Chapter 13 Miles
MILES
TO: mbrodie@
FROM: tyler@
RE: fwd: update?
Bumping email from earlier, in case you missed it. See below.
…
Hi. Any updates?
What kind of lazy, passive-aggressive asshole forwards a three-word email and adds eleven new words instead of just sending a new email? This is why his scripts are so long. And probably one of the many reasons why Aria broke up with him.
TO: Tyler Holden
FROM: Miles Brodie
RE: no updates
Hi, Tyler. I have a call in to Lee at Universal, but they have until ten Monday morning to make a counter-offer.
I will, of course, let you know as soon as I hear anything.
Either way, this script is selling and we’ll get this deal closed with the highest bidder by Monday afternoon.
I’ll have a deal memo by the end of the week.
Have a great weekend.
Miles Brodie
Gorman, Suddleson & Peck, LLC
Impatient little prick. It’s Saturday. We got him multiple offers. Go take your new girlfriend I set you up with out to an expensive dinner in Greenwich Village, pay for it with all the money I negotiated for you on the last deal, and leave me alone.
I’m busy. I’m busy enjoying my scotch, at home, like a responsible borderline workaholic who gets work done but has good reasons for being at home and drinking scotch.
I mean, what am I gonna do—not drink scotch when I’m at home alone on a Saturday night?
What am I supposed to do—not look out my bedroom window and enjoy my view of the sunset over Santa Monica and various other nearby things and people that are pleasant to look at?
On some occasions, I might just happen to look out and catch sight of a neighbor doing yoga on the patio of a guest house.
On others, I might see her working out some choreography in her living room.
That’s not creepy spying. That’s just one neighbor with a window and 20/20 vision looking out and casually glancing upon a new neighbor who happens to be doing Down Dog in her yoga pants and dancing around like an adorable child while wearing jean shorts and a crop top.
What am I supposed to do—not keep an eye on the director of my daughter’s musical?
Not make sure she doesn’t trip and stub her toe or run out of food?
Not make sure she stays focused on the musical she’s directing instead of driving out to Hollywood to listen to some dime-a-dozen musician make shitty music and try to get into her pants?
Ultimately, this is all just me being a good dad. Maybe I’m a little infatuated with Aria. But these things aren’t mutually exclusive—I can be concerned about the state of the musical my daughter is starring in and be infatuated with the director.
My daughter will always be the star of the shitshow that is my heart, but Aria has had a firm grip on my balls for three long years and she’s never even touched them.
I head over to my window to see if my new neighbor has figured out any new ways to punish me, but my work phone buzzes. Fortunately, it’s not Tyler again. Unfortunately, it is his manager.
MARTIN HANCOCK: Oi. Tyler chucked a wobbly when he didn’t hear back from you this arvo, mate.
ME: I don’t understand one quarter of that text, but I just emailed him the update that there is no update. Because it’s Saturday.
ME: Why do you always sound even more like a douchey Aussie in text messages?
MARTIN HANCOCK: Dunno, mate. Why’s it sound even more like you need a wristie when you’re texting?
ME: I don’t know what a wristie is.
MARTIN HANCOCK: I know. That’s because it’s been so long since a woman’s given you one. I hope—if Aria’s given you one, then I don’t want to know.
ME: She hasn’t given me anything.
MARTIN HANCOCK: Don’t need to know! Should we give Lee a tingle at home?
ME: I am not giving anyone a tingle anywhere.
MARTIN HANCOCK: A call. We should call him on the telephone tomorrow. Deffo.
ME: He’ll call if he wants to make a counter-offer. If he doesn’t, we sell the script to Warners on Monday. I got this. Just like every other deal I’ve closed for Tyler in the past few years. Tell him he can relax. Maybe HE needs a wristie from his girlfriend.
MARTIN HANCOCK: Too right. Speaking of—gotta go get a wristie from my girl. Catch you later, mate.
ME: Fair dinkum.
MARTIN HANCOCK: Incorrect usage.
ME: Ripper.
A couple of weeks ago, I deffo would have called Lee at home on a Saturday night. But things are different now. I’ve got a Lewis Carroll poem to memorize now. An entire script to go through and make notes on. Vocal exercises to do—wait, what was that? Someone splashing around in Mrs. Wilson’s pool?
I sprint over to my bedroom window—in a very cool and alpha way that’s no big deal.
