Next-Door Nemesis(88)
“You don’t look too broken up over it,” Reggie says, watching me closely. “That’s the reaction I was hoping for.”
He piques my interest yet again.
“And why, may I ask, is that?”
“I want to start by telling you what a fantastic television writer you are. It’s why I call you whenever I’ve had staff openings and it’s why, if after you hear me out you still want in a room, I’ll do whatever I can do to help get you there,” he says, and my hackles rise. “But I read the project you sent me and I have to tell you, that’s not a television show.”
I regret the last bite of pita bread I ate as the Mediterranean food I downed turns in my stomach. I’ve been in this business for long enough to know it’s highly subjective and not everyone will love what I write, but that doesn’t make hearing it any easier. Rejection, no matter how thick your skin, still stings.
This rejection, however, feels more like a bullet wound than a quick jab of a needle. I didn’t only send him the pilot episode; I sent him an entire season.
Without the restraints of Hollywood breathing down my neck, I was able to create without boundaries. I wrote the entire season not thinking I was wasting my time, but that I was investing in my craft. It was an amazing way to look at it and I thought it unlocked something I’d been afraid of letting out.
But maybe I was wrong, too wrapped up in the characters to be objective.
“And I sent you so much.” I force out a laugh that I hope disguises my disappointment. “I hope you didn’t force yourself to read the entire thing.”
“What? No.” The lines on his forehead deepen and he shakes his head. “You’re not hearing what I’m saying. I loved it. I read every word you sent to me.”
I attempt to follow what he’s trying to say, but he’s all over the place and I feel like I’m getting whiplash.
“You’re right, I’m not hearing you.” I throw my hands in the air like a petulant teenager. “Tell me again, but slower this time.”
“It’s not a television show, it’s a movie.” He spells it out for me. “One of the best rom-com scripts I’ve come across in years. Your voice is great on TV, but it shines as a movie, and I think you’ve finally found your lane.”
I sit back in my seat, trying to digest what he’s saying to me. I think back to my script, trying to see what he sees, and it only takes a moment to recognize how on point he is. I had tunnel vision before; I couldn’t see outside writers’ rooms. But now? It’s like the entire world is opening up before me.
I can write a film script from anywhere in the world.
Italy. France. Ohio.
“By the way,” he adds, as if he hasn’t blown my mind enough already. “The main characters? Talk about chemistry. I couldn’t get enough. And the hero who loves khakis? Brilliant.”
Oh.
He has no idea.
I don’t even wait until we leave the table to email Peter my resignation . . . or book my red-eye flight back home. Where my life is waiting for me.
Chapter 30
As soon as the wheels touch down at John Glenn Columbus Airport, I feel like I can breathe again . . . and not just because my mom’s phobia of flying has rubbed off on me over the years. Yes, I know it’s the safest mode of transportation, blah blah blah, but a metal tube hurtling through the sky will never not terrify me.
The moment I step into baggage claim, I’m immediately swarmed by my people. Ruby and Ashleigh bull-rush me like freaking linebackers. We jump up and down like three elementary school girls, but I don’t care how ridiculous we look. If the last month taught me anything, it’s to live in the moment and follow my heart. And right now, my heart has never been happier to see these two women.
Ruby’s devoid of the normal designer gear and perfect makeup she’s always wearing. She’s in jean shorts and a T-shirt, her hair is in a bun on top of her head, and she’s never looked more stunning.
“You’re glowing.” I take a step back and check my friend out. Happy looks good on her.
“Thank you.” She curtsies. “It’s what happens when you stop working eighty-hour weeks, start sleeping eight hours a night, and swap wine and caffeine for water.”
“Who would’ve thought?” Heavy sarcasm falls from my tone. “Certainly not your best friend, therapist, or any person with basic health knowledge.”
“Smartass.”
“Oh!” Ashleigh pipes in. She’s wearing her trademark wedge sandals and makeup that must’ve taken at least thirty minutes even though it’s not even five in the morning. “And she’s been going on walks with me. You should start coming too!”
A few months ago I would’ve played it cool with a swift and firm “hell no,” but now I’m singing a different tune. I was so lonely in Los Angeles. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure my friendship with these women never fades. Plus, a little cardio never hurt anyone.
“Tell me when and where and I’ll be there with bells on.”
“Damn,” Ruby says to Ashleigh. “She must have missed us more than we thought if she’s agreeing to exercise without a fight.”
Considering how much I complained about having to canvass the neighborhood, it’s a fair observation.