Winter Jacket: Finding Home (21 page)

“Who’s that woman hitting on your assistant?” Nikole voiced.

Troian’s head swung as if on a swivel. “Who? Where?”

“Older woman in the power suit,” Nik said. “She’s standing by the Easter Island statue.”

Troian stood nearly on tiptoe to get a better view. “Oh, that’s Jane.”

At the mention of the creative consultant’s name, I turned my attention toward the two. I had never seen the woman before, only heard her name spoken. Standing near a giant stone totem that did resemble a bust one might find on Easter Island was a tall, slender woman in a meticulously tailored suit. The grey pinstriped material revealed an almost boyish build, and she wore a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat.

“Someone should rescue that poor girl,” Nikole noted, stirring her vodka tonic with a thin cocktail straw. “I’d do it, but I hardly know her.”

“Don’t look at me,” Troian objected. “I’ve heard horror stories about what happens when Jane doesn’t get her way.”

The fake smile plastered to Sonja’s bright face wasn’t as alarming as the way she kept taking a step back, only for Jane to immediately crowd her personal bubble again. Before long she would be cornered with no escape route. There was something in Sonja’s retreating body language that made me think of Hunter. She clearly didn’t want to be there, but was too polite or too inexperienced to know how to remove herself from this woman’s unwanted advances.

“I’ll do it,” I announced.

“I dunno, Bookie,” Troian hesitated. “Maybe we should mind our own business. Sonja’s a big girl. I’m sure she can take care of herself.”

“What’s Jane going to do? Fire me?” I didn’t wait for my friend’s response. Instead, I strode purposely toward the corner where Jane and Sonja stood.

“There you are!” I exclaimed, using my teacher voice to project my words above the bar’s music. It must have worked because both Jane and Sonja swung their heads in my direction.

I swooped in and slid my arm around Sonja’s waist. “Sweetie, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Sonja’s jewel-colored eyes widened. “You have?”

I tightened my arm around her waist and her hip bumped against mine. “I’m sorry I was so late. You know what traffic is like.”

Sonja continued to look taken aback. An actress she was not. “That’s-that’s true.”

I finally looked in Jane’s direction. Her facial features were sharp and angular, in deep contrast to Sonja’s wholesome softness. Her hair was dark and voluminous—a chaotic mass of untidy curls.

“Thanks for keeping my girlfriend company,” I beamed.

The older woman’s lips pursed as she observed our interaction. I could see her eyes lingering at my arm, the one possessively around Sonja’s waist. “No problem at all,” she said coolly. “I’m glad to have been of service.”

I gently tugged Sonja away from Jane and back in the direction of my friends. “My hero,” she murmured for only my ears.

“You’re not the only one good at sensing unwanted advances,” I replied as I led her away from the creative consultant.

I was sure Jane’s eyes were at our backs, so I kept my arm firm at Sonja’s waist all the way across the bar until we once again stood beside Troian and Nikole.

“I’m impressed, Bookie,” Troian admired when we returned. “You managed to rescue Sonja without any bloodshed.”

“I just killed her with kindness,” I modestly shrugged. “I could have tried to out-Alpha her, but what’s the point.”

“Damn it.” Nikole snickered. “I would have paid good money to see that.”

“Another time, perhaps,” I laughed, feeling more at ease and more like myself for the first time in a long time.

“Thank you again for the rescue,” Sonja smiled graciously. “You’d think I’d be better at that by now, but I didn’t know how to get out of there.”

“It’s no problem,” I dismissed. “We writers have got to stick together, right?”

“Your drink is getting dangerously low,” Sonja observed. “Let me get you a refill.” She started in the direction of the bar, but I grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.

“You’re not working this party, Sonja,” I said gently, “you’re here as a guest.”

She stared down at my hand, the one still wrapped around her wrist. “O-okay.”

I dropped her arm and ran an anxious hand through my hair, the same hand that had been touching her with such familiarity. “Besides, everyone needs a break from the grind once in a while.”

Sonja nodded and lifted her glass. “Amen to that.”

I raised my glass in solidarity, and she smashed her drink into mine. The movement was too aggressive, however, and my pint shattered in my hand.

“Oh my God,” Sonja gasped. “Are you okay?”

Somehow I’d managed not to cut myself, but rum punch soaked the bottom right leg of my skinny jeans and had dripped into my ballet flats. I shook out my leg like a dog getting out of water.

“Well that’s one way to get a girl wet,” Nikole laughed.

Sonja’s jaw dropped open, horrified. “I’ll get you another drink.”

Before I could insist that I was fine, she’d already scampered off in the direction of the bar.

“You guys are cute,” Nikole murmured. Her dark eyes danced under the neon lights of the gaudy club. “All awkward and overly apologetic.”

“There’s nothing going on,” I quickly insisted.

“There’d better not be,” Troian grumbled. “Sonja’s an excellent assistant. I can’t have you screwing that up.”

“You need to do something about her stipend,” I deflected. “She needs a raise.”

“I completely agree with you,” Troian said. “But she doesn’t have a salary I can raise.”

“You’re kidding me,” I gaped. “It’s an unpaid internship?”

“Before you get your panties in a wad,” Troian started, “unpaid internships are the norm. They’re working for the experience so they have something to put on their résumé; they’re networking and making career connections. I’d say that’s a pretty good deal.”

“She’s in graduate school, putting in just as many hours as me on the lot,
and
she has that part-time job as party eye candy. She’s going to burn herself out.”

