Chapter 36
“W
hen you’ve finished that, type up these notes and turn them into a slide deck for tomorrow’s meeting.” Axel, my new boss, tosses a pile of torn, stained, and scribble-defaced papers onto the desk next to me. “And make it slap.”
Slap. I’ve had that one before. He means make it look amazing—dress it up with graphics, give it a cool title page, maybe the odd animation or two, and generally make it appear like it means something when in reality all I’m doing is polishing a turd.
He heads back to his office, where he seems to do little more than make loud phone calls while walking back and forth, eat the overpriced delivery lunches he has me order, and tell me to organize materials for meetings he never seems to go to.
And he tells me he’s taking a “ten-one” every time he heads to the restroom. Apparently it’s a movie set term for peeing.
Axel is a film producer. At least, that’s what his job title is. In the ten days since I started, I’ve seen very little evidence anything is being produced. Or, indeed, has ever been produced.
But he is the son of an executive at a big studio who’s friends with Rachel’s husband. Despite being on the payroll of said studio, Axel is based at this office building three miles away. And the more time I spend with him, the more I understand why.
The office is okay, though. It’s in one of those shared spaces full of indie documentary makers and start-ups that come and go. There are co-working spaces, lounge areas with brightly colored furniture, a kitchen with free beer in the fridge, table tennis and pool tables, and giant inspirational quotes on the walls in mixed fonts that say things like Be A Legend.
A nice woman who’s starting a business making flip-flops from algae told me I’m the fourth assistant Axel’s had since he’s been here. He’s been here six months.
Anyway, it’s a start. And since he doesn’t have an enormous amount of work for me to do but does have all the latest film industry software installed on my top-of-the-line computer, there’s time for me to teach myself how to use it and gain the marketable skills I need to get the hell away from this entitled jerk.
Spending hours each day doing admin in film production offices isn’t my life’s dream, but it’s better than a lot of people can hope for, so I’m not going to be ungrateful. There’s plenty of work in this city and, eventually, I’ll be able to get out of Rachel’s guesthouse, and Dylan and I can have our own place.
And the most important thing is Dylan likes his new school. Which is such a relief. He has a growing group of friends, based on their shared obsession with Overlord Hybrids, and is helping to build the sets for the end-of-year play. So I’m happy he’s doing something creative away from screens. I’d offered to get him a guitar with my first paycheck so he could learn again, but he said it wouldn’t be the same without Tom.
To be fair, nothing is. And it took everything I had not to tell him that.
But Tom’s probably back in London now, and our brief-but-intense reunion is likely nothing more than a faint dot in his rearview mirror.
Dylan and I have been to a couple meetings about the clinical trial, and he’s more at ease with it after meeting the doctors and nurses and some of the other kids involved. The treatments start in the summer, when school’s out, so I’ll have to figure out a way to get time off work to go with him.
But now is clearly not the time to broach that issue.
Axel storms out of his office with a face like a two-year-old who’s dropped their dinner off their highchair and no one’s noticed.
“Holy fuck, Hannah. What’s this?”
He’s waving a poster for the movie review podcast he’s starting called “On The Chopping Block With Axel.”
“Are you too old to understand the difference between CMYK and RGB?”
What’s wrong with it? It doesn’t look wrong to me. And I’m sure I sent the right info to the printer.
Nevertheless, my insides clench in panic and every ounce of my self-confidence rushes down a swirling drain. Christ, maybe I can’t actually do this. If I can’t get even the simplest tasks correct, maybe I’m kidding myself. Maybe I’m meant for only cleaning and waitressing and I’m never going to be able to earn enough for us to do better than scrape by.
I open my mouth to say I’ll check the attachment I sent to the printer, but the burning in my throat prevents anything from coming out.
“No, she isn’t, dickwad.”
I snap my head around to find Tom in the doorway, pursued by security.
My heart stops and my brain races to try to catch up with what my eyes are seeing.
Tom? yells a voice inside my head. Here? In LA? Cannot compute. At your office? Cannot compute. Why? What? How? Memory error. Restart.
The security guard catches up to Tom and takes him by one of the beautiful biceps protruding from his T-shirt. “Sir?”
