Chapter Sixteen
THE MORNING AFTER the hike, I wake up to an email from Chris and the Lineage production team with download links of raw footage.
I start watching them in bed, right off my phone, my heart racing the entire time.
It’s one thing to read the script and imagine how it will all come together visually.
It’s another thing to actually see the actors on a screen.
It also serves as a stark reminder that for all the work that Oliver and I have done over the last couple of weeks, there’s still so much more to do.
We haven’t written anything that could serve as the show’s main theme.
We haven’t fully orchestrated anything yet.
We have some ideas, some phrases and some little licks of melodies, but if we’re going to be ready to record with an orchestra by December or January, we have to get to work.
I tell myself that this is why I can’t bring up the hike.
I also tell myself that this is why Oliver shouldn’t bring up the hike.
When I find him at the kitchen island that morning, his white T-shirt and blue gym shorts damp with sweat as he stares down at his phone, I’m prepared to do anything necessary to steer the conversation away from yesterday afternoon.
“Morning,” I say brightly on my approach. “Get a good workout in?”
He looks up and sets his phone on the counter. When he sees me, one eyebrow raises. “You’re up early.”
I reply with a noncommittal mm as I fix myself a cup of coffee. He’s not wrong; I’ve proven that I’m not really a morning person since arriving here, so for me to be down here, dressed and ready at 7:30 a.m., is a surprise. He doesn’t need to know that I had a restless night of sleep.
“I saw the email from Chris super early and started watching right away,” I explain once I’ve had a sip of coffee. “Couldn’t go back to sleep.”
“The hardest working woman in show business,” he says wryly, then asks, “Hungry?”
I snort and roll my eyes. “Hardly. But yes. Why?”
“I was thinking about making some pancakes?” The statement, phrased like a question, is innocent enough, but Oliver won’t look at me. He keeps his eyes on the stove just behind me, as if this requires a lot of effort.
Nine years ago, I would have assumed it was because he didn’t want to be around me. Now I understand how hard it is for Oliver to put himself out there.
“Yeah, okay,” I say lightly. “I had no idea you were basically a chef.”
“I’m not,” he replies as he starts pulling bowls out of cabinets.
I sip my coffee before responding. “Just another one of your many talents, then?”
“Not exactly.” He looks at me from across the kitchen island, hands on his hips. “This is a hard-won skill. I owe it all to a few cookbooks and many hours on YouTube in my twenties.”
“The University of YouTube,” I reply with a stoic nod. “The second best in culinary-arts education.”
He quirks a brow. “Which fine institution is first?”
“My mom and her kitchen,” I reply.
“She’s a good cook?” he asks with a smile.
I beam at him. “The very best.”
There—hike topic, avoided.
While he throws together pancakes from scratch, I sit at the kitchen island and sip my coffee.
I bring up the Lineage scenes we received; turns out that I’ve watched more than he did.
Even without any of the magic touches of editing—no color correction, no sound design, no music—both Oliver and I are blown away by the sheer scale and impact of it all.
The sets and props alone are jaw-dropping: palatial mansions, fleets of extremely expensive cars, helicopter rides across the San Fernando Valley.
Not to mention the actors, who bring the fast-paced dialogue to life.
As Oliver sets a platter of golden, fluffy pancakes on the island, he says, “Did you know the actor who plays Dahlia is a Juilliard alum, too? She must have been a senior in the drama studio when we were freshmen, so I doubt we ever crossed paths, but still.”
My stomach rumbles when the delicious smell of the pancakes overwhelms me, but I force myself to wait until Oliver has a chance to sit down. “No, I had no idea. I loved that other show she was in, Clash.”
“I did, too,” he says as he slides onto the stool next to mine. “Dig in.”
I don’t need to be told twice; it takes me no time to load up my plate. I’ve got a mouthful of buttery, syrupy goodness when Oliver casually adds, “You know, I sent in my audition packet for that show. Never even got a callback.”
My mouth would drop open if it weren’t full. I force the food down with a hard swallow as I swivel in my seat to face him. “Are you serious? I did, too. I mean, I didn’t get a callback, either, but I’m shocked that you didn’t.”
That I didn’t get a response is not that surprising. I’m almost used to it now after all these years. But to hear that Oliver, with the last name Barlowe, is also rejected with the same callousness that I am is a real shocker.
