Chapter Seven #2
I wonder if the window has already closed, if I missed my chance.
Dad takes so long to answer, I’m about to make a comment about breadsticks again just to break the silence when he finally says, “Find the person who helps you discover the pieces on your own. Find the person who loans you parts of themselves to bolster the weakest segments in your own. But mostly, kid, find the person who is really, really good with a bottle of glue. Pieces are going to break along the way. Always nice to have a fixer instead of a breaker on hand if you can swing it, you know?”
—
It’s two a.m. When the TikTok “you should be sleeping” message pops up—despite telling myself it’s research for the social media campaign—I do the responsible thing: I swipe out and put my phone beside my bed.
I’m alone with my thoughts for about two minutes before I pick it back up again and type out a text message draft on my notes app. Delete it. Type it again. Edit, so on and so forth.
Thanks for saving my shirt. Sorry I acted like a freak.
Thanks for saving my shirt. And for carrying me around the studio. How much can you lift really?
I still haven’t watched Disassembled, though your shameless self-promo by schlepping me around almost changed my mind.
Thanks.
I stare at the blinking cursor for a full minute before typing his number at the top of a new text. Then I delete that, too.
What if he doesn’t want me texting him about something other than the social media stuff? What if I’m making it all up in my head?
I close out of my phone, put it back on the nightstand, and resolve to stare at Mom’s painting of the woman reading—which is really what I ought to be doing instead of scrolling anyway—until I fall asleep.
That resolve lasts about two remember-when embarrassing memories before I abandon ship once more and snatch my phone back into my hand, this time with every intent of searching for “signs of phone addiction” and “best virtual therapy options for broke, burnt-out millennials. No insurance.”
Instead, I’m distracted by the little red “1” on the corner of my message app indicating a new message.
At this time of night? God, I hope Misha isn’t sleep regressing again.
Serena always sounds like a zombie when he goes through stretches of crappy sleep, and I hate that there’s nothing I can do to help.
The message notification balloons to 2, then 3, and finally 4 before I click to open the app, already thinking about what funny-but-encouraging gif I can send to help distract my friend from the strains of toddler parenthood.
But of course, it’s not Serena.
The unassigned number suggests, Maybe: James Neely.
Maybe James Neely, indeed.
The first text: We should probably discuss your film schedule for the social media interstitials.
The second: This is James Neely, by the way. I got your number from Catarina. I hope that’s okay.
The third: Since you evidently planned to make no use of mine.
The fourth: Oh duck. Sorry. I just realized what time it is. I had a Zoom meeting with some Brits. I hope you have your phone on silent. I apologize. [eggplant emoji]
The fourth text is already below with more text bubbles besides, but my eyes refuse to move on from the eggplant, bulbous and purple and absurd.
I know it’s a mistype, a mistake that will surely be explained immediately, but it’s so funny.
I let myself sit for a moment and imagine what the last few weeks of my life might have looked like if James was the type of guy to send an eggplant emoji on purpose—ironically or otherwise—but even my imagination has its limits.
The fourth text confirms this.
Juniper. I know what the eggplant means in the vernacular. My thumb slipped to the recently used emojis when I was hitting send. It’s on my recent list because my cousin is at cooking school and sent me a picture of his deconstructed ratatouille.
Helpfully, he quickly adds:
Ratatouille has eggplant in it.
A picture of a very attractive-looking man taking a thumbs-up selfie next to a perfectly plated dish pops onto my screen with more of James’s commentary.
This one. He sent it yesterday. I was recording, so I sent a couple emojis that seemed relevant.
Like an afterthought, a separate text appears.
It is NOT SEXUAL in any way. I’m deeply sorry that you had to see that.
Maybe it’s because it’s nearing three a.m. Maybe it’s because I am trying so hard not to laugh loudly and wake up Dad that I’m full-on snorting into my pillow.
Maybe it’s because I know that if I don’t respond, James will keep typing his personal I did not mean to send you a sexual emoji treatise until dawn.
I send back five lines of nothing but eggplant emojis and then quickly follow it up with the Brady Bunch gif: Sure, Jan.
James’s typing bubble disappears, then reappears.
James: You’re awake.
Me: Well now I am.
James: I’m so sorry. I forget what time it is when I have these meetings scheduled.
Me: RIP your circadian rhythm.