Tom throws down the duffel bag slung over his shoulder and swats off the guard like he’s an irritating fly. “I’ve had quite enough of security jackasses for one day, thanks.”
He marches toward Axel, pointing at him. “She isn’t too old or too stupid or too incapable of anything,” he continues. “Other than to work for a patronizing, self-important twat.”
“Who the fuck are…” It’s possible to see the exact moment the penny drops in Axel’s tiny brain. “Oh! Tom Dashwood!” He suddenly beams. “Hi, I’m Axel. Producer with Spearmount Films.” He offers his hand—the one not holding the substandard poster—to Tom. “Delighted to meet you.”
“I couldn’t be less delighted,” Tom says, as if he’s weighing whether to punch him or if he’s not worth the sore knuckles.
My brain’s still backfiring. What the hell is he doing here? And why is he yelling at the man who’s currently my only hope of a decent job? It’s fantastic and awful and exciting and terrifying and incredibly confusing all at the same time.
Tom ignores Axel’s outstretched hand, and holds his hand out to me instead, tipping his head back toward the door. “Come on.”
What? Where does he want me to go? And why?
While all I want to do is jump into his arms and have him carry me off wherever the hell he likes, I can’t just leave. I can’t have him ruin this job for me. At the moment, this is my best chance to get my foot in the door of anything halfway good. I cannot fuck this up. And I cannot let Tom fuck up my life yet another time.
“What? Come on where? You can’t just drop out of the sky, show up at my workplace, and drag me out.”
But, good God, he looks amazing in that blue shirt.
“You’re better than this, Hannah. So much better.”
“Sir, I need to ask you to leave.” The security guard peers around Tom, who completely ignores him.
“It’s okay.” Axel shoos the guard away. “This guest is very welcome.”
The guard shrugs and trudges off down the hallway, grumbling something about having run up the stairs for nothing.
Axel turns to me and frowns. “Why didn’t you mention Mr. Dashwood was in town, Hannah? Very remiss. You could have set up a meeting about West Coast Vibe.”
West Coast Vibeis one of Axel’s fantasy projects—a documentary about California hippie music in the sixties and seventies.
His frown morphs into an ass-kissy smile as he turns back to Tom. “It would be so great to get you involved?—”
Tom holds up his hand. “Stop talking.”
Axel falls as silent as if Tom had slapped him.
“Oh”—Tom continues, jerking his thumb toward the door behind him—“and fuck off.”
“Ha! You’re so funny. The dry British wit must have rubbed off on you after all those years there.” Axel giggles, unable to comprehend anyone might want him to actually shut up and fuck off. “I’ll get Hannah to fetch us some coffee and we can talk in my off?—”
“Seriously,” Tom says. “Sling your fucking hook. I need to talk to Hannah.”
“But this is my offi—” Axel starts.
That’s it.
The shock, fear, excitement, and whatever all those other feelings are that I don’t have names for because I’ve never felt them before, that have been whirling around inside me since Tom appeared, finally erupt. Kind of like that school volcano experiment, which probably uses some of the chemicals Dylan started the fire with.
The eruption launches me to my feet, and I slam my hands onto the desk.
“Enough!” I shout over both of them.
If Axel were a cartoon character, his eyes would be making a boi-oi-oi-oing noise as they shoot out on springs. Tom gives me a knowing that’s-my-girl smile and nods.
It’s a little terrifying now that they’re both looking at me, but I’ve made this stand and I’m going to run with it. “Both of you shut up.” My cheeks are on fire. But I still need to be at least a little bit polite to my boss. “Axel, could you please give us a moment?”
“Sure. Yes. Sure,” he says like he’s afraid I might put him in detention. As he heads back into his office, he casts a sideways look at Tom. “Let me know if you’d like to be involved in West Co?—”
“I wouldn’t,” Tom snaps.
Axel’s office door clicks closed behind him.
“Thank fuck for that,” Tom mutters and pushes back his hair in that way that always makes my knees wobble. And given they’re already a bit shaky, I’m on dangerous ground.
