“I don’t want to see them yet. Tell me what you think in general.”
Paxton trudges out, yawning. His hair is all mussed up. He must have had a nap. “I’m hungry,” he declares to the room.
“I can order lunch for us,” Elijah says. “Go back inside my office, please.”
“I brought some fresh homemade gingerbread cookies if he’s allowed to have these,” I say, tapping on the container of cookies I had brought in the duffel bag. “They’re gluten-free and soft and chewy!” Opening the lid and using it as a fan, I let the warm, spicy scent waft over to them. “Made ’em this morning.”
“Can I, Dad?!”
“You baked cookiesthismorning?” Elijah looks skeptical.
“Yes—I was inspired.” I hold up one of the Grumpy Bossypants gingerbread men. He’s frowning and has a green icing necktie. I even gave him a fancy yellow Rolex like Elijah wears. And then I bite off his head, delighting in chewing him up while holding Elijah’s gaze. “Mmmmm. Tastes soooo grumpy.”
Paxton runs over to my desk and chooses one of the happy gingerbread boy cookies with glasses. Elijah doesn’t even seem to notice because he’s still staring at my mouth. “Just one cookie,” he says in his dad voice, eyes still on me. “Don’t ruin your appetite.” As soon as he says it he shakes his head, as if he can’t believe he uttered such a parental cliché.
I hold the container up to him. “Would you like one?”
“No. Yes.” He takes a step toward me and swipes one of the frowny-face cookies. “Give me your general thoughts on the project.” He takes a bite of the cookie and shuts his eyes. “Jesus, that’s good.”
“Can I have another one, Dad?”
“Just one more, yes.”
“Well, Mr. Abrams, I think you may have missed the humor of the script.”
“If I missed it that means it wasn’t funny.” He begins to pace back and forth, several feet away from my desk. This man has a lot of pent-up energy. If things were different, like if Elijah had a totally different personality and if his young son wasn’t currently in his care, I would probably come up with more creative methods to aid him in expending it.
But things aren’t different, so I won’t.
Not right now anyway.
“I think it’s a satire.”
“Blech. I hate satires. We don’t make satires around here anymore.”
“Fair enough. I’m just saying that I don’t think it’s a terrible script. It’s just not the kind of movie this studio makes.”
“You don’t actually think it’s good, do you?”
“I mean. Yeah. I do. For what it is. They get points for writing a script that goes against the grain.”
He stares at me in horror. As if he presented me with a flaming pile of poo to assess and I have told him I think it’s a field of daisies. “Unacceptable. I need you to help me fix it.”
“I can still help you come up with notes for the kind of movie you need it to be; I just don’t think this is a bad script.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, pinches the bridge of his nose, and shakes his head. Much like Franklin does when he’s faced with one of my hand-knitted holiday cardigans. “I knew this was a bad idea.”
I glance over at Paxton, who is eating his third cookie, and wink at him. “If you would prefer to terminate my services, I will write up an invoice for you before taking my leave.”
He holds one hand up, halting me. “No. You don’t get to leave. Find me some Christmas movies to watch on Streamflix for inspiration. But none of the ones I hate.”
“But you hate all of them.”
“That’s not ameproblem. Just find one Christmas movie that will inspire me and put me in the right frame of mind. And then start typing up your notes.”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”
He takes one more cookie from the container before returning to his office. “Come on, Paxton.”
