Chapter 6
Chapter Six
NOLAN
It was easy— too easy, I sometimes thought—for people to forget I wasn’t only a corporate puppet, sent in to kill the writer’s dreams they had for a show.
I was a writer, too.
Not my main thing anymore, but with twenty years in this business under my belt, I’d written a couple of hit shows myself.
Which was how I knew what it took to make them work.
And also why, despite threats and insinuations, I was pretty confident in my place at WAWG—I’d been making the network good money for two decades.
It wouldn’t be that easy to get rid of me.
Which was why—poring over Charlotte’s latest iteration of the last episode, searching for some middle ground. We’d pushed it as far as we could with the penultimate episode, which gave us very little wiggle room on this one.
They would just pull the same stunt they did last time, delaying shooting, not paying the crew, any and all dirty tactics they could roll out to get things done their way…they absolutely would.
Unless I turned in a script that gave them what they wanted.
I mean…Charlotte’s script already gave exactly what they claimed they wanted, she’d just done it in a way that was quiet and nuanced, but still eye-opening and buzzworthy for the ideal audience the show had been attracting.
The execs wanted a moment that could be clipped and posted online to go viral.
News I hadn’t delivered to Charlotte yet.
I didn’t want her pissed, but she was always pissed at something or other I’d done, so I could handle that. More importantly, I didn’t want her stressed .
She didn’t need that.
I was sure she’d hate me “looking out for her” in that manner, but it was something I couldn’t help—and didn’t want to help. I’d seen first-hand what the stresses of being solely responsible for a small child could do to a person, even one with resources.
Did money make a difference?
Of course.
But it wasn’t only about that.
It was about having to remember everything yourself, having your autonomy taken away, the burden of it all. Yes, I’d caught that her nephew had a nanny who usually tended to him, and he was likely in preschool of some kind, which gave Char opportunities to do what she needed to do.
That didn’t change the stress I’d clearly clocked that night at her house.
And if I could help in some way…I was going to.
Even if she despised it.
Which, ironically—or not?—was my same sentiment about stepping in as a writer myself to get this show to the finish line. Obviously, my interference wasn’t going to be her favorite thing, but it would be worse if they simply fired her and brought on a new writer to finish the show.
Which, contractually, they absolutely could.
But I didn’t want to see that happen.
I’d rather her hate me for the changes than her not getting to complete a story that I knew was abundantly important to her.
Maybe she’d thank me later, maybe not.
I’d rest easy either way.
A notification chime from my phone pulled my attention from where the script was pulled up on my screen, and I slid out the desk drawer to retrieve it.
“The artist formerly known as Mrs. Brinkley—how can I help you?” I teased after hitting the answer button on the video call. My screen had immediately filled with my ex-wife’s face, and now my words had prompted her to scowl.
“I could swear I told you to stop calling me that.”
“You have, but I could swear my inability to do as I was told was cited in the divorce, so I’m not sure why you’re surprised…?”
“God, you make me sick.” Natalie laughed, shaking her head. “I didn’t call you for this.”
“Of course not,” I countered, sitting back in my chair. “To what do I owe the treat of getting to see your pretty-ass face?”
Got her.
She rolled her eyes at what I was saying but didn’t hide the smile quick enough before she shook her head, waving me off. “Nadia and Aiden want to move off-campus.”
“Man, hell n ? — ”
“They want to get an apartment together.”
That addendum made me stop short of my flat refusal, running my tongue along the back of my teeth as I actually considered it then shrugged. “Cheaper than on-campus housing—why do they want to move though?”
“With your hard-headed ass as their daddy, why do you think they want off?”
I smirked. “Fewer rules. Less oversight. Specifics I’ll never stop being haunted by if I think about it too hard.”
“Exactly.” Natalie laughed. “But…they also made a pretty strong case for just…a better environment in general. More space to themselves, quieter living, not as many parties as distraction. Stuff like that.”
“ Nat ,” I chuckled. “Parties aren’t a distraction, they’re part of the ethos.”
“To our high-achieving, trying-to-graduate-early kids?”
“Fair point,” I conceded. “Why didn’t they approach me about it?”
“Oh, they will—I’m just softening you up, because it’s not really about permission—they’re technically adults, remember?”
I sighed. “Technically, yes. But if it’s not about permission like you say, then…?”
“Money, Nolan. Duh ,” she added. “They’re on scholarships.”
“That cover housing.”
“ On-campus housing.”
Oh.
That’s what it was, then.
“You’re priming me up to write a check,” I said out loud, and she nodded.
“A big one—the city of Blakewood isn’t cheap.”
I shook my head. “And of course—their workload is too academically rigorous to support getting a damn job .”
“They got those big, hard noggins from you,” Natalie sang, clearly amused. “You should be proud.”
“That they’re smart, or that they refuse to stay out of my pockets?”
“Both. I love it.”
“Of course you do,” I chuckled. “So we’re letting them do this?”
“They’re responsible kids—as responsible as twenty-year-olds can be,” she quickly amended, seeing the look on my face. “They maintain their grades, stay out of jail, call their mother at least twice a week. I think it’s worth giving them a chance.”