I plant my trembling hands on my hips and draw in a jittery breath. “Why are you here, Tom?”
“You don’t really want to work for that wanker, do you?”
“It’s none of your business who I work for. And this job is absolutely fine to get me started. The last thing I need is you storming in here and causing trouble that gets me fired. So. Like I asked. Why are you here?”
His eyes meet mine, and my legs become so unstable I have to sit back down.
He breathes out a long, low sigh. “To tell you I’m an idiot.” His voice is softer, calmer. He takes a slow stride toward my desk, eyes never leaving mine. “An idiot who’s in love with you. And wants to be with you.”
The inside of my head rattles like a spoon in a blender.
“What?” At least that’s what I intended to say, but it might have come out as more of a gasping breath than an actual word.
Is this for real? He loves me? He wants me? How is that possible? How would that work? How could we be together?
I do my best to draw air into my tight chest as I gaze back into those big brown eyes. The look behind them says he believes it’s possible.
Does that mean it could be?
Even if it is, risking my first job—a job I’m lucky to have despite my asshole of a boss—isn’t the way to go about it.
“You can’t just show up in my office and tell me you love me.”
He emits a surprised laugh. “Why?”
“Because I need this job.”
“But this isn’t who you are, Hannah. You deserve to be who you are. You owe it to yourself. God, if nothing else comes of me being here today, please at least don’t settle for that.” He jabs his finger toward the office door Axel disappeared through.
“I need a stable income for Dylan and me.”
“But you don’t have to throw away all your talents, skills, and personality to get it.”
He says it like it’s so easy. Like he became a success by just clicking his fingers, not through years of hard work and failures and scraping by. Has he forgotten all that? “So what do you suggest I do?”
“Look, if you don’t want me because you want to do everything alone, fine. If you don’t want me because you think I’ll disappear back to London again like the idiot kid I was seventeen years ago, fine. It’s not true, but if that’s what you believe and I can’t convince you otherwise, fine. But at least let me help you out with this crap.”
He gestures to the office. “This is not you. This is not who you are. This is not who you can be. You know that. You do know that, don’t you?”
Of course this isn’t me. But it will totally do. “Who the hell gets to live their dreams, Tom? Almost no one, that’s who. People do what they need to do to get by. And this is fine. It’s not like I’m down a coal mine or something. It’s totally fine. I’m figuring it out. This is just the first step. I won’t be here with”—I nod toward the closed office door rather than say Axel’s name—“too long.”
“I know a bunch of music producers here. They’re always looking for backing singers.”
I open my mouth to reply, but he reads my mind and holds up both palms. “For studio sessions, not for tours. You wouldn’t have to go away. You could stay here with Dylan and have singing as your day job.”
That sounds impossible. “I am not going to be dependent on you. Or anyone. But specifically, not you. I need to look after Dylan and me myself.”
“It would be nothing to do with me. I wouldn’t be involved. I’d just introduce you, then back off. You’d get it or not get it on your own. And they’d keep booking you, because of you. Not because of me. They’d book you because you’re an amazing singer, you’re professional and show up on time and know your part.” He looks down. “And because you’re great to have around.”
Christ, that does sound tempting. And an introduction wouldn’t do any harm, right? If I could get a meeting with a couple producers, I could just go for a chat with them and see. Nothing to lose, right?
“But…” He moves toward my desk and leans on it, bending down to get closer to my eye level. That always errant chunk of hair does its always sexy thing and falls across his face—his gorgeous face—causing me to clench my hands together to stop one of them from reaching over the desk to push it back. “If you have any interest in being with me, Hannah. Any at all. Even the faintest glimmer. Just say the word and I’m here.”
I squeeze my knuckles tighter. “It can’t work, Tom. I have to be here. And you don’t want to be.”
“Ah.” He raises a finger, then heads back to the bag he dropped in the doorway. “I have something to show you.”
He bends down and pulls out a pair of jeans, some socks, a toiletries bag, and a large envelope. Standing up, he slides something out of the envelope. It’s a white laminated sheet with a grid on it.
“What’s that?”
“A scorecard.”