“While it’s touching that you’ve taken such an interest in this girl’s well-being, there’s nothing I can do,” Troian insisted. “There’s no budget for a paid internship.”

“Then take some of my writer’s salary. I’m not paying for my housing, and I’m getting paid double between the studio and the university.”

“No.”

“No? Just no?” I said, my voice verging on shrill.

“Listen, you can pay Sonja out of your personal piggy bank, and I’m not going to interfere. But you have to realize you can’t save every struggling student in this town.” Troian licked her lips, and her voice dropped low. “She’s not Hunter.”

“I never said—.”

“You didn’t have to,” she cut me off. “I know how you work. But this isn’t some liberal arts college in Minnesota. It’s survival of the fittest out here. If you’ve got talent and luck on your side, you’ll make it. And if not …”

I tucked my lower lip into my mouth. “Back to Nebraska.”

I would never admit it to her, but Troian was probably right. I couldn’t turn Sonja into Hunter. But before I could dwell too much on what I’d lost, a cold beer bottle was being pressed into my hands.

“Sorry about that,” Sonja apologized again. “I guess I don’t know my own strength.”

“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” I joked.

She ducked her head in embarrassment. For a go-go girl or whatever she did to pay the bills, she certainly blushed easily. A different time, a different version of myself, would have been all over that. But I still hurt too much, making it easier to ignore my more carnal urges.

Back at my apartment, I checked my campus e-mail and drank a glass of water. My throat felt hoarse from speaking over loud music all night.

I had been routinely checking my university e-mails all semester. I was on sabbatical, but students still messaged me with questions and requests for letters of recommendation, and I remained on the all-faculty e-mail list for campus announcements.

I scanned down the list of routine messages. One caught my eye—an e-mail from the English departmental assistant, Tricia, with the subject line: Spring Semester. I opened the e-mail and read:

Dear Professor Graft,

The Chair would like you to teach the following classes for spring semester:

Freshman Writing Seminar

The Minority Voice in Literature

Bildungsroman
Literature in the Contemporary World

Please confirm your availability and any special room or equipment needs.

I steepled my fingers and stared at the request. It was a routine e-mail; faculty received them once a semester to inform us of what we would be teaching the following academic term, and it gave us a chance to reserve a specific classroom if we needing something special like a smart board in the classroom or a computer lab.

What wasn’t routine, however, were the courses listed. I typically taught the writing seminar and sometimes creative writing. But two of the courses listed in the e-mail were the classes Dean Merlot had vetoed last spring. Her censoring of my proposed required reading list had been the straw that broke the camel’s back—the final push that had convinced me to request a sabbatical and take this job in California.

It would have been too easy to blame Jessica Merlot for Hunter and I splitting up. She had been a catalyst in my decision to move, but ultimately I had been the one who had decided to go. And more damaging, I had been the one who’d made Hunter stay behind. There was no one to blame but myself.

I would have to eventually respond to the e-mail. In previous years it had been an immediate response: I’d hit the reply function, write a quick note to Tricia, and it would be done. But now I didn’t know. Was there a reason for me to go back to that place? Was that my life anymore? Where did I truly belong?

I went out onto the balcony and stared, unblinking, at the moon. I wanted to cry, but the well was still dry. It was like without Hunter, I’d lost that ability.

I heard the sound of a sliding glass door opening, followed by the raspy voice of my neighbor, Frank: “Hey, stranger,” he greeted. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yeah,” I said, my own voice worn. “Been busy working on the show.”

He fished a cigarette out of a hard pack and cupped his hands around it as he lit one end. “When’s the first episode? I don’t want to miss it.”

“It was actually tonight,” I said. “But there should be a re-run later this week.”

“Awesome. I’ll set my DVR. Is Hunter coming out for another visit soon?”

“No. No more visits,” I said with a shake of my head. “We broke up.”

“Shit. I’m sorry.” The cigarette dangled precariously from his lips. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay,” I allowed. “It’s not something I’ve been advertising.”

“How are you holding up?”

I hesitated in my answer. Frank didn’t know me. We were neighbors with a common wall, but that was really the only thing we shared. In a way, it was easier to be honest with a stranger than my best friends.

“It blindsided me,” I said in earnest. “I thought things were good. I knew our situation was far from ideal, but I’d believed we could outlast the distance. Turns out I was wrong.”

“So now what? Are you gonna try to get her back or are you moving on?”

I curled my fingers around the ledge of the balcony. The full, pale moon hung heavy in the ink black sky. “I don’t know, Frank. I honestly don’t know.”

Chapter THIRTEEN

The Overnights were encouraging—we’d received a generous viewership for the pilot episode and the network was content. Now we had to cross our collective fingers that the subsequent numbers were high enough for the network to continue ordering episodes.

“Pay no attention to the numbers,” Troian had told us. “Just keep writing.”

Despite Troian’s pep talk, some of the other writers were clearly having trouble focusing and working on future plot lines because the show’s own future was still in question. Why expend all of that time and creative energy writing scripts for episodes that might never be aired? I wondered if the rest of the cast and crew felt the same about their shooting schedule as the others did in the writer’s room, or if they were content to be collecting a paycheck for the moment. It was a high-risk, high-stress world. I at least had the luxury of returning to my job if the show didn’t find an audience in those first few weeks. I hadn’t responded to Tricia e-mail yet, but I retained it in my inbox, just in case.