I startled when the door opened. I’d expected her to take longer, to savor the details. I couldn’t help but feel disappointed.
“Please tell whoever decorated the place they did a good job,” Holly said without the slightest hint of a smile. I was sure she had a beautiful smile. I doubted she’d ever show it to me.
She walked toward the car. I noticed she was limping.
And suddenly I knew no matter what we did, it would never be enough.
ANDY
Three months ago
Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why didn’t I leave earlier? I know why. Because an hour should be enough time to go sixteen fucking miles. But this is LA, where driving sixteen miles can take longer than traversing the face of the moon. And I’m a stubborn ass who refuses to accept that.
I took my anger out on the steering wheel, squeezing it until my knuckles turned white. I could feel sweat trickling down my vertebrae, bumping its way toward the crack of my ass. I hadn’t moved more than ten feet in the last ten minutes. Even in an apocalypse, with everyone taking to the streets at the exact same time, a log jam like this would seem hyperbolic. And yet here I was.
I looked at the clock, did a quick calculation. If I get off at the next exit and take surface streets, I’ll probably add five miles to the drive, but at least I won’t be just sitting here, marinating in my own body fluids.
Decisions, decisions . . . I cranked my neck out the window. It was cruelly hot for May, with relentless sun and not even a hint of a breeze. On the other side of the freeway guardrail, a row of towering palms loomed like prison bars, mocking me with their dogged uniformity. Once upon a time, palm trees conjured images of mai tais and tropical beaches, but now, in their maddening stillness, they just pissed me off.
I contemplated my phone. I thought about calling to say I was going to be late, but then if by some miracle I got there on time, I’d look like a nervous Nellie and just annoy them. But if I didn’t call, or called at the last minute, they’d think I was rude. Ugh, why didn’t I just leave earlier?
I dialed my agent’s office. The assistant picked up. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” I started, “but I think I’m going to be late.” There was a beat of silence, like he couldn’t believe it either.
“You want me to call them?” he asked, not even trying to hide his incredulity.
“Wait!” I said, my iron grip on the wheel giving way to hope. “I’m moving again!” I eased my foot onto the accelerator. “Don’t call them, I think I might make it, sorry! Thanks!”
I said a silent prayer to the gods of traffic （please keep moving, please keep moving!） as my car shifted into second gear, then third. If I continue at this pace, I might just get there on time. As long as there isn’t a wait at the gate, and the walk from the parking structure isn’t too far. Studio lots can span ten city blocks. If the parking wasn’t close, I was sunk.
I pulled up to the guard gate with four minutes to spare. There was no line to get on the lot （halle-fucking-lujah!）， but the parking situation sucked. There were six soundstages between the structure and the executive bungalows, and I cursed myself for not wearing sneakers. I parked illegally, in a spot reserved for “Vanpool Only,” willing to risk that I might get towed. And then I ran.
I arrived at the meeting pink-skinned as a pig, with blisters already budding on my big toes and heels. The assistant to the assistant offered me “Something to drink? Sparkling water, cappuccino?” but after my full-out sprint, I didn’t trust my stomach.
“Just water, thank you,” I said, hoping she didn’t notice the sweat beading on my hairline. My agent worked really hard to get me this meeting. I don’t want to name-drop, but this guy I was seeing was a huge deal—what in Hollywood we called a triple threat: actor, producer, and even sometimes director. He didn’t meet with many screenwriters, but he apparently liked that script I wrote for Clooney, and if the meet and greet went well, I could be his guy for his next big thing.
There was a plexiglass barrier walling off the reception area from the inner sanctum. Inside the brightly lit terrarium, shiny millennials sat at cubicles, staring into computer screens or otherwise trying to look busy. Just beyond them was the boss’s office. I knew it was his office because I could see him, silhouetted against a big bay window overlooking the lot. I don’t know why this gave me a thrill, it’s not like I didn’t know he worked there. But seeing him in his element, knowing in a matter of minutes I’d be sitting across from him, breathing the same air, made my new blisters momentarily stop throbbing.