“That’s showbiz,” he says with a shake of his head. “Or something.”
“Yeah, but you’ve been working,” I say, still dumbfounded by this news. “And then there’s your dad.”
Oliver’s shoulders tense the second I mention his father.
I regret it immediately; he’s made it clear enough that he doesn’t like to talk about his family, for reasons I have yet to understand.
But the surprise of learning that Oliver Barlowe didn’t even get the courtesy of a formal no from a studio is enough to make me forget my manners.
“Believe it or not, having Robert Barlowe as a father is not the golden ticket you might think it is.” Oliver’s voice is low but clear as he talks.
He keeps his eyes on his plate, cutting up his food as he continues.
“I know it’s opened some doors for me here and there, but I still have to have the talent and skill to back it up.
Half the time, it seems like people are disappointed that I don’t write the same way he does.
If my style doesn’t fit whatever producer’s vision, then I’m out. Just like everyone else.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to imply you’re not good enough on your own. I’m just surprised you get the same shitty treatment as me.”
When he turns to face me, there is a distinctly sympathetic look on his face. “We all get shafted to some degree… but I do think you get it worse. That’s just how this industry is.”
“Yeah, and it’s fucking stupid,” I mumble into my coffee.
He laughs and nudges my shoulder with his. “It is stupid, until it isn’t. What we’re doing now is pretty fucking cool.”
I look at him in time to watch him take a big bite of his pancakes. Now that he’s sitting next to me, I can smell him, sweat tinged with clean soap just like yesterday, and I’m suddenly hit with a wave of gratitude so overwhelming I have to put my mug down.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For the pancakes, and for the reminder. Sometimes I think I get so caught up in how hard this all is that I forget to appreciate it when I should. Like right now.”
He washes down his food with a swig of his own coffee. When his eyes land on me, those full lips of his curl into a small smile. “Anytime,” he says softly.
Neither of us brings up the hike at breakfast. Not in the days after, either. We jump right back into writing—sometimes separately, but mostly together.
Two weeks after whatever happened on that trail, Oliver and I are sitting together in the studio, knees touching as we’re watching a scene from Lineage on one of the monitors. I can feel the place where his jeans meet my leggings everywhere in my body.
“Maybe low strings here?” Oliver asks over the two characters speaking. It’s a tense scene between Dahlia and her future husband’s sister, Emily. The back-and-forth between the two of them crackles with animosity.
I angle my head as I watch the two characters spar. “Maybe. Or maybe we don’t put anything here at all. Wait until the next scene where it zeroes in on Dahlia. This conversation is so tense, you know? Sometimes it’s good to let the silence do the heavy lifting.”
“Hmm. You might be right.” He sighs.
He shifts forward to pause the scene on the computer.
This causes his thigh to rub against my leg.
My breath quietly catches, but I’m saved from him noticing when an alert flashes across his phone screen.
I can’t see what it is from this angle, but all of a sudden, Oliver is jumping out of his chair as he mutters, “Shit.”
“What?” I ask, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly, but I can see the pink climbing across his cheeks—one of his tells, I’ve learned—as he shoves his phone in his back pocket. “I just—I have an appointment. I forgot.”
My eyebrows shoot up as I lean back in my chair. “An appointment? Here, in Maine?”
“It’s on Zoom.” His chest deflates as he turns to look at me. My face falls when I see how flustered he is, especially when he adds quietly, “It’s therapy. I go to Zoom therapy.”
“Oh.” I know this isn’t an adequate response because he’s looking at me in such a way that even I can tell he’s scared I’ll judge him for this.
It’s my turn to be unsettled as I shift in my chair and scramble for something to say.
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry. Not that I’m sorry you’re in therapy, but I’m sorry for prying.
I mean, it’s a good thing, right? To want to better yourself, or whatever? ”
I visibly cringe at the way that came out. The surprise of his reveal has me more off-kilter than I expected. He’s watching me with an expression that’s a mix of offended and confused. After shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I try again.
“I saw a therapist for a while. For a couple of years after graduation,” I start. “I would have stayed with her for longer if I hadn’t aged out of my parents’ health insurance, but she really helped me in that stage of my life.”
I know I haven’t completely fucked this up when his lips curve into a smile. It’s not one of those big, special ones I rarely see, but it’s something.