I mean, it doesn’t hurt.
I stay silent.
“I thought I could get us what we both wanted and it would be fine. You’d have a job you liked. I could finally be a showrunner.” He falls back into the couch and scrubs his hands across his face. “But every decision I’ve made has been wrong and the studio’s pissed. It’s a mess. I need you to come back. You can be supervising producer, lead the writers the way you want, anything.”
“Why should I help you?”
The truth of the matter is, I don’t care if he fails. Plus, the thought of sitting next to him in a writers’ room for hours at a time makes my skin crawl. I don’t know if I could manage to be civil long enough to create an entire television show.
“Because it’s not about me,” he says. “It’s about your show.”
My stomach dips as I remember the countless hours I poured into that script. The time I spent carefully crafting my characters, endlessly workshopping the dialogue until it was perfect. Years of my life were put into that project. Am I willing to throw it all away because of my hatred for Peter?
I’m not sure.
“I have to think about it.” I’m not comfortable giving him an answer tonight. “How long until you have to report back?”
“The studio gave me three weeks to come back with something new,” he says. “I got on the plane to you as soon as I left the meeting.”
I don’t know if that’s supposed to make me warm to him or what.
“Okay, well . . . I guess I’ll call you?” I stand up and he follows suit. “When do you fly back?”
If he would’ve talked to me about everything before he did what he did, we could’ve figured it out. I knew I wasn’t prepared to be a showrunner by myself. I still have so much to learn and I would’ve been happy to share this with him had he just asked.
This entire mess of a situation is all his doing and nothing he could ever say can change that.
“I leave tomorrow morning.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “You know, you really do look good . . . happy. I don’t know who you were expecting when you answered the door, but I remember when you used to look at me like that. Whoever it is, they’re really lucky.”
“Yeah,” I agree, my shoulders falling at the thought of Nate. “We both are.”
I might be imagining it, but I swear, for a split second, I see sadness and maybe even regret cross his handsome features.
But I can’t be sure.
Because as if conjured by thought, the sound of the front door opening pulls our attention just in time to see Nate walk into the room.
“I brought the wine!” he shouts before he takes in the scene in front of him and comes to a sudden stop. He eyes Peter up and down before turning his attention to me. “What’d I miss?”
“So, so much.” The exhaustion of the day weighs in my voice. “Peter, this is Nate. Nate, this is Peter.”
Nate’s wide eyes fly back to Peter.
“The same Peter who stole your script?” Nate asks, and Peter’s cheeks turn red. It’s nice to see he’s at least a little embarrassed by what he did. “What’s he doing here?”
“What do you think?” I ask. “Begging for me to come back, of course.”
The air leaves the room as Nate turns his attention back to me.
Because as much as I want to pretend I’m going to say no, I think we both know that’s not how this is going to end.
Chapter 28
Peter scurried away quicker than the cockroaches in my first LA apartment soon after Nate arrived. He might work out every day, but it’s clear to anyone who sees them next to each other that even in his ironed slacks, Nate could kick Peter’s ass. And considering the angry vibes radiating off Nate in droves, I wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t do it.
Not soon after Peter left, Nate and I followed suit.
I knew my parents would give me the respect and privacy to have a conversation with Nate alone, but we both felt it would be better in Nate’s house.
The cool evening breeze blows the stray hairs off the back of my neck. Awkward tension that hasn’t been present in weeks lingers between us; only the sounds of far-off squeals of laughter from the neighborhood kids enjoying their summer cut through the silence.
I try to keep my mind focused on the now, but I can’t help the way it drifts off to the what-ifs and maybes that come with the opportunity that’s been presented to me. By the time we walk into his house, I have a full list of pros and cons running through my head.
I follow him into his kitchen. Without saying a word, I watch as he pulls out two wineglasses from his cabinet and opens one of the bottles he brought to my parents’ house to celebrate. I can’t help but realize he’s opening it for a much different reason now.
“I don’t know if I’m going to go,” I tell him. “I told him I’d think about it. I could say no.”
He rounds the kitchen island and slides a glass in front of me. His heavy pour causes the deep-red wine to dance dangerously close to the rim.
“Collins.” He says my name as if he’s just given an hour-long speech.
“Don’t ‘Collins’ me.” I hate when he does that.
He used to do it all the time when we were younger. Saying my name like it explained everything in the world. The frustrating part is that he’s usually right.
I guess the bad thing about being with someone who knows you so well is that they know you so well, they won’t even let you lie to yourself.
He lifts the wine to his mouth, his full lips settling on the glass, but never takes his eyes off me.
“Stop it.” I want to shield myself from his knowing gaze, but there’s nowhere to hide. He recognizes pieces in me that I have yet to discover about myself. “I’m serious. If I go, I’m still going to have to work with him and I don’t know if I can do that. How do I let myself be vulnerable enough to create with someone I can’t trust?”
My stomach twists as the reality I’m facing sets in.
Peter is dangling my dream in front of me. Everything I worked so hard for is at my fingertips but firmly held in Peter’s grip. If I walk away, he has no incentive to admit any wrongdoing or clear my name. I’ll still be blacklisted from writers’ rooms, agencies, and production companies. If I don’t go now, I might miss the window to ever return.
I thought I was going to hate my time at home, but it was the break I didn’t know I needed. I’m just not sure if it’s plausible for me to stay forever. HOA**holes is the strongest thing I’ve ever written, and if I don’t figure things out now, it will live in my computer instead of out in the world where it belongs.
“You told me how much that script meant to you, how many years you spent working on it,” he says. “If you care about something that much, you do what you can to see it succeed. Even if it hurts.”
He’s not talking about the script anymore.
“Nate—” Emotions clog my throat. I can’t speak.
“No.” He sets his glass on the counter and turns to me. He holds my face in his hands, wiping away tears I didn’t even know were falling. “If I didn’t love you so much, I’d ask you to stay. I’d beg you to forget about everything and stay here with me, forever. But I can’t do that.”