“Aren’t you listening? The licensing deal with Turkey! A top TV streamer over there wantsDivorce Divas! Every damn season!It puts me so far back in the black, it’s obscene. Who says there’s no money in television anymore? Ridiculous.”
Anne’s mouth fell open. “When were you going to tell me?”
“I just did! But you can’t tell anyone else. It’s all very hush-hush until the agreement is signed. Which reminds me, I have it on my phone so you can look it over and give me your notes.”
What was happening?
Divorce Divaswas still on hiatus, but meanwhile, its back seasons were headed to Turkey, while Denise was developing a television show with Theo that Anne may have unwittingly helped create. And it was coming to light at her family Thanksgiving with her dad, a plethora of oysters, and a table lined with zebra print and sequins.
“Dad, have you talked to Theo about any of this?” Anne hedged.
He scoffed. “Who?”
“The showrunner onDivorce Divas,” she replied. “Because I think Denise has been talking to him about—”
“It’s my company,” Walt cut her off. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you?” Anne whispered sharply. “You’re celebrating a licensing deal while our staff and crew are at home, waiting for news of whether the show is going back into production or not. Even the star of the show is making other plans!”
Walt’s eyes closed as if she were weighing on his last nerve. “Anne, don’t make me regret inviting you. Honestly.”
Anne’s jaw tightened and she clenched her fists. She wanted to point out that he only asked her to come because Denise told him to. He never asked Anne anything, in fact. Instead he just assumed, took, overstepped, which is exactly how she ended up wasting the past five years of her life keeping his production company from falling apart, only to have him find a way to implode it anyway.But before she could open her mouth, Denise appeared in front of them.
“Oh, look at us all!” She beamed as the entrees were placed on the table in a mad dash by the waiters. She took her seat across from Anne and raised her champagne flute, addressing the entire table, “To us, to family, to my brand!”
Anne glanced back and forth between her father and the reality show star. This wasn’t a holiday—it was a business meeting. All her life, she had just wanted a holiday that wasn’t consumed by ulterior motives, by fights and digs and money. She wanted her father to want to be in her presence, not require it for his own advancement. And she was so tired of fighting against that, of hoping anything would change, that suddenly the anger in her chest twisted and molded into something else entirely: indifference. They wouldn’t change, and she refused to waste any more time expecting them to.
“Dad,” she said, pulling his attention back to her. “I’m going to go home.”
His smile faltered. “What?”
“I’m going home.”
“Don’t be silly. You just got here,” he said dismissively. “There’s five courses coming, and I need you to look over this agreement while you wait. There’s something about backend residuals, and you know I don’t know—”
“I’m leaving,” she interrupted, then turned to Denise. “It was lovely to see you, Denise.”
“Oh, Anne, I’ll call you!” she replied, smiling like she was completely missing the tension in the air. She probably was.
“Right,” Anne replied, pushing out her chair and standing. “And, Dad, I quit.”
Her father’s face went slack with shock.
Anne continued forward, skirting around a frenzied waiter, past the cozy leather booths filled with well-fed happy patrons, and headed out the front door to the fresh air to take the first deep breath she’d had in years.
CHAPTER 18
Freddie opened his refrigerator for the fifth time in ten minutes and, sure enough, it offered up the same view. Neat piles of Tupperware, each labeled with his mom’s clear handwriting. Pumpkin risotto. Sliced turkey. Sausage stuffing. Scalloped potatoes.
The day before had been the familiar mayhem of every other Wentworth Thanksgiving. His parents’ house in Queens was already bursting with activity when he had arrived that morning—his mom in the kitchen fretting about the ziti, while his dad fried the turkey out back. Sophie stuffing mushrooms and detailing her plans for the new floral shop with their Aunt Susan, who was reading aPeoplemagazine aloud. He had barely said his hellos before he was pulled to put the leaves in the dining table, only to lose the job when his Uncle Gus said he wasn’t securing the latches underneath properly and pushed him out of the way to do it himself. The scene only became more chaotic when everyone began to arrive for the meal itself. Soon the Wentworths’ narrow dining room was teeming with two dozen friends and relatives, all talking over one another, passing food in all directions, and raising their glasses at every invitation.
Per usual, the evening wrapped up much later than anyone intended, and Freddie spent the night in his childhood bedroom, trying to ignore the litany of concert posters that had been up since he left eight years ago. In fact, his parents hadn’t changed anything except the sheets. His bookshelves by the door were still full of comics and textbooks. His desk still had his old computer and mouse. It was an odd time capsule that he usually found funny, but this time he noticed the bulletin board above his desk, filled to the brim with photos of Anne. His heart lurched.
As soon as the sun was up the next morning, he was out the door, making excuses to leave. He had a meeting scheduled with George and Mark Segel on Monday and he hadn’t even looked at his proposed contract yet. To his mom’s credit, she hadn’t pried, only sent him out to his Uber with two huge bags of leftovers and strict instructions for reheating.
He opened the fridge for the sixth time, grabbed a beer from the door, then trudged over to the living room. The deep cushions of his sofa swallowed him up, and for a moment he considered grabbing his laptop and opening Mark’s email.
It was only a moment.
