“Yikes. No pressure, Eugene Levy.”
“The thing is, it always works. Haven’t jumped yet,” I say.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But it’s different when you’re talking to an actual live human being who makes you laugh.”
“True.”
“How often do you get to do that?”
“Me? Oh, all day. I’m a writer. My characters are ridiculous. They keep me rolling.”
“They’re not real though.”
“Like hell they’re not. Everyone I write about is based off something in real life. I can’t come up with this shit from scratch. I amnotthat brilliant, sadly.”
“So, what are you writing about now? With this ‘page count’ business that keeps you from returning my emails in a timely fashion?”
“Timely?” I ask, awash with faux surprise. “I amspeakingwith you in the middle of the night! And we emailed like four times today!” A moment of self-awareness washes over me. Teenage me would literally die, speaking on the phone with teenage Colin Yarmouth at an hour reserved for late-night talk shows and infomercials.
He laughs, piercing my thought bubble, bringing me back to the present.
“If youmustknow, I am writing about a Realtor who finds herself broke suddenly and tries to sell her condo by seducing her old high school boyfriend.”
“Hmm.” He considers the information.
My stomach does this weird thing, where it makes a gurgly noise similar to the one that rumbled out of my body just before the unfortunate jogging incident the other day. I clench my butt cheeks together for safety. “What?” I ask. A small gas bubble bursts in my digestive tract and the feeling passes.
“Just trying to figure out how you pulled the story out of real life.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, it’s not a mirror, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“So, then I’m wrong to assume that you still speak to your high school boyfriend?”
“Nope. We no longer speak,” I reply. “It’s weird. My brain pulls together memories and mixes them with current stuff in my life or in the lives of my friends, or even—sometimes—on the news, and poof! A story appears.”
“Interesting.”
The line goes quiet for an awkward moment. When I can stand it no longer, I say, “What?”
“Just thinking.”
“Thinkingwhat,Colin?” I ask, exasperated.
“AmIin this story you’re writing?” He laughs.
Blood rises into my cheeks. “Why would you ask that?” I reply, immediately horrified.
“Because of the yearbook thing, maybe?” he suggests.
I gulp, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “I stand corrected, Colin. NoteverythingI write is based on reality.”
“But you just said—”
“Okay, point proven. Clearly, you are one hell of a lawyer.”
“Yeah. I mean, you should see how I go rounds with the elderly, assigning their estates to executors and putting their money into trusts. I getfierce.”
I laugh, relaxing a bit. “I’ll bet.”