“’Cause you’re not the one writing the first, last, and deposit check, woman!”
She grinned at the screen. “I knew you’d be on board. Thanks, Nolan.”
“Wait a minute—are you asking or telling?!”
“Neither—you said you were writing the check, so…”
Shaking my head, I scrubbed a hand over my face. “I see what you did. So…shit. When are we going to Blakewood to help these kids apartment hunt?”
“Oh, you’re going to love that—instead of taking a trip for Spring break, they want to look for the new place—maybe a cute little duplex or something.”
“How did we go from apartment to duplex?”
“Hush, it’ll cost the same. You might even considering buying it, as an investment property—when they move out, you can put some tenants in there.”
I blew out a sigh. “As if I don’t have enough shit to worry about already?”
“It’s a great idea and you know it.”
“Mmmhmm,” I grumbled, and Natalie laughed.
“So listen—when they call you about it, don’t fold as easily as you did with me, okay?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Fold?”
She laughed. “Yes, fold . You’re a softie for those kids—always have been. It’s something I’ve always appreciated.”
“Tell me more.”
“Not a chance,” she said, shaking her head at my attempt. “I’ve said enough nice things to you today. I’m going to have to be mean for at least the next two weeks. For balance.”
“Yeah, yeah—give my best to Yasin,” I told her, referring to her new husband, who probably wasn’t far off. Natalie was an artist and had married one too—they shared studio space.
I was only a little envious of what they had.
For a while, I’d had that can’t keep my hands to myself, can’t get enough of being around you relationship with her—back when I was “just” a writer. We’d been each other’s muses, feeding off the creative energy, screwing like rabbits, fully intending to be together forever.
And then… life.
We got pregnant, and kids needed more than the booze and cigarettes for dinner in a tiny studio apartment lifestyle we led. We needed a place to grow, and actual groceries, and cribs and prenatal care.
All of which required money.
So I made money.
Which required…time.
And it became apparent, quickly, that there would never be enough of that.
Especially as the kids got older, and needed more, which took more time. As cliché as it was, I devolved into a workaholic trope, making sure my little family had everything they needed.
Everything I thought they needed.
And by the time Natalie spoke up to make it clear that she didn’t really give a shit about me being able to move us into a big house in the cliffs or send the kids to private school, I was too fucking full of myself to adjust.
I was the Nolan Brinkley by then.
So… she adjusted.
Back to her maiden name, and her own house, and a custody agreement.
I didn’t fight it.
Arrogance wouldn’t allow me to.
Now that we were more than a decade removed from the divorce, the full extent of my idiocy was abundantly clear—and it was entirely too late to do anything about it. Natalie had absolutely moved on and remarried to someone who was more her speed.
And the man was good to my kids, which was all I really cared about.
I wasn’t pining after her anymore, just…reflecting.
I was knocking on the door of fifty and not entirely sure giving up my family for this career had been quite worth it.
Especially when, money aside, I was still at the whims of execs I barely, if at all, respected. Every day, my passion for this shit was eroding. I had accolades, my name was known, my family would always be taken care of—fine. Personally and professionally, I was in demand. I was invited to events, clubs, parties…panties.
Plenty of those.
But did that make up for the fact that at the end of every day, I went home alone?
As if I’d thought up an invitation into bullshit, my phone chimed with a new notification as soon as I’d hung up with Natalie—an email, sent to me and Charlotte. A sick feeling twisted in my belly as I realized we were being summoned —immediately—for a meeting, with no more detail than that.
I didn’t have to think very hard to guess what it was probably about.
With a heavy sigh, I closed my laptop and pushed away from the desk, knowing I needed to catch Charlotte. Her office was already empty, which wasn’t a good sign. Instead of waiting for the elevator, I dashed up the couple flights of stairs to the executive floor, hoping to get a word with her before we went inside.
When I turned the corner, she was already at the conference room door.
“Charlotte!” I called, catching her right as she was reaching for the door handle. The walls were glassed, so I knew anyone inside could already see her there. Instead of approaching, I waved for her to come to me, a suggestion that made her roll her eyes.
“ Please ,” I half-yelled, and after a second more of hesitation, she came toward me, with her hips putting on their usual hypnotic sway.
“What the hell do you want?” she asked, frowning. “We’re supposed to be in an ‘urgent’ meeting.”
I nodded. “Yeah—they’re about to try to force your hand on more changes.”
Her eyes went wide. “Excuse me? We already?—”
“Yes, I know, and it wasn’t enough, apparently. I’ve been looking over the script, trying to see what I can do—but I guess they’re getting impatient.”
“So… shit ,” she huffed. “What do I do?”
“Nothing,” I assured. “I just didn’t want you to be blindsided.”
She frowned again. “Nothing? Nolan, you…you know what this show means to me. I can’t do nothing .”
“I don’t mean nothing , I mean…don’t worry about it,” I explained. “I was working it out already. Just follow my lead.”
“What do you mean, follow your lead ?”
I sighed. “I mean…when we get in here…it’s not going to feel like I’m on your side, okay? They can’t know that I’m on your side. But I am. So just…play along.”