Page 14 of For You, Sir

Jun shook his head. “I hadn’t heard, Sir. I don’t read articles about my clients. I’d prefer to know you personally.”

I was impressed he hadn’t just Googled me or read my Wikipedia page. My stomach turned at the prospect of telling Jun about my failure, but it would be better for him to hear it from me, than from some asshole on the internet.

“WhenThe Fringebecame a hit, the studio begged for a sequel. I told ‘em it didn’t need one. It didn’t, by the way. But they insisted.” I rubbed my lips with the side of my hand. “I should’ve let it die there. But they offered me a dump truck of money. I thought I’d be pleasing the fans. I took that Faustian bargain and wrote the script.”

“Oh. Is it in production now?”

I barked a laugh. “God, no.”

Jun looked at me, puzzled. He ate his soup in silence, but I’d lost my appetite.

“The script was leaked.” It was the first time I’d said the words out loud. I’d mainly watched the implosion of my career on the internet. “It wasn’t even finished. Just a rough draft. Just trying to get the words on a page, you know?” My palms sweat, and my mouth went dry.That fucking script… Piece of garbage...I finished my beer in one swallow. “Everyone hated it. The fans. The trolls. The critics. The undecided. Everyone had an opinion, and that opinion was—” I dropped a heavy thumbs-down, like an emperor proclaiming death at the Colosseum.

His brow furrowed in concern. “I’m sorry to hear that, Sir.”

“You and me both.” I watched the suds slide inside my beer bottle with all the misery of Sisyphus watching his boulder roll downhill. “Kind of pointless now.”

“How so?”

I prickled with anger. “I’m stuck. You know? Fucked.” In a pique, I shoved my lunch plate away. The tomato soup slopped over the edge of the bowl and bloodied Jun’s gourmet panini. I felt a twinge of embarrassment and got another beer out of the fridge to cool off.

Jun watched me with an unreadable expression. Judging me, if I had to guess. He’d be right; I was a loser.

“I can’t write anymore,” I said, twisting the cap from my beer. “After they tore the last one to shreds—the one everybody supposedly wanted.” A year of my life gone up in smoke. I thought writing that script had been the most painful thing I’d ever done. Until it was eviscerated. That experience taught me a whole new scale ofpainful.

All at once, I was too tired to move. My joints felt brittle, like an old man’s, and the couch was calling me. I wanted to sleep for a week with a blanket over my head. Hibernate all winter until the world forgot about me. I dropped my arms on the counter and rested my forehead on them like a pillow.

“I can’t write the weird stories I want to anymore. The studio demands mainstream appeal, and that’s never been my forte,” I mumbled into my arms. “My existing fans kind of ‘get me’, but their expectations are too high. I can’t live up to my own reputation.” At least I agreed with them. Iwantedto surpass my successes, too. And I’d failed.

“My haters are just waiting for me to fail,” I said. “Even if I write something decent, they’ll find a way to tear it apart. I can only lose. The best I can do is not play the game at all.”

Damn it. What was Jun supposed to say to that? I was only making him uncomfortable.

“That sounds very painful, Sir.”

I smiled bitterly to myself. A nice, tactful response. I appreciated it.

“What’s the most important thing?” Jun asked.

“Hmm?” I raised my head and quirked an eyebrow at him.

“About this whole situation,” Jun said. “I want to be sure I understand what’s most important to you, Sir.” He cocked his head, listening patiently.

Hell. No one had ever asked me that before. I don’t thinkI’dasked myself that before. What was the takeaway I didn’t want Jun to miss?

“The work was important to me,” I said finally. “I loved writing screenplays. Filmmaking. I miss it. But things can never be the same again. It’s like… Like wanting to go home, but I know my home has burned to the ground. I’m never going to be an anonymous small-timer again. And I don’t want what the future has in store for me now.”

It was more than that, really, but I was too embarrassed to tell him about the self-doubt that had crept in, poisoning the well of my creativity. I’d always prided myself in writing stories that were avant-garde, and knew my films wouldn’t please everyone. But what did it say about me if I wrote a script thatno oneliked? It had been so emotionally devastating, I couldn’t risk it happening again.

“Did you find out how the script got leaked?” Jun asked.

I shook my head. “I never even sent it to anyone. It was just a work in progress, sitting in the drafts folder on my laptop. Then suddenly everyone had seen it and hated it.”

“Surely, noteveryone,” Jun said.

I cocked an eyebrow at him that silently asked,“Wanna bet?”

“If the script had beenthatbad, the studio wouldn't be trying so hard to get you back,” Jun insisted. “They hired me because they believe in you.”

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