Chapter 33
thirty-three
ZEKE
The night goes by in a blur of video frames.
As soon as I set foot inside Will’s guest room, locking the door behind me, I flip open my laptop, pull my headphones over my ears, and get straight to work.
It’s hard, editing the footage of Autumn and me from the other night.
Seeing her face, hearing her voice. Watching as she sometimes glances at me with this shy little smile I never noticed before.
I’m acutely aware of everything I’ve probably lost.
But I do it, anyway. I make it through. And by the time the sky outside has turned a faint, hazy pink and the birds are twittering in the trees, I’ve got a solid fucking pilot episode.
The outro music could be better, and some of my cuts are iffy, but I’m sure SyFy can handle a little production.
The brief for the contest said they’re looking for presence, originality, and a spine-tingling knack for approaching the paranormal, so if that’s what they want, I’m there. Jump cuts be damned.
Having the footage to work on has made it easier to keep my mind off of Autumn, but now that I’m done, my brain goes right back to the fateful loop, playing that same footage.
I’m honestly starting to wonder if I’ll ever not see myself throwing up on the sidewalk while the coolest chick in the world looks on, disgusted.
And I know—I deserve every second of this horror reel.
But that doesn’t make it any less awful.
I can only imagine what shitty footage Autumn’s mind is playing. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess it’s not the footage of me finger fucking her in the alley. Or grinning at her above the surface of the rippling lake.
I keep thinking about texting her—calling her?
—to apologize, but what would I even say?
It’s not like there’s anything new I can tell her that I didn’t say yesterday.
I had a chance, and I blew it. I let her down.
I ruined her whole damn show, and any text I could send would be woefully inadequate. End of story.
As I hit the send button on my submission email, I realize I’m holding my breath.
I’m not very optimistic about my chances of winning, but this thing is the most I’ve got right now.
I need a little hope if I’m going to make it through this day, so I guess this pilot is what I’ll pin my stupid little hopes to.
Go forth, my puny pilot. Go forth and try not to let the competition absolutely clobber you. I did my best.
I’m about to click out of my email when something catches my eye. I don’t stay as on top of my email as I should, and between the unopened digital bank statements and random concert announcements, there’s an unread email I must’ve missed.
An email from Carter.
Honestly, I click on the email out of habit—like I always do with Carter’s emails.
Carter’s a decent dude, and it’s always cool to see what he’s up to, sellout though he is.
But this one’s not a newsletter, nor a marketing email.
It’s written directly to me, and it’s obvious he sat down and typed it himself because of the snarky mention of our most hated professor in the opening, which makes me snort.
But then Carter gets down to business, asking me for probably the literal tenth time to join his team—and for once, I let myself weigh the idea, just for a minute.
I’ve never had a “real” job before, and in fact, have always wholly resisted the idea.
Which Phoebe always screws up her face about, asking me why I even bothered going to college if all I’m going to do is bartend and wait tables.
And I get it. It does seem weird, to have gotten a degree in media technology and then not even use it.
But the hours these real-job people work.
The effort and time they spend commuting to an office where everyone hates each other but pretends they don’t.
It’s depressing, and I just haven’t been able to reconcile it—especially when doing creative work to line other people’s pockets means I have less capacity to do it for me.
But now…
Now I’m rethinking things.
I click the link in Carter’s email and scroll through his firm’s website. The photography is stunning, and the video campaigns are even better. Like, this shit looks on par with ads that run during the Super Bowl, which is pretty fucking impressive.
I’m still chuckling in amusement at an ad they filmed from the unmistakable vantage point of a McDonald’s ball pit, when I stop my scrolling.
There’s a whole series of super sharp, deliciously vivid photos of a model in DKNY.
The camera’s caught the model right in the middle of blowing a bubble, and the light’s hitting her clothing in a way that makes me feel like I could reach out and touch it, run my fingers along the wispy fibers of her slouchy wool sweater.
The composition of the photo is perfect. The expression on the model’s face is perfect. The clothing, matched to the background? Also perfect. And below it, there’s a caption that says the series ran in Boston’s Citrine magazine.
The wheels in my mind start to whir. Carter has worked with Citrine. Carter has an eye for kick-ass photography. Carter knows how to put together a sharp, professional marketing campaign.
Carter owes me a favor.
I suck in a breath, my heart beating faster. This could be it. This could be my ticket to fixing the shit I wrecked. Because now the game has changed. Now, Carter and I each have something the other one wants.
It’s 6:00 AM on Sunday morning, but I call Carter anyway. I don’t even care. If this dude’s serious about wanting me at his company—which I guess he is, judging from the ten different messages he’s sent over the past three months—he’ll listen to what I have to say. I just hope he picks the fuck up.
“Hello?” Carter’s voice is muffled, and there’s clanking in the background.
