Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
I ALLOW MYSELF ONE MINUTE AND TWO KIT KATS BE fore I call Lyle again. I cannot believe I wimped out like that. Of course I should have stepped up and owned it. I sang that song with Jack, and his uncle would remember that song. It rings and rings until I realize he’s probably blocked my number. Oof. I call Dan.
He picks up on the first ring. “Let’s hear it.” His voice echoes. Not for the first time, I think of him as Batman, but in his lair.
“Are you in a cave?”
“Darkroom.”
“Ah, retirement planning.”
“Don’t use my joke,” he says.
“So I’m wondering if your brother has seen Jack. Like maybe he could talk to him?”
“Quinlan?”
“No, Jack Frost, Dan. Of course Jack Quinlan.” I hate the thing my voice does when I say his name. Like it wobbles on the way out.
Dan lets out a breath. “Okay? Why are we wanting an electrician involved in the negotiations? Jane, could you please start making sense.”
“I sort of overstated where we are with Jack.”
“Oh God,” he says. “This is going to be good.”
“It’s not,” I say.
He doesn’t say anything, but I can hear him on the other end of the phone. “Are you in a cave?” he asks.
“I’m in my closet,” I say. That hardly seems important now. “I haven’t talked to Jack in nearly twenty years. It was just an idea I had on the spot. But it did buy us some time and another round with the green light committee?”
“You made it up.” I hear him open and close a door, and it now sounds like he’s in a bigger space. I hear his footsteps stop and water run.
“I did.” I whisper it. “There are going to be layoffs. I was desperate. All we need to do is pitch the story to him. It’s one song and he’ll probably win an Oscar.”
“Oh, is that all we need to do?” Dan lets out an infuriating little laugh.
I am crying. Just quiet tears rolling down my cheeks that tell me this is never going to happen. There’s no song. There’s no tiger.
“Jane? You there?”
“Yeah, sorry. I know you’re right. There’s no way.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you know that I used to be an actress?” I ask. I’m thinking about before I settled in to being Janey Jakes. I killed it in middle school as Audrey singing about a picket fence. I thought Angelica asked me to audition because of my singing voice rather than my flair for the awkward. I wipe my eyes on the hem of my first-date dress. Fresh and likeable rather than deceptive and sad.
“I didn’t,” he says. “Is that when you knew Jack Quinlan?”
“Sort of.” I am obviously not going to elaborate. “It was when I was a kid. I really thought I was going to be famous. The joke was always on me, but I made it work. But then I grew up. I keep trying and failing to be taken seriously. Everyone else seems to be leveling up, you know? Joke’s still on me.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“For what?”
“For screwing up Star Crossed for you, though I probably saved you.”
“See, it’s not an apology when you immediately take it back.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that too.”
We’re quiet on the phone.
“Are you still in your closet?” he asks.
“Yes.”
This is the spot for a zinger. I’m wide open here, Dan. Sock it to me. But he says, “You could go to Long Island. Jack plays Saturday night. Finn could get you into the Owl Barn. And you might even run into him in town—people say he’s really friendly with fans.”
The thought of this makes my stomach churn: running into Jack, who has taken his humiliation skills up ten notches by not remembering who I am, then refreshing his memory and waiting for the laughter. Something about this thought makes me angry. Everything about Jack makes me angry, not even what happened between us, but more the way he’s tangled up in the memory of what came after and how quickly my understanding of the world and myself changed right then. The anger pulls me back from the ledge of my self-pity. It feels like action. I could go. “I could check in to a hotel and sort of stake out the town.”
“There are no hotels in Oak Shore.”
I’ve stopped crying, and I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “Okay, then I’ll rent a house.”
He laughs. “I’m guessing every rental was booked a year ago. Listen, I can put you up at my parents’ house.”
“Seriously?” I’m trying to picture this. Dan’s parents are definitely rich. You don’t study photography and joke about your long-term plan being an early death without some kind of a trust fund. I bet he keeps saying he’s broke just to keep up his die-for-my-art vibe. He’ll be sheepish as we pull up in front of his parents’ stately brick home on the water. The kind with wings that need to be aired out when guests come. White trim, black shutters, and a matching set of English bulldogs by the door.
