Chapter 26 Aria #2
I don’t think about anything other than waves when I’m out on the water, but when Saturday afternoon becomes early Saturday evening and I hear the garage door open and then close without a text from Miles, I actually consider going to the theatre.
It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, and this is already the longest we’ve gone without seeing each other in weeks. My heart hurts like a motherfucker.
I drink four cups of coffee and throw myself down a public domain site rabbit hole, promising myself I won’t come out until I’ve decided on the next piece to adapt.
At eight thirty, I get a blitz of text messages.
CHLOE: Great Saturday show! Miles only smiles on stage now. What’s up with that?
CHLOE: You don’t have to tell me.
CHLOE: Unless you want to, because I am always here for you if you need me.
CHLOE: Especially if you need me to listen to you tell me why Grumpy McGrumperson, Esquire looks so unhappy when you’re not around.
CHLOE: Unless that’s annoying and unprofessional, because I really want to work with you again.
CHLOE: Just ignore all of the above messages.
CHLOE: Yes, I’m drinking wine.
ME: Glad it was a great show. Thanks for checking in!
CHLOE:
ME: We’re just figuring something out. How was Macy tonight?
CHLOE: Strong. Some little kids stuck around to ask for selfies and her autograph. She signed her name in bubble letters. It was so cute.
ME:
Next morning, I wake up to an email that I wasn’t expecting.
TO: Aria Cross
FROM: Miles Brodie (personal)
RE: Licensing
Dear Ms. Cross,
I invited the drama teacher from Macy’s school to attend last night’s performance of your musical. She loved it and would like to stage it at the school next spring. She has inquired about obtaining the rights for your title.
I also invited the wife of a client of mine, who produces shows for a theatre in San Diego. She is also interested in obtaining the rights and would like to pay you to workshop the script further with her and a local cast for their next summer season.
Please advise as to how you would like to proceed. I can have them contact you directly, or if you would like me to draw up an agreement on your behalf—as an attorney—let me know. I am available to do that for you. Pro bono. Always.
Best,
Miles
TO: Miles Brodie (personal)
FROM: Aria Cross
RE: Thank you
That’s amazing.
I would appreciate it very much if you would draw up an agreement on my behalf. I would be happy to pay you for your service. Thank you so much for inviting them, and thank you so much for offering.
So grateful that you’re looking out for me,
Aria
TO: Aria Cross
FROM: Miles Brodie (personal)
RE: You’re welcome
No problem.
You don’t have to pay me.
Ever.
I’ll always look out for you.
Hope you’re well.
- Miles
On Monday morning, when I’m paddling back to shore at Zuma, I spot a familiar dark-haired, shirtless man jogging along the beach.
My instinct is to call out to him from across the water, but he doesn’t appear to be looking for me.
I mean, he never seemed to be looking for me before this summer either, but I can see that he’s got Bluetooth earphones hooked around his ears and he’s focused on the sand three feet ahead of him. So I don’t say anything.
I keep looking for him at the café afterward, but he doesn’t show up while I’m there.
I do not look around for him at the coffeehouse in Brentwood that night when I’m meeting with James to talk about working on a new musical together.
Which is why I do a double take when I see him in his car, parked outside.
He doesn’t look away when I stare at him.
He just narrows his big brown eyes at me. He looks like a maniac.
“Hey. You okay?” James asks. If he’s been talking for the past minute, I didn’t hear a word he said.
“Yeah. Hang on a second, sorry. I’ll be right back.”
James follows my gaze. “Is that Miles?”
“Looks like it.”
I go out and knock on his driver’s-side window.
He rolls it down and slowly turns his head to greet me. “Hello, Aria.”
“What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here? With him?”
“He wants me to direct something he’s working on at UCLA.”
“Interesting.”
“Not as interesting as you following me here and spying on me from the parking lot.”
“I see he got a haircut. That’s convenient.”
“Miles. This isn’t a date. I’m not on a date with James. You’re being weird.”
“Oh yeah, I’m the weird one. Not the grown man who cuts his hair all of a sudden and wants you to direct something at UCLA. What—with adults? He wants you to direct something with adult performers? Does he not respect the work you do with children? What’s that about?”
“Yeah. You’re being weird.”
“Fine. I’ll leave you to your work date.” He turns on the engine, rolls up the window, and backs out of the parking space.
“You’re being ridiculous!” I call out to him.
I freaking love that he’s being this ridiculous.
We haven’t found our way back to that language we used to bridge the gap between us the first time, but something has shifted.
We’re figuring out a new way to be with each other, I can feel it.