Chapter 38
CHAPTER 38
EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER
M OST DAYS DAN AND I ARGUE ALL THE WAY TO THE set, and most days we hold hands all the way back. There’s a rhythm to it that I like. We wake up; we drink coffee on my porch. I eat a Pop-Tart, and he gives me a hard time about it. Clem sides with Dan, though she’s not around as much as she used to be. She’s met a guy named Whit, and Dan and I like to say that together their names sound like a bunch of people clearing their throats.
We think we’re hilarious.
In a sure sign of the apocalypse, my mom and I invited Dan and Gary to Friday movie night with us. It was her idea, an effort we could make to open our circle and let love all the way in. This happened just the one time. Gary finishes his popcorn before the previews are over. Dan likes to sit in the back row. One of them pulled out a pack of Twizzlers, and I almost walked out before the movie even started. Some things are sacred, carved so deep in our hearts that they need to be preserved as they are. I am a card-carrying member of the true-love society now, but only six nights a week.
My mom has moved on from the smoky eye to a full range of pastel shadows. We go back to the house she shares with Gary now, and I stay with her later because we have so much more to talk about. We’re both in love, yes, but also we’re honest about it. She doesn’t feel the need to go on and on about what a gem Gary is; she can share what’s not perfect. I tell her about the set of house keys I gave Dan that he lost an hour later hanging off the pier to photograph a pod of whales. I appreciate her in a new way, how hurt she must have been by my dad and how hard she worked to make it okay for me. We both have a new way of living, and our Friday night check-ins matter more than ever.
There is so much laughter in my house and in my life. Not always sidesplitting, snot-making laughter, but sometimes just this light feeling that something good and true could happen at any moment. I look forward to everything. Interestingly, I no longer laugh while I sleep; I actually sleep like the dead. Curled up inside Dan, his arm over mine in that way that seems both ordinary and like a miracle. My funny dreams are happening out where people can see them now.
Today Kay is on set for the first time. We’re filming for the second to last day at the Santa Monica Pier. I quit my job two weeks before Clearwater’s option expired, and Kay sold it to me right away. The people from Wallflower Pictures connected to the story like Dan knew they would, and the filming has been beautifully low-tech. Dan has a knack for making a low budget work for him, as if without all of the bells and whistles, the other things in the frame have to work harder. Vinny Banks agreed to sign on as director, mainly because he liked the script but also because he likes working with Dan. Of course I’m the producer.
I like to say that out loud in the shower or sometimes under the covers with Dan. I raise my eyebrows in mock surprise, but he is not at all surprised.
“Jump-Start Love Song” is paying my bills again, just like when I was a kid. It took three hours for word to spread that Jack Quinlan sang the vocals on that song, along with the geek from Pop Rocks. It’s one of the only songs in history to hit the Billboard Hot 100 chart twice nearly two decades apart. It’s now the song that’s on the radio every time I get in the car. But besides the astounding royalty checks, it hasn’t affected my day-to-day that much. A person like Jack takes up so much space, requires so much light to shine on him, that there’s not a lot left for the person standing next to him. I find that I like standing in the background where I can hear my own thoughts. This is the best of all possible outcomes for me—Jack absorbing the noise while I create something of my own.
A simple call to my agent asking him to leak that tidbit, and dominoes are falling every day. Pop Rocks is making a cultural comeback, in a campy kind of way. It’s been out in syndication for two months, and they’ve started selling merch—backpacks and cordless microphones. Dan and I watch it some nights, and when we do, we laugh. I’m sure this isn’t a relatable experience, watching your childhood played back to you on TV, watching your body change and your delivery improve. It’s all contained right there in the too-bright studio light that they don’t use anymore, but it’s different now that I’m not looking at it through the veil of my memory. The truth about Janey Jakes is that she was funny. She had impeccable comedic timing and worked hard at her job. I feel a fondness for her that I wasn’t quite expecting. I like the way her eyes dance when she’s about to make a joke. She has a habit of worrying the bottom of her sweatshirt with her forefinger and thumb when someone else is talking, something I don’t ever remember doing. Her posture seems deliberately terrible. She’s not perfect, but she’s certainly brave, and I find myself watching her with respect. She put herself out there at such a young age and survived. It’s like moving a mountain to change the way you think about yourself, yet it can happen in an instant if you’re ready.
It’s Ruby’s favorite show. She watches it after school, the same episodes over and over. She refers to Hailey as the pointy one, and I’m Aunt Janey. We’re going to visit for a week around the New York premiere of True Story. We plan to reserve a whole row of seats for the Mob. I can’t wait to hear what Reenie and Cormack think of it. I wonder if it will touch them the way it’s touched me or if they’ll just think that’s what everyone’s love story looks like. Complicated, resilient, and constant.
My mom’s coming too, and I’ll reserve seats in the fifth row on the aisle for the two of us. I won’t miss a minute of watching her watch this movie. Maybe we’ll have Chinese after.
It’s the end of the shooting day, as we’re starting to lose the light. I’m standing at the end of the pier with my back to the sunset watching the chaos wrap up. Dan’s walking toward me, looking through his camera. He smiles at whatever he’s captured and then at me. “Perfect,” he says and puts his arms around my waist. It hasn’t gotten old, the feel of his arms wrapped around me, my head lost in the warmth of his chest. Sometimes I watch him reading by the amber light in my living room and try to imagine what it would feel like to be tired of him, to stop wanting to reach out and find him in the middle of the night. So far I cannot. The longer I know him, the deeper I want to dig, the more he matters, like both the giant love of my life and my house keys.
“Tomorrow we shoot the ending,” I say. “You ready?”
He laughs because I have my hand on my heart. I keep it there. “I love you too,” he says.
I smile my widest smile. “Did I say something?”
“Not out loud,” he says and pulls me toward him.
“I love you,” I say, like I always do.
He kisses me, which is probably workplace inappropriate, but I don’t care. Dan feels like the place from which I’ve launched and the place I want to keep going home to. We walk hand in hand back down the pier to where Kay is nose to nose with Vinny Banks. They’re arguing about something, I can tell by the pitch of their voices, but their body language is telling another story.
“Well, that’s interesting,” Dan says.
“Are they meeting today for the first time?” I ask.
“Yes, and he has some new ideas about the ending.” Dan shoots me a look.
“Sounds like we’re in for a stormy romance.”
“The best kind,” Dan says and squeezes my hand.
We get in my car and “Can’t Find My You,” my solo hit, is on the radio. That’s another domino that’s fallen. It’s climbing the charts again too, and I hear it maybe twice a day. I lean back in my seat and take Dan’s hand and picture myself the day I recorded it. I was alone in the studio where I’d kissed Jack two days before, no longer sure of anything at all. I was heartbroken over the new story that had been laid out for me, and you can hear it in my almost-fifteen voice. I was a thing that had been just about to bloom, but so much stronger than I gave myself credit for. None of it matters because I’m blooming now.
“What’s that smile about?” Dan asks, reading my face.
“I was just thinking about my first kiss,” I say.
He laughs and squeezes my hand. “Who is he? I’ll kill him.”
“He’s not that easy to track down. I’ll tell you over dinner,” I say. Dan’s actually going to love that story, the completely goofy, wide-eyed optimism of a girl who didn’t know any better.
“Fine,” Dan says and turns up the radio. “Want to sing me home?”
And I do. I pull into traffic and sing quietly. One hand on the steering wheel and one in Dan’s, in my out-ofpractice, newly retrieved, grown-up voice. It’s a good song, and it feels good to sing again. The air comes into my lungs and comes out as music. Something out of nothing, and also something out of everything.