Damn. How’d I miss her getting into the pool? How long has she been in there? Is she wearing a bikini? Is she alone? She’d better be alone. It’s almost sunset. She’s going to get eaten alive by mosquitoes. They’re going to feast upon that beautiful, smooth, sun-kissed skin.
Not my business.
But she should know better.
I should probably go down and tell her…
My personal phone rings. It’s Clara calling. Macy’s with her tonight, so I have to answer.
“Hi.” I watch Aria float around in the pool. Her hair’s up in a bun. I wonder if she’s going out later. I wonder if she’s going to shower first.
“Hey. She wants to talk to you. Are you at home?”
“Yeah, no. I mean yeah, I’m home. Put her on.”
“Okay. Heard you had a good first rehearsal.”
“It was fine.”
“I really can’t believe you’re doing this,” my ex-wife says.
If she suspects that I’m doing it as part of some kind of deal that I made to get our daughter the starring role, she’s not asking.
Which means she knows I made some kind of a deal, and she wants plausible deniability.
Which means she knows I know she knows. Which is fine.
“Well, it’s great. She’s really happy. Here she is. ”
I can hear Macy jumping up and down in her slippers. “Daddy!”
“Hey, honey.”
“I didn’t get to talk to you before Mommy picked me up today. What’d you think?!”
“I thought you were great.”
“I know! I did too!”
“Yeah, you were breathing from the right place and your voice sounded a lot stronger. Did you have fun?”
“Well, it’s my job, so I wasn’t there to have fun, Daddy. It was nice to see Summer and Lucky, though. Especially Lucky. But I was watching how everyone was breathing, and I don’t think Lucky uses his diaphragm enough. I should show him what I know.”
“I’m sure James will coach him on that.”
“Oh, I like James.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do. I wish Aria had let me talk more at the beginning. I had more to say. Also, you really aren’t supposed to use your phone during rehearsal. Everyone knows that. You don’t get special treatment just because you’re a grown-up, you know?”
“No, I sure don’t.”
“You have to promise me you won’t use your phone when we’re at our theatre job.”
I look out the window again, but I can’t see Aria. The towel that was on the ground by the pool is gone now. I missed seeing her go back inside.
Dammit.
“Daddy! Promise!”
“I promise I will try not to. Well, I thought you were great, honey. I’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow, right?”
“Yes! You’re going?”
“Course I am.”
“Okay. Well, I’m going to do my exercises and look at the script again. You need to start memorizing your lines too. G’night, Cheshire.”
“G’night, Miss Alice.”
I hang up and look back out the window again.
Now the light’s on in Aria’s bedroom. She doesn’t have any curtains in there, and I am one thousand percent sure that’s what she was referring to when she was talking about punishing me.
If she walks past her window naked, I will be sending her a strongly worded text and then I will drive to Bed, Bath and Beyond to get her some window coverings before it closes tonight.
I don’t see her, though.
Shit.
Wait.
She’s in bed.
What’s she doing in bed at 7:45 on a Saturday night? Is she sick? She’s writhing around like she has a stomach ache…
Oh…
Shit.
I can’t watch this.
I won’t watch this.
I’m not watching this.
I snap the curtains shut, grab my phones and the Alice script, and go downstairs.
I’m not going to think about her long wavy blonde hair spread out across the pillow and what it felt like for those few glorious seconds when my hands were all up in that hair earlier this week.
I’m not going to think about what she’s using to pleasure herself under the covers and whether or not she realizes that could be my head between her legs instead.
She’s definitely not just using her hands—the expression on her face was way too intense for that.
I’m not going to wonder if she’s naked or if she’s still wearing a bathing suit.
I’m not going to run back upstairs, drop to my knees, and peer through the curtains to watch her bring herself to orgasm.
I’m definitely not going to wonder if she’s thinking about James or if she’s thinking about me.
I’ve got more scotch to drink and a fucked-up poem about a weird creature to memorize over here.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the fuck me fuck my life and fuck me again.
I need to do something.
I need to be somewhere other than right here, alone in my living room.
So I go to my garage, because that makes sense. That’s something homeowners do. This has nothing to do with Aria and whether or not she’s going to get into her car to go somewhere tonight. That’s none of my business.
Organizing the contents of these Container Store boxes—that’s my business. These Christmas decorations are a mess. It’s a good thing I came down here.
I’m wrapping a string of Christmas lights around a piece of cardboard when I hear the side door open.