“Something came up. He really wanted to be here, I was the one who told him not to.”
“I see. Soyoudidn’t want him to meet me.” It was a joke, sort of, though the hard edge in her mother’s voice didn’t make Grey feel like laughing.
It had been long enough since she’d seen her mother that the experience was slightly uncanny. Their resemblance was undeniable. Her mother had been young when Grey was born; even now, she was barely in her fifties, finally out of the range for the two of them to be confused for sisters. She was smaller than Grey, thin and brittle, with a perpetually harsh expression even at rest. Sometimes looking at her gave Grey the same unpleasant jolt as when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror after she’d been thinking something uncharitable.
This wasn’t the mother she’d grown up with. When she’d remarried, it was like she’d been reborn into the role of a lifetime: suburban society doyenne. She’d studied hard, gone beyond Method. She tilted her head to give Grey the once-over, her tasteful blond highlights (which looked more expensive than Grey’s) shimmering in the sun, her ballerina-pink manicured hands clutching the supple leather strap of her purse. Grey often wondered if her mother’s distance was born of resentment toward her and her brother for being living, breathing reminders of the life she’d livedbefore—except when one of them did something she could brag about at the country club.
Grey craned her neck, desperately trying to locate the hostess. When they’d shown up to the café, it was packed, and she’d forgotten to call and tell them that their reservation was down to two. The frazzled hostess had nodded and darted away, and what had seemed like a simple request turned out to be more complicated than anticipated. She didn’t envy the hostess as the line of irritated patrons grew longer behind them.
“Aren’t you glad you never had to do that?” her mother asked with a conspiratorial smile once they were seated. Grey bit her tongue to stop herself from reminding her mother that the reason Grey had never needed a side job was because she’d been working since she still had baby teeth.
Instead, she skimmed the menu, trying to stay engaged as her mother filled her in on everything she’d missed at Madison’s graduation party several weeks earlier. Apparently, one of Madison’s friends had shown up in a nearly identical dress, drawing all the attention away from poor Madison. Grey murmured sympathetically, which was all that was needed from her.
The hostess came over to take their drink orders, apologizing again for the wait. Grey studied her. She looked like she was barely out of her teens, curvaceous and striking, with a platinum pixie cut and a bright slash of lipstick. Grey wondered why she’d moved to New York, what dream she was chasing, whether she would ever catch it. Whether anyone ever did.
“So, where are you staying?” her mother chirped as the hostess scurried away again.
“The Bowery.”
Her mother raised her eyebrows. “I assume he’s paying?”
Grey went pink. As always, her mother somehow sensed exactly which buttons to press. How could she have known thatearlier that morning, after Grey had stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a plush towel, she’d looked out at the spectacular view from the bathroom window and felt paralyzed?
She hadn’t felt strange about the expensive meals and opulent accommodations she’d experienced when she and Ethan had still been bound by their contract. She’d been able to rationalize them as perks of the job, one in which they were equal partners. But now she was just along for the ride, basking in his benevolence. She knew she should just enjoy it and be grateful, that anyone else would be thrilled to be in her shoes. And she was, mostly. Except for the twisted, anxious part deep inside her that felt like Cinderella two minutes before midnight.
A position her mother could probably relate to, come to think of it.
She rolled her eyes. “Mo-om.” She was glad Ethan wasn’t here to see her this way. The question was always when, not if, she would turn into a brat in her mother’s presence.
“Sorry. You’re so sensitive sometimes, I never know what’s going to set you off.”
“I just don’t know why you would ask when you clearly already know the answer.”
“I didn’t know. You don’t tell me anything. Everything I know about you two I have to read in the tabloids. How do you think that makes me feel? Do you think I liked having mydentistbe the one to tell me that my daughter’s bare behind was all over the news, and then some?”
There it was. They hadn’t talked about Grey’s scandal, and a part of her had naïvely hoped they’d never have to.
“Yeah, that must have been really hard for you,” she muttered. The sarcasm seemed to fly over her mother’s head.
“All I’m asking for is acrumbof information every once in a while.”
About Ethan, or about me?Grey swallowed the provocation, refusing to let herself revert fully to a sullen teen.
“You’re right. Sorry.”
“So, where is he, exactly, that’s more important than you?”
—
ETHAN DRUMMED HISfingers on the corner of the table. He’d arrived at the restaurant early, humming with nervous energy. It had been years since he’d seen Perry.
When the studio had declared Ethan too inexperienced to directDirtbags,insisting instead on bringing in an established director, Ethan had been prepared to hate him. He’d seethed with insecurity the first few days on set. However, Perry had disarmed him immediately with his gruff, no-nonsense approach, coupled with his overwhelming patience and generosity in explaining every decision he was making. ShootingDirtbagshad been like Ethan’s own personal film school: everything he knew about filmmaking, he had learned on that set.
It had hit him halfway through the plane ride to New York, cruising thirty-five thousand feet above Kansas: Perry should directBitter Pill.He couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to him sooner. It was perfect. The way to honor Sam would be to return to their roots, recruit the man who had shaped their first screenplay into a classic. He’d immediately pulled out his laptop and forwarded Perry the screenplay.
Ethan had seated himself facing the door, so he saw Perry as soon as he strolled in. He was immediately struck by how young he looked. When Perry had directedDirtbags,he’d seemed a thousand years old to Ethan; now in his early fifties, it seemed like he hadn’t aged much since then. Ethan realized with a start that he was now almost the same age that Perry had been then. When Perry spotted him, his face lit up.
“Ethan!” Perry boomed, charging across the restaurant toward him. Part of the reason working with him had felt like film school was that Perry had (what Ethan assumed to be) a professorial vibe: ruddy face, wild strawberry-blond hair, patched elbows. He wrapped Ethan in an enormous bear hug before stepping back and holding him at arm’s length, appraising him.
