Chapter 7
BENNETT
The studio lot was already busy when I pulled in.
September always felt like the walls were closing between having scripts due, episodes shooting, and the premiere date locked.
Today had the added weight of the award we’d won last night—which I hadn’t picked up from the after-party because my world had fallen apart.
Now I had to wait for it to be mailed sometime in the next month.
Even without the statue in my hands, a cheer went up when I stepped into the writers’ room. Someone had brought champagne and a cake. Cups were already poured.
“There he is.” Stella lifted her glass. She was one of the few writers who’d been with me since the pilot episode. “To the man who made Hollywood pay attention to our little show.”
A few people clapped, and I forced a smile. “Thanks. Really. But I didn’t do this by myself. The show wouldn’t have won without all of you.”
Jordan handed me a cup. He was a seasoned writer who was also a supervising producer. When I was on set, he ran the room. “We figured we’d get the celebration out of the way before we have to pretend the scripts for the next five episodes aren’t on fire.”
Several people laughed, but it sounded a little forced. Across the table, one of the newer writers kept glancing at me and then away. Another writer was very focused on the cake, cutting slices that no one immediately reached for.
“Okay.” I slugged back my champagne and set the cup down. “Enjoy the next five minutes. Then we need to do another run-through of the script for episode six before we do the table read later this afternoon.”
The energy shifted immediately, the way it always did when the clock started again. A few people moved toward their seats and opened their laptops, while I wondered how the hell I was supposed to run a room when the only thing I could think about was whether Laina would ever forgive me.
Five minutes later, the champagne and cake were forgotten as we focused on the whiteboards again. The script for episode six was open on every laptop, and people were already arguing about the pirate scene.
It didn’t take long for the tension to stop being subtle.
The bit was simple on paper—Sally’s friends were trying to drag her to a community pool fundraiser. She has a full pirate-queen meltdown, claiming the sea already took one of her ships, and she’s not giving it another chance. Classic Sally.
This was the kind of scene the network loved because it clipped well and gave Charlotte Graham something big to play.
Jordan read the latest version out loud. When he hit the line about the sea claiming her ship, two of the newer writers glanced at each other and then very carefully at their laptops.
“That joke’s been in the outline since May. It’s not new,” Jordan murmured.
Stella kept her gaze on the whiteboard. “No one’s saying it is.”
“Then why does it suddenly feel like we’re handling material with gloves on?” I muttered even though I knew damn well why my writers were so hesitant.
Mila cleared her throat. “We can soft-pedal the pirate stuff if you want. Lean more into general water anxiety instead of the full Iliana the Dread bit since we were saving that quirk for this season.”
“No.” I stood and walked to the board, tapping the beat with the marker. “The character commits. That’s the point. Sally doesn’t half-do the delusion.”
A couple of people nodded too quickly. Jordan leaned back in his chair, watching me more carefully than the script.
I forced myself to sit again. “The pirate scene stays. Tighten the setup so we earn the blow-up faster.”
The conversation moved on the way it was supposed to, but the mood stayed wrong.
Every time Sally’s name came up, there was a half-second of hesitation that hadn’t been there a week ago.
Which I understood because the situation was awkward as hell now that everyone knew my wife had inspired many of her quirks.
But I had to keep running the room because that was the job. I was being paid millions of dollars a season for this show to succeed. I couldn’t walk away without destroying my career.
So I focused on giving notes and making decisions on which cold open to keep. A quick call from the stage manager about a location change for episode seven provided some much-needed distraction.
From the outside, I probably seemed normal.
Which only earned me more side-eye from the team.
But inside, I was counting the minutes until I could check my phone again without anyone noticing, and hating that the character I’d built out of love was the topic everyone was trying to avoid. Even though it was my own damn fault.
As I left the set to head back to the writers’ room, I pulled my phone from my pocket. The notifications had multiplied, and new headlines sat at the top of my feed.
Bennett Parker’s inspiration comment continues to draw backlash
Viewers dissect which Sally quirks belong to the real-life wife
Awards speech turns personal for comedy showrunner
I kept scrolling even though I knew better. Side-by-side images had started circulating—stills of Charlotte as Sally next to shots of Laina that must have been pulled from old red carpets or charity events. One post lined up three of Sally’s most clipped moments with a caption that made me cringe.
So which ones are real?
The comments underneath were rife with cruel speculation.
A new version of the meme had surfaced too, as a GIF this time. Someone had slowed down the moment the meaning hit her face, then looped it. The caption was simple but vicious—This is what it looks like when the joke is literally on you.
I locked the screen and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
Twenty-four hours ago, I’d been on a stage holding a statue, convinced I was giving the woman I loved public credit for everything she’d done for me. Now she was being publicly ridiculed. Because of me.
A couple of production assistants walked past, mid-conversation. One of them glanced at me and quickly looked away. I kept walking before I drew any more attention.
By the time I reached the writers’ building again, the only clear thought left was that the show was still moving while the actual cost of the win was refreshing itself every few seconds with another stranger’s opinion about my wife.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of decisions I barely registered. More notes given. Pages approved. A short meeting I sat through without absorbing half of what was said. Every free moment I had, my phone came out of my pocket. But there were no new messages from Laina.
By late afternoon, I was done pretending I could keep performing at full capacity. I left the lot earlier than usual and drove straight to the high school.
Lucy had made the pep squad in August. Practices ran late on Mondays, and Laina usually handled pickup. With how our phone call went this morning, I assumed that it fell to me today. But I sent a quick text using voice-to-text on the way, just to be safe.
Me
Picking Lucy up from school. Let me know if you’d prefer to do it.
I parked near the athletic fields and waited with the engine off.
Through the windshield, I could see the squad still running routines on the track.
Lucy was easy to spot near the middle of the formation.
She looked focused, like the rest of the world hadn’t tilted sideways in the last twenty-four hours.
My phone buzzed with a notification, and this time it was actually from my wife.
Laina
No, it’s good.
When practice finally broke, Lucy walked over with her backpack slung over one shoulder. She climbed into the passenger seat of my G-Wagon without saying anything and buckled in.
“How was it?” I asked.
“Fine.”
We pulled out of the lot in silence. I checked my phone one more time at the first red light. There was nothing more from Laina.
The quiet in the car felt heavier than it had that morning. Lucy stared out the window while I kept both hands on the wheel and tried not to think about how empty the house would feel without Laina in it.
We pulled into the garage and sat there for a moment with the engine still running.
“I talked to your mom earlier.”
Lucy turned toward me. “And?”
“I told her what you asked me to. That you’re sorry.”
She tugged her lower lip between her teeth. “What did she say?”
“That she appreciated it.”
Lucy’s hand drifted toward her phone, then stopped. “Can I call her?”
I wished I could say yes with the full confidence that Laina would answer. But with how she’d reacted to Lucy’s apology this morning, I just wasn’t sure. “You can try. But if she doesn’t answer, don’t keep calling. Give her the space she asked for.”
Lucy looked down at her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen. “Okay.”
I turned off the engine and got out, leaving her in the passenger seat to make the call if that was what she decided to do. Setting my keys on the counter, I waited to see if I’d need to comfort our daughter.