I step up to the open bar and realize there’s an even more miserable schmuck standing next to me. Garrett Malone, Oscar-winning screenwriter and fellow divorced dad. I hear he has writer’s block. Maybe he’ll take this shitty rewrite job. “Greetings, Mr. Malone,” I say as he picks up a pint of Guinness.
“Oh, hey, Abrams. I’m not rewriting your crappy Christmas project” is his reply. “Happy holidays.” He grins at me before patting me on the back and walking away.
I flip him the Christmas bird.
How does everyone in town already know about my shitty project?…Josh Steinberg is telling everyone so no one will help me.That fucker.
I will win this battle. I will figure out how to fix that script myself. I will come up with amazing, brilliant notes while pacing around my office and talking to no one. And then I will hire someone who is impressed by my notes. Blammo. I win.
I order Cleo’s Amaretto sour and a double scotch on the rocks for myself.
I will enjoy this one last drink while acting as if Cleo is my date so my family and my ex-wife and her new husband don’t think I am totally bereft of joy in my life. And then I will return to the office by Uber. I will put my thinking cap on. I am a geniusfilm producer who can come up with brilliant high-concept ideas while drunk and jerking it to thoughts of my former film school rival in the men’s room.
Returning to the table, I find Alyssa and Barry chatting with Cleo while she eats. I like that she hasn’t stopped eating. Why do I like that so much? So many of the actresses and models I’ve dated wouldn’t eat solid foods when I took them out for dinner because they were afraid of getting anything stuck between their teeth. But Cleo? Cleo has cranberry sauce in the corner of her lips, and I want to lick it off.
My ex-wife is wearing a very tasteful off-white cocktail dress and what I know she considers to be whimsical earrings. A gold Christmas tree hangs from one ear, a Star of David from the other. She does look beautiful, and I’m happy she’s happy to be married to the guy who created the TV show that gave me the start to my mediocre acting career. And weirdly, I don’t hate Barry Weiner for boning my ex-wife and calling my son buddy, even though that’s my thing. Calling Paxton buddy, that is, not boning my ex-wife. That hasn’t been my thing for years.
I place Cleo’s cocktail on the table next to her and then rub her back. It’s such a good date move, and I am very proud of myself for doing this. I am also proud of myself for confirming that she is, in fact, not wearing a bra.
“Elijah,” Alyssa says, “your lovely date tells us you knew each other in film school.”
“Until she dropped out halfway through the program, yes.”
“Well, I for one am glad that you dropped out to move to New York,” Barry says, placing his hand on his chest. “If you hadn’t I wouldn’t have had the good fortune to see you inThe Royal Tenenbaums: the Musicalon Broadway seven years ago. What a quirky, delightful treat that was! You were fabulous. Fantastic singing voice. I remember putting you on a list.”
We all know what list he put her on. He put her on a list of actresses he wanted to bone.
“Thank you so much,” Cleo says, and she doesn’t look like she’s inwardly cringing at all. “Elijah’s glad I dropped out of film school too, because without me there he was finally able to win some awards.” She beams up at me. “So I heard.”
“Yes, like the Oscar for Best Film,” I say, beaming right back at her.
“What a quirky, delightful surprisethatwas!”
“Well, we’ll let you two enjoy some alone time,” Alyssa says politely. “It was so nice meeting you, Cleo.” She touches my arm and says, “Have fun.” Her tone is only a little patronizing.
“Congratulations and mazel tov and happy holidays, again!” Cleo says, waving at them.
Barry gives me a little pat on the shoulder, and I don’t want to punch him even a little bit.
Cleo looks up at me again. I don’t remove my hand from her back. I point to the corner of my mouth, indicating that she has food there, in the corner of her own mouth. Instead of using a napkin to wipe it off like any non-demonic adult who isn’t trying to make me hard at a family party would do, she slowly licks her lips while locking eyes with me.
God dammit. She’s playing hardballs. That is the only way she has ever played.
Nope.
I am winning this round.
I unhand her, polish off my scotch, and button up my suit jacket. “I think it’s time for me to go.”
“Okie doke,” she says.
“Dad! Hey, Dad!” I hear my son shout from across the yard. “Dad! Miss Cleo!” He waves at us. He’s standing under a jacaranda tree with Shane’s daughter, Summer. She’s older than him, but she is trouble. Standing there, flipping her hair. I do notlike the looks of this. “Come over here!” Paxton shouts over Bing Crosby’s pleasant crooning. Summer waves us over too.
“Let’s go!” Cleo says, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin now. “I’m done eating. That was really good—thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I pull the chair out for her and look down.
