Chapter 15 Cahoots #2
Actually, she would make a good teacher. She had her mother’s dry sense of humor and openness to experience. But how often did children of Hollywood royalty become teachers?
“What calls to me is being a ballet dancer, but unfortunately I have terrible turnout and I like to eat. That was why I was taking French, you know, so I could move to Paris and dance.”
“Really?” Blair said.
“No, not really.” Esme rolled her eyes self-deprecatingly. “Just in my dreams.”
“Could you be a dance critic?” Jack asked.
She looked like he’d slapped her, her mouth and eyes wide. “Could I be a dance critic?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“What would I major in if I wanted to be a dance critic?”
Jack didn’t know how a person became a dance critic. And more importantly, was he overstepping? He used to have conversations like this with some of his high school kids, and he’d always felt like it was a lot of pressure—and in those cases, their parents weren’t hovering.
He looked at Blair. Blair looked at him.
She made an on-with-it gesture.
“Journalism, I would think. Or do they have a BA in dance where you are? Maybe some combination of the two?”
“Journalism.” She nodded decisively, and she looked just as he imagined her mother did in meetings.
“Probably more important than what you actually study, though, is experience. Get yourself on the student newspaper. See if there are local papers that use freelancers.”
“Can I use you as a reference on my résumé?”
He laughed.
She looked at him blankly.
Oh shit, she was serious. “Uh, sure?”
The conversation shifted to summer plans. It sounded like Coachella was a firm tradition.
“Oh, oh!” Esme exclaimed. “Maybe I could be a music critic, too.”
“You know every band out there,” Blair said, “so that actually makes a lot of sense to me.”
“Oh my God, I could start a TikTok page reviewing music. I can lean into the nepo baby thing! Except not because who uses their parents’ fame to become a critic?”
Jack laughed again, though he was pretty sure she was serious. He wasn’t laughing at her, anyway. She was… delightful.
Like her mother.
This was probably as good a point as any at which to leave. He finally managed to do so, telling the women, not untruthfully, that he needed to work.
He’d made it halfway across the yard when Blair ran up behind him. He turned, and she threw her arms around him, startling the hell out of him. He didn’t pull away, though, just let himself hold her. Let himself be held.
“Thank you,” she said into his chest.
He caught himself smelling her hair. “For what?” And why was that Tropicana smell not as off-putting as it used to be? Was California turning him soft?
California was making him get his book done, he reminded himself, so maybe soft was an acceptable trade-off. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be permanent.
“I haven’t seen Esme that excited about something for a long time.” She pulled away. The evening light was hitting her face in such a way that she looked like she was glowing. This was not a woman who needed any dermatological help.
He took a step back, to put some distance between them. “She didn’t look excited. She looked at me like I was an alien.”
“That’s Esme’s version of excited. And honestly, being a dance critic, or a music critic, would be a perfect fit for her.”
“Well, good.”
“And the reference.”
He wasn’t sure what had come over him, agreeing to that, given that he knew next to nothing about Esme’s work ethic or intelligence or any of that.
“I probably shouldn’t tell you that you may live to regret being so helpful,” Blair said. “She’s going to want to pick your brain constantly. In fact, I had to talk her out of following you home.”
“Happy to help,” Jack said, and he wasn’t entirely lying.
“I,” Blair said with exaggerated emotion, “am in your eternal debt.”
He smirked. “I’ll remember that.”
There was another round of tapping on Jack’s door that night. Late—almost eleven. Could it be Esme? He heaved himself out of bed and padded to the door, trying to think how to delicately say that this was not the time to discuss career prospects.
It wasn’t Esme.
“Did I wake you?” Blair whispered. She slipped inside without waiting for an answer, or for him to invite her in.
“No,” he said, acutely aware that he was naked from the waist up. She was wearing a men’s-style pajama set, blue with white stripes, with a cardigan over top. “Everything OK?”
“I’m here for the pages.”
“What pages?”
“Chapters one and two.”
Oh, right. Those texts felt like they’d been sent days ago instead of hours ago. “That was a red herring. I had to make sure you came home.”
“You were in cahoots with Esme.”
“I don’t know if I would use the word cahoots, but yes.”
“Why wouldn’t you use that word?”
“It’s a terrible word. It’s undignified.”
She rolled her eyes. “When was the last time you were in cahoots with anyone?”
“I am certain this was the first.” And certain it would be the last.
“Well,” she said, “you’re not off the hook. I want to read the pages. I’ve been thinking about it all evening.”
“You’ve got your daughter home and you’ve been thinking about my book.”
“That’s right.”
That was more than a little flattering.
“It’s freezing in here!” Was it his imagination or was she looking at his chest kind of weirdly? “How are you not freezing?”
He folded his arms across his chest. “I’ll pay for the AC I’m using.”