Winter Jacket: Finding Home (13 page)

“Enjoy tonight,” I told my friend. “Because tomorrow morning this will have all seemed like a dream.”

+ + +

I sat on set in my canvas camping chair the next morning, waiting for the work day to begin. Jackson, the director, and a small army of technical crew flew around the sound stage, preparing for the next scene, but as a lowly staff writer, I had no responsibilities until Troian came in with notes for the script.

As I read Hunter’s text that had come after she’d messaged me that her flight had safely landed, I bit my lower lip and tried to keep the telling smile from my face:
When do I get my dance?

I was exhausted, but the all-nighter had been worth it. We’d stayed out at the beach, talking and watching the sun come up until I had to bring her to the airport for her flight back. It was only a few hours of time together, but it would have to suffice until she could visit later in the month.

Sonja arrived on set and waved when she saw me sitting amongst the grouping of chairs. “Have you seen Troian this morning?” she asked.

“No, sorry. I haven’t seen her since last night.”

“The bachelorette party. That’s right.” Recognition lit up her face. “How did everything go?”

“Better than expected.” I hoped I wasn’t blushing. “And thank you for the, uh,” I lowered my voice, “the strip club recommendation.”

“Anytime,” she chuckled. “I’m sorry I missed out. I wanted to go, but I had to work another party.”

“That’s too bad. It was a fun night.”

She smirked knowingly. “I bet it was.”

Before I could defend my honor, Troian rushed on set and slid into the vacant chair beside me.

“Sonja, I need twenty copies of the working script for episode nine ASAP,” she barked out.

Sonja crisply bobbed her head. “Right away, Boss.”

“Where have you been?” I demanded of my friend.

“Overslept.”

“Someone must have had a good night,” I teased.

“Whatever,” she mumbled as the director walked the actors through their positions. “Don’t think we all didn’t notice when you never came back from your lap dance.”

I felt a blush settle over my features. “She had a flight to catch.”

“Were you totally surprised?” Troian pressed.

“You have no idea. Here I thought
you
were the one getting surprised and then suddenly my girlfriend is giving me a lap dance.”

“Nikole
is kind of the best, isn’t she?” Troian smiled dreamily.

“Does that mean you actually had fun last night, Miss-I’m-Too-Busy?”

“It wasn’t so bad,” she begrudgingly admitted. “But I’m going to need an IV of caffeine if I’m going to make it through the day.”

“Stay there,” I instructed as I stood from the collapsible chair. “I’ll get you a coffee.”

The Craft Services table was largely unoccupied. Most everyone was busy with a walkthrough of the current scene, but a few of the secondary characters picked at the food spread while they waited for their scenes.

“Someone’s going to eat us into cancelation,” I overheard one of the actors say as I got a cup of coffee for Troian.

“We can’t get canceled if we haven’t even been picked up,” a second woman shot back.

It was the girl from the boat party a few weeks ago. I couldn’t recall her name, but I’d seen her around the production lot in the weeks after Jane’s party. She was a minor character on the show, but I thought just as talented and attractive as the rest of the cast. In her mid- to late-twenties, she was also one of the older actresses on staff besides the actors who played parents on the show.

She looked up from a plate piled high with cheese and crackers, and smiled when she noticed my presence. “Hey. It’s Elle, right?”

I nodded, unable to resist being privately pleased that she remembered my name. “Yeah. And you’re …”

I frantically racked my brain. As a teacher I was typically good at remembering people’s faces and names, but on top of screenwriting lingo and television shooting schedules, I’d had to learn a lot of information in a short amount of time over the past few weeks. My brain was crammed full.

“Lucy,” she helped me out. “We met on Jane’s boat.”

“Right. Sorry,” I apologized. “That was a weird day.”

“I’ll forgive you this time.”

I wiped my hand across my brow. “Phew,” I grinned.

“Hey, you guys did a nice job on this episode,” she complimented. “The dialogue is really tight; it feels natural.”

I smiled a little wider. “Thanks. I’ll make sure the other writers know.”

“And I had some ideas for my character,” she added. “Maybe I can buy you lunch some time to go over them?”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” I bumbled, unprepared for that kind of request. “I don’t know what my schedule looks like over the next few weeks off the top of my head, but I’m sure we can make it work.”

“Sounds good,” she said. “I should probably be running lines or something right now. I’ll see you around, Elle.”

I returned to Troian with her coffee in hand.

“You making friends with the talent over there?” she observed. She blew across the top of the cup before taking an experimental sip.

“I met Lucy at Jane’s party when you abandoned me. She was complimenting us on the episode. Wasn’t that nice?” I found myself missing not the attention or the compliments, but simply the thoughtfulness of telling someone that they’d done a good job.

“Careful with these actors, especially the supporting-role cast,” Troian warned. “They’ll butter you up so you’ll write them into more scenes.”

The grin fell from my face. “Oh. Really?”

“I’m not saying you all didn’t do a good job on this episode. I’m just telling you not to let the talent get in your head.”

I chewed on my lower lip and nodded. “Okay. Thanks for the advice, Boss.”

“By the way, I looked over your treatment. It’s solid. I want you to polish it a little bit more and then I you’ll be ready to pitch it to the other writers. Once they get on board, you can get started on the first draft.”