“Carter. It’s Zeke Holloway.” I have to suppress the urge to shriek, “Oh, thank God!” and instead keep my voice even. I’m about to drive a hard ass bargain, and the last thing I want to do is give Carter the impression I’m desperate. Even though I am.
“Oh, hey,” Carter says. He pauses a moment, maybe covering the phone with his hand, and when he speaks again the clanging’s stopped.
“Sorry—I’m just at the gym. I didn’t know you got up this early.
I promise I’ve still got your number saved.
I just didn’t believe it when I saw your name come up! How the hell are you?”
“I’m good, I’m good,” I say, nodding my head to no one in my effort to drum up some positivity. “Got my podcast, got some sponsors. TikTok’s been treating me well. Can’t complain. What about you?”
Carter takes a breath, blows it out. “Doing alright. Still looking for someone to head up my videography team, though. Did you see my email?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did.” Bingo. Segue. Didn’t even have to try. “And actually—uh—I’ve decided I may be interested.”
I can almost see Carter’s eyes bugging out. I’m sure it’s the same look he got when I told him I made out with our history TA my sophomore year. “Seriously? I thought it was a lost cause. I figured, one more shot…”
“Yeah, seriously. I’m thinking it’s time. The nomad life’s been pretty cool and all, but I guess you gotta grow up someday, right?”
“Right,” Carter chuckles. “Can’t be Peter Pan forever.
But listen—I already know the level of work you do.
I know you’re fucking good. You’ll report to me, and as far as I’m concerned, you’re as good as hired.
We’ll just need to negotiate the salary, talk about the benefits package, the accrual of vacation days—”
“—and the favor you owe me,” I finish, cutting him off. “I’m gonna need to cash that in.”
“Uhhhh,” Carter says, thrown for a loop. “Okay. I kind of forgot about that. But, what the hell? Hit me.”
“I need you to help me with a photo shoot for a line of men’s clothing, and I’d like you to get it on the desk of one of your clients. The editor at Citrine.”
“Whoa.” Carter sounds kind of alarmed. I’m glad he can’t see me biting my lip, waiting for his response. “That’s… I mean, that’s quite the favor for covering for a little weed when we were nineteen.”
“They would’ve kicked you out, Langley. You wouldn’t have this job.”
“Jesus,” Carter says, but I hear the chuckle in his voice. “You’re not fucking around. When do you need it by?”
I bite my cheek. “Today.”
“Today?!”
“Yeah. This very day in the year of our lord and savior.”
“Do you… mind telling me why?”
I sigh. “It’s a girl. I fucked something up, and I need to fix it. Stat.”
“Okaaaay…” Carter seems dubious, but he hasn’t said no. I can tell he’s still thinking, trying to weigh this all out. “So—just to clarify—you joining the team hinges on me getting this campaign cranked out today and onto the desk of the Citrine editor.”
“Correct.”
“And what about your podcast? Your TikTok stuff? That pilot competition I saw you posting about. You’re just dropping all of it to come work for me?”
“Yep. I’ll do whatever the fuck I need to.”
It pains me, hearing it all laid out like that. Everything I’ve worked toward, the platform I’ve built, the dreams I had of making it big… I’m throwing it all in the trash, per se, but with the hours I know Carter’s going to need, there’s no question I’ll be losing a ton of traction.
But I won’t let myself think about that—because knowing I pulled through for Autumn in the end? That’s worth way more than another hundred thousand downloads of my podcast. And when it comes down to it, it’s worth giving up a TV show for, too.
She is worth it. A million times over.
“Daaaaamn,” Carter whistles. “You’ve got it bad for this one. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Yeah. Me neither. But I can’t lose her.”
So much for not acting desperate, Zeke. Real smooth.
“You sure about this? These are gonna be some really long hours for a while. We’ve got a huge project coming up, and I’ll need you to be—”
“Yeah, I got it. I’ll be there.”
“Fine. You’ve got yourself a deal. We’ll meet for real tomorrow to hash out the details and get a contract drawn up, but for now… meet me at the office in an hour. I’ll text you the address.”
Carter ends the call, and I’m already pulling on my shoes, stuffing the pieces I was supposed to wear in Autumn’s show into a bag.
They’re probably going to get wrinkled, but who the hell cares?
I’m the one modeling them, and I can work it.
Whatever mess I get myself into, be it wrinkled clothes or the absolute letdown of the girl I’m pretty sure I’m in love with, I’ll get it figured out.
I may be a born fuckup, but I’m learning how to heal shit, too.
And although I have no idea if Autumn’s ever going to look at me again, even if this plan goes exactly the way I’m envisioning it, at least she’ll know I tried. At least I will know I tried. Because this is more than I’ve ever done for anyone before, and it feels… good.
Autumn doesn’t need saving by someone like me, but if I can make something easier for her? Goddamn it. I’ll move heaven and fucking earth. I’ll even get a damn job.