Chapter 18 Main Character Syndrome #2
Someone in the crowd whistled, and Tiffany mirrored his gesture, prompting the crowd to acknowledge him individually.
It wasn’t delusions of grandeur to note that the applause for him grew louder—and it was accompanied by whoops and whistles.
Belated embarrassment descended, and he waved to acknowledge the reception, but then to shut it down.
Maybe it was still main character syndrome at work, but he was glad no one had a phone.
The last thing he needed was a social media clip of him singing a fucking Christmas song.
He thought he’d find Blair after the spotlight was off him, but she was back talking to Mr. Nordic Plaid.
“Who is that?” he asked Tiffany.
“Who is who?”
“That overdressed guy Blair’s talking to.”
She raised her eyebrows and seemed to think for a while, which struck Jack as odd. She either knew the guy or she didn’t.
“That is Bjorn Ekberg. He’s a tech mogul down from Palo Alto. We’re working on shaking him down for Green Light.”
“What’s the name of his company?” Jack was going to google him later.
“I can’t remember.”
“You can’t remember?” That wasn’t right. Everything Blair had said about Tiffany, and everything that Jack had himself observed about Tiffany, contradicted the idea of her forgetting the name of a company owned by a potential investor.
“What a hottie, though, right? I’d seen pictures of him—he’s newly single, so he’s in the society pages a lot—but I was surprised to learn that he’s not just a pretty face. He collects F. Scott Fitzgerald memorabilia. Literary-minded and rich. He’s perfect, right?”
Tiffany didn’t wait for an answer. She flounced off, leaving Jack feeling some kind of way.
All right. Jack was at a party. A Christmas party. A Christmas party at which he’d sung. No wonder he was feeling off.
Time to head out.
Blair didn’t notice him leaving.
Which was fine. It was ideal, actually. He could work on his book. He snagged a glass of champagne from the bar and took it back to the pool house, where he did not work on his book but opened his computer and googled Bjorn Ekberg.
Two hours later, Jack peered out the sliding doors at the main house. Blair had invited people for “caroling and cocktails from four to seven.” It was now eight thirty, and the house wasn’t as brightly lit as it had been when he’d left.
He picked up his phone. Why? Who the hell knew?
Jack: Party all wound down?
It took her a long time to reply.
Blair: What happened to you?
Jack: I bailed early. Sorry, I should have said good night, but you were busy.
With Bjorn Ekberg, whom Jack had learned was worth half a billion dollars. Some of those dollars had been spent acquiring the world’s largest collection of first-edition novels by twentieth-century American writers.
Jack: Sorry I sang a canceled song about dubious consent at your party. It was Tiffany’s fault.
Blair: Haha. Don’t worry, you didn’t sell it.
Jack: Well, thank you very much.
Blair: You sang amazingly. Everyone loved your voice, I just meant you don’t have the creepy sexual predator vibes needed to truly sell that song.
Jack: I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.
Another long pause, so long that he thought they were done, so he went and put on his pajama pants. He was brushing his teeth when she replied.
Blair: What is it like to have singing be such a big part of your life and then to suddenly just… not sing?
Jack spat, rinsed, and went into the living area and settled himself on the sofa. He loved having these kinds of conversations with Blair. It was strange to him now that he used to think of texting as a shallow medium.
Jack: Isn’t that what happens to most people who undertake creative pursuits in high school? Very few of them go on to become singers or actors or whatever.
Blair: Right, but that’s what I’m saying.
You sing, presumably because it’s a creative pursuit that fulfills you in some way, or brings something positive to your life.
But then, flash forward, it’s years later and you’re not doing it anymore.
I wonder what that’s like. And does it turn off suddenly, or rapidly?
Jack: “It”?
Blair: The urge to sing. Or the creative impulse, or whatever.
Jack: I think we live in a society that lets kids be amateurs but not adults. So high school ends and the majority of people hang it up. Except for that one girl who moves to LA and becomes an actor and producer.
Blair: Or that one guy who writes a novel.
Blair: I guess what I’m wondering, though, is what happens when the music stops? Doesn’t it do something to you, even if you don’t realize it?
He thought again about her assessment, earlier, that people who make art must do so for the love of something.
Jack: I think it probably does.
Blair: Did you have any fun singing tonight?
No, because he’d been too wrapped up watching Blair and Bjorn.
Blair and Bjorn. He hadn’t realized how well their names went together.
Jack: I heard you might have an investor for Green Light.
Blair: Yes, but we still have the script problem. He doesn’t like where it stands now, because he is a person of discerning taste. So we have an investor, maybe, but as I told Tiff, maybe Green Light isn’t meant to be. Maybe it was meant to die with Angela.
Jack was tempted to say, again, that she should write the script herself, but he checked himself. There was no surer way to end the conversation. And he didn’t want it to end. In fact, he wanted it to continue, in person.
Jack: You need any help with the party cleanup?
That probably wasn’t the best way to ask if he could come over. If his goal was to see her, he should have just asked if she wanted to do drinks by the pool. Or, hell, he could have pulled out one of the TV show ideas he’d gotten when he’d googled “What to watch after The Bear.”
The thing was, in addition to wanting to see her, he wanted to help her. He wanted to understand what had happened at Thanksgiving. He hoped it wasn’t happening now. But if it was, he could be there while it did.
Her silence told him he had miscalculated. So did her next text.
Blair: I’m good, thanks.
Damn it.
He tried to go to bed. Lay there for what felt like an inordinately long time.
Eventually he got up, ostensibly for a glass of water. But really, he went and peered out the doors again. The kitchen light was now the only one on, and he could see a figure moving around. She was still awake.
He was just going to go over there.