Page 67 of For You, Sir

“Thank you, Ms. Clark. I’ve got to go.” I ended the call, cutting off her squawk of indignation.

I slumped against the tree, suddenly legless. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

My phone started ringing in my hand again:Deborah—Davies & Horne. In a pique, I nearly tossed my phone away like a live grenade. Instead, I drew a deep breath to compose myself, and turned my phone off.

It was over.

Chapter 23 (Einar)

“Your movies are important, Einar. The world would be poorer without them.”Jun had said it, so it had to be true.

After he went home, I headed to my office in search of buried treasure. Hopefully, I’d find it among the forgotten drafts on my computer—a script I’d outlined in my mid-20s, but never finished.

The story was set at a Christian summer camp, where two boys were caught touching each other. Camp administrators wanted to notify the boys’ parents, but a closeted camp counselor interceded for the kids, risking his career, and confronting his own faith in the process.

I found the file and scrolled through, occasionally cringing at the writing quality. An angrier, more judgmental Einar had written this, but the bones of the story were solid. With the wisdom I’d gained in the interim years, I could write it better now.

The script would be too divisive for the studio, but fuck ‘em. If they didn’t want to produce my script, maybe a different studio would. Back when I was young and idealistic, I wrote for passion’s sake, not profit. I could do it again.

That idealism had launched my career, but over the years, the goal posts shifted. I adapted my stories to please the jaded film critics, the money-grubbing studio execs, the Motion Picture Academy. I strived to endlessly out-do my past successes, swelling my ego and anxiety, until I couldn’t recognize what I was doing any more, or why.

But Jun brought me back to thewhy.He was living proof that my writing and characters helped people—the thing I really wanted to do all those years ago. It was time to get back to basics and tell stories that inspired hope.

I laid hands on the keyboard and tapped down a few new ideas in amongst the old. Building on top of the existing framework was easier than facing the void of a blank page. I almost expected the words to disappear from the screen like invisible ink, but they remained.

Just as I was getting into the flow, a text alert dinged from the living room. It was the alert I used exclusively for Jun, so I ran to grab my phone from the couch.

“Can I come over?”

I smirked at how quickly he’d changed his mind. Good to know I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t get enough.“Hell yeah,”I sent back.

My phone pinged again.

“Okay.”

It seemed a little curt, even for Jun, but maybe I was overthinking it.

I returned to the office and wrote some more. Progress was painfully slow, but I felt good about what I’d written. A script dedicated to Jun instead of studio execs—a story that was honest and sincere, just like him.

About an hour later, the doorbell rang. Had Jun forgotten his keys in his rush to come see me? I opened the door with a smile, but it immediately dropped when I saw Jun’s face.

He looked pale, and his eyes were rimmed with red. He wasn’t crying, but probably had been on the way over here.

Oh, shit. Maybe his mom died.

“You okay?” I put a hand on his shoulder and ushered him inside.

He halted in the middle of the foyer, his shoulders slumped. “It’s over,” he croaked. “I lost it.”

“Lost what?”

“The contract,” Jun said, hugging his elbows. “They’re assigning me to a different client.”

Ah, damn.I knew this moment was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier.

“It’s alright, Jun.” I pulled him into my arms, and he startled me by hugging back so hard it squeezed the breath out of me. I stroked his back. “It’s going to be okay.”

“No, it’s not.” His words were heavy. “I let you down, Sir.”

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