Jessalynn cocks an eyebrow at me. “Your list of requests as per a contract.”
“Right, my rider.” They say requests, but I know they mean demands.
“The espresso machine will be an easy get,” Cassandra says, opening her portfolio and checking off a list. “As will a Lovesac, but we will want to know your color, fabric, and size preferences for napping reasons.”
“I’m going to be napping here?” I ask.
“During tech…” Jessalynn is clearly growing more annoyed with me each time I open my mouth.
“Bottles of Hennessy, Patron Silver Tequila, Grey Goose Vodka, Jack Daniels, and Heineken will be available to you at any time via a fully stocked fridge we’ll have installed,” Cassandra says. “We’ll be certain to get the extra-long bendy straws and specific kind of glasses you requested as well. And we also have someone on call to be your personal gum-throw-away-er.”
Jessalynn smirks at this. “He really hates having to touch it after he chews it.”
“Makes perfect sense,” Cassandra says. And if she finds this ridiculous, she makes no show of it. A consummate professional. I, on the other hand, am agape at all this nonsense. Shame ping-pongsaround in my head. “Lastly,” Cassandra adds, “we’ve ensured no one on staff the night of or leading up to your show will have the name Drew.”
My chest tightens. “Excuse me?” I ask. Hearing his name spoken aloud in this strange reality makes my heart tumble into my stomach. Brings last night—my last night—into sharp focus again. I can hear Drew telling me he loves me and minutes later telling me he needs time away from me. It crushes me all over again.
“We received explicit instructions,” Cassandra says, pulling me from the recent but somehow not-so-recent memory.
Jessalynn steps in. “That’s exactly right. He wouldn’t be the anti-love comedian without being able to hold a nearly decade-old grudge, right?” The two share a clipped, for-show laugh, while I try and fail to process this.
I take it things with Drew have not improved in the seven years I’ve somehow soared over. That can’t be possible. I was so certain when I went to bed last night that my actions were absolvable, over time and maybe with some groveling. I was right about the career benefits, but I guess I was wrong about the relationships being salvageable.
Discomfort becomes a fourth person in this room, breathing down my neck.
I gulp back the panic and say, “Excellent,” as bottles of champagne are brought in.
Chapter Fifteen
I’m day-drunk by the time Jessalynn drops me back off at the apartment.
Drew’s name and my complete lack of control over my life and timeline led me to down a full bottle of champagne all by myself, which spawned a burp fest and an uncomfortably bumpy, queasy ride back. I’ve got sea legs as I stand on the sidewalk, swaying.
Jessalynn, behind a pair of larger-than-life sunglasses, glares at me through the open back window of the car. “Sober up, babe, and polish that material. We may have a venue now, but that won’t matter if the jokes are shit. Rehearsals start next week. Got it?”
“Got it,” I say, because I’m at a loss.
The car speeds away.
Back in my extravagant apartment and still floored by the square footage, which sits somewhere north of four thousand—I asked!—and impeccably put-together interior design, I forage through the kitchen for sustenance. Anything that will quell my stomach cramps.
Even though I’m apparently in possession of state-of-the-art appliances and tools to cook homemade pasta (who am I?), the fridge, cabinets, and walk-in pantry are devoid of food, which leads me to believe that I don’t spend much time here.
“So many food preppery…preppering…preparatory? Comeon, mouth. So manypreptools and no ingredients to do the prepping with,” I drunkenly grumble to myself, slamming shut the fridge with a tablet built into the door beside the ice dispenser.
“Would you like me to go out and grab something for you, Mr. Baker?” comes the sound of a masculine voice that’s so soothing and melodic, it could only be coming from the robot that lives inside my futuristic (or is it now-istic?) fridge.
“I can’t believe this thing talks.” I begin inspecting the tablet, which is far more complex than my seven-years-younger mind can even compute. I had just gotten used to having an Alexa in our apartment. Now I have a fridge that can do my grocery shopping for me. “Yes. Poke-ay Bow-el,” I enunciate, and then realize that sounded likebowel(which in fairness is what I’ll have to tend to as soon as I eat one). Also, nothing’s happening on the screen. Itap, tap, tap, while saying, “Poke bowl.”
“Looking up Pokémon recipes…” an even-toned feminine voice purrs from the door. Why’d the voice change all of a sudden?
“No, no. Poke bowl!”
“Looking up Super Bowl recipes…”
“Okay, now you’re just mocking me.”
“Mr. Baker,” comes the sound of the deep, masculine voice again. I flip around with a start when a hand clasps my shoulder. As I jump back on wobbly legs, my hands fumble across the counter for something to protect myself with. You’d think a building that houses a famous comedian would have better protection against intruders.
