puts up a wreath of twinkling gold-and-silver lights. She told my dad it’s a traditional British New Year’s wreath. But she eventually told me she got it at Pottery Barn and if my dad doesn’t like itthat’s too sodding bad because it’s bloody miserable out there and we need something that sodding twinkles in here. I have kept her secret. But Rory’s visibly anxious this month because I’m leaving, or maybe my mum and I are projecting a little healthy anxiety onto her, so my dad agreed to keep the tree up until January first.
Because I have to leave for preproduction onRidersin two days. For five months. In Canada. Even though I haven’t lived at home for two years, I’ve only been four subway stops away and come back here for weekend and holiday dinners, so it’s going to be a big change for my little sister. She’s pretending to be chill, but she’s been sitting cross-legged in this armchair reading and moping all day. Usually she reads all daywithoutmoping.
“Hey, punk.” I take a seat on the ottoman in front of her.
She doesn’t look up from her iPad. “What?”
“Help me out with a little problem.”
“I’m reading!”
“I can see that. Your book will still be here in two days. I won’t.”