“Seriously. It’s my parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary Friday, and my brothers are doing a whole anniversary- week thing. Everyone’s going to be there. I wasn’t sure I was going, but now that I’m a hundred percent sure you’re paying for my flight, let’s go.”
“To Long Island. For a week.” With the most annoying man alive. I’m picturing ascots and riding crops. Readings from Chaucer in a worn but thoughtfully arranged drawing room. So much tweed. They’ll want to know about my people, where we’re from.
“Yes. It’s August seventeenth, Jane. Nothing’s happening here anyway. Take the week, clear your head, and maybe catch the tiger.”
I sit up rod straight. “Okay. Let’s try. We’ll leave in the morning. Text me your full name and birthday.”
*
I AM A terrible liar. I am an okay actress, but that hits a different register emotionally. Acting feels fun, like dressing up at Halloween and going trick-or-treating. Lying feels like breaking into someone’s house and stealing their candy. My heart races; my nose goes red. I add extra words to my explanation; details spill out of my mouth that are sure to trip me up later. So I decide to email Nathan instead of call:
Hey! Had a quick call with Jack Quinlan’s people. I am headed to New York tomorrow to meet with him and finalize things. I’m staying with friends so I’ll take the week. Back in the office Monday the twenty-fifth. Mandy (cc’d) can always reach me.
This email took me an hour to write and in its longest iteration was over six hundred words. The fact that I got it down to forty-five makes me feel like I’ve won something. Plus, none of it is really a lie besides Dan being my friend.
I call my mom. “So I’m going to Long Island for the week. That guy Dan says that Jack is going to be at a music festival there, so hopefully I can talk to him.” When she doesn’t reply, I add, “About the script?”
“Yes,” she says. “And that feels okay for you?”
I let out a huff. “Well, none of this feels okay since I’ve screwed up so badly, but I have to at least try.”
“I mean about Jack. Two days ago you seemed pretty iffy about contacting him.”
“I still am,” I say. I can feel the dread, the way my heart rate quickens just talking about it. “But I’m going to do it anyway. I really want to make this movie.”
“Of course, but—” She stops. “You’re right. You’re a tough cookie, Jane. You’ll be fine. Wait till he sees how gorgeous you are now.”
“Mom.”
“Well, you are. Gorgeous and successful and funny and warm.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“And you give the best hugs.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him.”
“Do. He’s the one who’s missed out all these years.”
I laugh. It feels good to see myself through my mom’s heart-eyes every once in a while. “Yeah, I’ll brag about the hugs first and then get to the movie. I leave in the morning, call you when I land.”
“Okay, I’m going up to Santa Barbara with Gary, back Tuesday.”
“Overnight?”
“Yes, Jane, I’m fifty-six. I’m allowed a sleepover.”
“Okay.” A trip gets him one step closer to breaking her heart.
*
CLEM IS MORE vocal about her Jack concerns as she sits cross- legged on my bed and watches me pack. “This is a flat-out disaster in the making.”
“He can only say no.”
“You’re going to spend a week hunting down a guy who you’re terrified to see while shacking up with another guy you can’t stand? At a minimum, I think this is going to bring up a bunch of other stuff you’re committed to not dealing with. Maybe I should come.”
“Stop. I’m fine with my stuff, it’s all packed away, and you don’t have the vacation days.” I am trying to be light about it, but she really does look worried. It’s not helping to see the people who know me best terrified that I’m going to implode.
Clem folds my jean shorts in half and tucks them into the suitcase.
“Clem, I’ve got my revenge dress locked and loaded and folded into fours. I’m bulletproof.” I try to catch her eye so I can convince her that this is okay.
“Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t do the thing where you hide inside the perfect outfit. You don’t need a costume. Or a script. I just . . .” She pauses, and she looks legitimately upset, like she’s wanted to say this for a while. “I just hate how you hide your good bits, you know? Use your actual voice. Be funny and raw, and I swear this will work out. Go to New York, see Jack Quinlan, and bust on his stupid Elvis sideburns. Tell him how lucky he’d be to work with you again. You’re the goddamn bomb, okay. Make sure he knows.”