I nodded, taking in the new information. The treatment had been relatively easy—a summary of the main plot points for the episode. Writing the actual script, however, was on a different level all together. “How long do I have from pitch to the shooting script?”

“About six weeks,” she said. “That probably sounds like forever, but trust me, the time will fly between all the edits and meetings and table reads and blocking out the scenes on set.”

I worried my lower lip. “Do you still think I can do this?”

“You hear voices, Bookie. And in this business, that’s a good thing.” She clapped me on the shoulder. “Just be sure to write those voices down when they start talking to you.”

I called Hunter on my drive home from work, knowing that she’d be leaving soon for the hospital. She’d texted me when her plane had landed, but we hadn’t actually talked.

“Hey, babe,” she rasped. She sounded like she’d just woken up or had been smoking a pack of cigarettes a day ever since birth.

“Are you okay? Your voice sounds a little rough.”

“I know,” she croaked.

“Not that it isn’t sexy,” I qualified.

I hear her quiet groan. “I’m feeling far from sexy today. I think I’m getting sick.”

“Oh no,” I deadpanned. “You caught Ebola on the airplane.”

“It was worth it, don’t you think?”

I grinned, unable to banish images of Hunter dancing for me, even if I’d wanted to. “Do want me to come home?” I asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a little cold.” I heard her blow her nose. “Besides, you have work.”

“I can talk to Troian. It’ll be fine.” It was probably an abuse of our friendship to ask for time off, but I could worry about that wrinkle later.

“No, baby. I don’t want to start a precedent where I get a cold or I miss you too much or, I don’t know, I get a paper cut, and you feel like you have to rush back here to take care of me.”

“It’s not that I think you need someone to take care of you, Hunt. I know you’re perfectly capable. But I want to be there for you when you’re not feeling your best. That’s what good girlfriends do, right?” I smiled into the phone. “I think I read about it once.”

“That sounds really nice, sweetie, but I’ll survive,” she insisted. “Besides, I’ll be there soon enough. You can take care of me then.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“I can’t wait to see you again,” I said as I navigated the sharp turns that led to my apartment complex. “Last night wasn’t close to being long enough.”

“I know, baby. But I don’t think
any
visit will feel long enough.”

“Are they making you come into work today?” I worried.

“No. I called in. One nice thing about working in the maternity ward is they send you home for the slightest sniffle.”

“Good. Why don’t you grab Sylvia and crawl into bed? Watch some mindless TV or take a nap,” I suggested.

“Already a step ahead of you.” She started to chuckle, but it turned into a cough.

“Are you
sure
you don’t want me there?” I frowned.

“Of course I want you here, Ellio, but we both know that’s not practical.”

“I suppose not.”

“I’m going to get off the phone now, okay, sweetie? All this talking is aggravating my throat.”

“Right. Of course. Call me if you change your mind, okay? I’ll be on the first flight out there.”

It was only a cold, but that didn’t lessen my guilt for not being able to take care of her. She had plenty of friends, and her family was there if she really needed the help. But it was more about what it represented. I couldn’t be there for her at a moment’s notice. If she was having a bad day, there was only so much I could do from a distance. I hadn’t made up my mind if California was my long-term plan or if I would return to teaching in January, but one thing was for certain: wherever I was, I wanted Hunter there, too.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next few weeks flew by in a blur. The other writers had signed on to my episode proposal, so when I wasn’t in brainstorming sessions, on set watching scenes being shot, or in other meetings, I was busy working on the first draft of my inaugural script.

Hunter and I similarly fell into a routine, despite the distance and two hour time difference. Most evenings when she didn’t have to work we watched a movie together, syncing up our respective DVD players while we video chatted. I mostly read over scripts or worked on the first draft of my episode instead of actually watching the movie, but it was nice having her there with me even if we didn’t talk much. It was normal, and very much like a typical weeknight for us with me grading papers on the couch with her beside me, only I didn’t have her feet in my lap, and I couldn’t lean over and kiss her whenever I wanted.

It had been three weeks since Troian’s bachelorette party, the last time Hunter and I had been together, but she’d finally saved up time off for a weekend visit. Standing in baggage claim at LAX airport, I was admittedly nervous. It felt like a first date rather than me picking up my girlfriend from the airport. I had debated all morning about my outfit and if I should bring flowers or something.

A new flood of passengers poured down the escalator that led to baggage claim, and I stood on tiptoe to see if Hunter was with them. It was harder to identify her amongst the numerous young, leggy, blondes, but I finally spotted her as she stepped off of the moving staircase. The grin on her face grew wider as the distance between us narrowed. Finally, she dropped the extended handle of her wheeled suitcase and nearly crashed into my arms.

Her face immediately went to the crook of my neck. “I can’t believe I’m finally here,” she said, burying her face against me. “These past few days have been so hard.”

I squeezed her tight. “I’m so happy you’re here. Words cannot do it justice.”

We stood there, wordlessly hugging in the middle of baggage claim, oblivious to the travelers who milled around the busy airport.

“What do you want to do this weekend?” I asked. I took the handle of Hunter’s luggage from her and wheeled the carry-on behind me. “I could take you on a tour of the studio, we could go to some foodie restaurants, we could take a day trip up Highway 1 and check out some coastal towns, or we could even go to Disneyland if you want.”

“Would it be okay if we just hung out? The trip wiped me, and the thought of doing anything this weekend more rigorous than binging on television is making me even more exhausted.”