The text bubble pops up, disappears.
There it is again.
Anddd, gone once more.
Again, maybe it’s the three a.m. thing. Maybe it’s that I’ve never been the brand of millennial to be afraid of a phone call because I was so used to talking to Mom nearly every day in college.
Whatever the reason, I click his number at the top of the screen and hit the call button, breaking our generation’s pact to text and only text unless speaking with mouth words was mutually agreed upon beforehand.
The phone rings once, twice, and then—impossibly—the same voice that found me crying on the dressing room floor finds me, through space and time, here, in my childhood bedroom where I am technically no longer a child, but I don’t feel like an adult, either.
It’s not magic, but it kind of feels like it.
“Juniper? Are you okay?”
He sounds worried, like the only reason someone would initiate a phone call is because they’ve been kidnapped.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m okay. I just suddenly have an incurable need for ratatouille, but I don’t think anyone is going to serve it to me at this hour.”
“I’m sorry, ” he says. “But I really didn’t want you to get the wrong impression when I sent…Well, you know what I sent. It doesn’t really bear repeating, does it?”
“When you sent the most phallic of all the emojis to my phone before dawn, you mean?”
James sighs. “Yes, that.”
There’s a pause, and it’s not an uncomfortable one. I rather think we could go on just sitting here, but James eventually says, “Are you going to go back to sleep?”
I hold the phone to my ear as I flop to my other side to avoid my right arm going numb.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t technically gone to sleep to begin with. To be honest, I was already thinking about the social media stuff when you texted.”
“Is that what was keeping you awake?”
“Yes. No. Sort of. It’s just…” I sigh. “All of it seems like a lot.”
“I remember,” he says. “There was quite a lot of coffee splashing and roaring about the conference room at the start of the week.”
“Yes, well, thank you again. For the shirt and the coffee and the food.”
“And some feelings midweek, too, if I recall.”
“Yes, that.” I sigh. “It got a bit better.”
“It usually does,” James says.
And because my filter is broken and we’re talking half in concrete details and half not, I say a little sadly, “Unless it doesn’t.”
“There is always that possibility,” James says. “But for what it’s worth, Catarina sang your praises when I called her yesterday afternoon to check on my own recordings. Which she had lots of notes for, by the way.”
I perk up a little at that.
“She had notes for you ?” I ask, disbelieving. “You’re an actor. Like, a real one.”
“Yes, Juniper, but just because it’s my career doesn’t mean I don’t accept and require criticism on my performances.
Her notes were very kind and supremely on point.
I made William’s voice too low. It wasn’t reading as slightly snooty adult stuck in teenage body like she wanted, so we lightened it up a bit. ”
“If that was supposed to make me feel better,” I say, “it did.”
“Good,” James says. And then, after a pause that is tinged with discomfort, “When would you like to meet for social media purposes?”
He sounds clinical, like I’m an annual checkup that he must call, schedule, and get over with as quickly as possible.
“When are you available?” I ask. “I submitted a loose plan this week to the production company with video and post ideas. I’ve done some research about algorithm optimization, too, and I think we should do a few livestreams here and there because I guess it’s supposed to get more eyes on your account and grow your followers.
I thought that might be a good first step, just a quick, basic introduction of us and the project to get things going. ”
I think he’ll be evasive, but James’s answer is immediate.
“How about tomorrow? Well, today, technically. That is, if you don’t have other plans seeing as it’s a Saturday.”
“None,” I answer just as quickly. “But I thought you were out of town through the weekend?”
“Out of office, yes,” James answers. “But I can make this work.”
“Are you sure? I thought you’d maybe prefer to keep socials to weekdays since it’s a work thing.”
“Might as well put it behind us,” he says. And then, like he’s not sure why he’s saying it, he confesses, “I’m dreading getting started.”
“It’ll get better,” I say, smiling. “Or at least, it usually does.”
“Unless it doesn’t.”
I smile wider. “There is always that possibility.”
“Where should we meet?” James asks. “I could pick you up if that’s more convenient. Do you want to film at Tatum Sound? Catarina gave me an access card for after hours since I have an odd schedule the first two weeks.”
“So you’re staying in Tatum, then?” I ask, and I curse myself for how happy it makes me to know he’s nearby. “I wasn’t sure.”
“I’m here,” James confirms.