Chapter 30 Human Contact
Human Contact
One day later
It was almost eight p.m. and Jack hadn’t picked up his mail, which was not like him. It was because he was writing. He wasn’t going to say it was going well. He was superstitious and didn’t want to curse himself.
But it was going. It was going sufficiently that he hadn’t been doing his usual clock-watching all day.
Which meant he hadn’t even thought about getting the mail, his preferred form of procrastination.
He was headed to Maud’s for dinner, having told himself that he needed food and human contact, and that his almost-finished proposal would still be there when he got back.
He would check the mail on his return trip; that way he wouldn’t have to carry it to the restaurant.
Jack hadn’t been checking his mail, but he was checking his phone. On the way to Maud’s. At Maud’s. On the way home from Maud’s. So much for human contact. At least he’d achieved the “food” part of his agenda.
As he approached his building, he pocketed the phone. He had sent the novel the day before yesterday. He’d overnighted it, so it should have arrived yesterday.
He got out the phone again and stared at it as if he could will a text to arrive—nothing.
Maybe she hadn’t gotten it yet. Maybe he should have sent the package to her house.
He’d tracked down the address for Moonpics because sending mail to her house felt too presumptuous after the way things had ended at the cabin.
After he’d had a chance to think about what she’d said about him taking advantage of her, about him being a fair-weather friend.
And maybe because he was also sending it to her in her professional capacity, hoping he might be given a second chance for Books with Blair.
There wasn’t a lot in his neglected mailbox. Just a couple of bills and a slip saying there was a package for him.
She had been right about everything. And if he hadn’t known it as he’d canoed to his father’s house that night—when he should have known it—he had by the time he’d canoed back to Allie’s.
I’m here if you need me, she’d said, quoting him.
He did need her.
He just hadn’t thought he could—or should—say that without doing something about it.
He nodded his thanks as the concierge handed him his package, and—Holy shit. The return address was Blair’s house.
He breathed deeply on the endless elevator ride up, telling himself to wait.
Once inside, he fumbled with the box, ripping into it with his bare hands.
Inside was… the largest coffee mug he had ever seen. Larger than the ones in the pool house. A true monstrosity. Inside that was a sheaf of papers rolled up and tied with a ribbon. With shaking hands, he untied the ribbon.
It was a script.
Green Light: A screenplay by Blair Kellermoon.
He stumbled to the sofa, sat with a thud. Turned to the first page.
Screenplays don’t generally have dedications, but I hope you like this cup—and this script, because they’re both yours.
She had done it. He was suffused with a sense of relief and joy that was stronger than when he’d turned in American Crow.
Swallowing a lump in his throat, he sat and read the whole thing in one sitting.