Oh, God. My heart softens and flutters at the same time. “You mean like the one I made for the bands in Boston?” Could this be any cuter?
“Exactly. Except this is for scoring whether LA is a good place to live or not.”
Okay, well this could easily be about to turn out more disappointing than cute. “I think we’re both very clear about your feelings on that subject.”
He raises his eyebrows in a don’t-you-be-so-sure way. “Let’s take a look at the scorecard and find out, shall we?”
He reaches over my computer monitor and props it in front of the screen. There are two columns. The left headed “Los Angeles.” The right, “Everywhere Else.” Each square of the grid is covered with a sticky note.
“Peel off the first sticker,” he says.
The first box under LA reads, “No decent fish and chips.”
“Now the one next to it,” he says.
Under “Everywhere Else” it reads, “No Hannah.”
My heart lurches as a smile spreads across my face, and I close my eyes for a moment, shaking my head at the adorableness of it.
He’s made me a scorecard, for fuck’s sake.
Also, he might be right about the fish and chips. The one time I’ve had them here the batter was so soggy I had to scrape it off and eat just the fish.
“Keep going,” he says.
The second line reads:
LA: No seasons
Everywhere Else:No Hannah
I mean, seriously. If his goal is to strum my heartstrings like a guitar, he’s succeeding. And playing a mighty fine tune.
The third line:
LA:No history
Everywhere Else:No Hannah
I’m warm now, very warm. I reach for the stickies on the fourth row and peel them off with shaky fingers.
LA:Many paparazzi
Everywhere Else:No Hannah
If two people want to be together enough, can they make it happen even if it seems impossible?
And on the fifth line:
LA: Too much traffic
Everywhere Else: Not enough Hannah
I could cry. I could drop my head to the desk and sob giant sobby sobs with the joy at what he’s done and with sadness at all the time we’ve lost.
Look at the effort he’s made to make this, to fly all the way out here to tell me he loves me, to get me to unstick his stickies, and to try to convince me this time it’s possible.
I love him. I fucking love him. I loved him when I was sixteen and I love him now. There will never be a day when I don’t love Tom Dashwood.
“Don’t forget the totals at the bottom,” he urges, pointing to the two final sticky notes on a row labeled “Rank of Awesomeness.”
I remove the one at the bottom of the LA column to reveal “5/5.” And at the bottom of the Everywhere Else column, “0/5.”
My life has just turned on a dime.
I grab the pile of gray, movie camera-shaped stickie notes on my desk, rip off four, and plonk them down the middle of the scorecard.
Tom steps toward me. “What are you doing?”
“Give me a moment,” I say, my brain racing.
Twenty seconds later, I put down my pen and hold up the scorecard to face Tom.
He focuses on the note at the top and reads it out loud. “‘Paying for school library fire repairs, ten out of ten.’” His smile has a hint of relief along with amusement, as if he’d worried I might have written something terrible.
He moves on to the next one down. “‘Katie’s French honeymoon, one hundred out of ten.’” His eyes flick from the card to me. “Yeah, I saw she’d CCed you on that.”
“Doesn’t matter. Carry on.”
He reads the third. “‘Traveling all the way across the country and telling my awful boss to fuck off, five hundred out of ten.’” He looks at me again. “That might be my favorite.”
Then he reads the sticky at the bottom. “Total = I love you.”
This time his eyes move more slowly from the card before they meet mine. “That’s not a score.”
I drop the card onto my desk. “Seriously? You’d prefer I rate you out of ten than tell you I love you?”
“Oh, I’ll definitely take an ‘I love you.’” He moves around the end of my desk toward me. “I don’t want to be anywhere you’re not, Hannah.” His voice is as warm and smooth as melted chocolate, his words real.
My throat seizes up, constricting around a hot rock. I might have told him how I feel, but can I really let myself give in to this? Let Tom love me back? Even if I am terrified it might end in heartbreak all over again?
“You have to be here in LA because it’s the most important thing for Dylan.” He rests his butt on the edge of the desk next to me, takes my hand and wraps it in both of his. “And that makes it the most important thing for me too.”
And that’s where I crumble. Right here. Right when he says he won’t be in it just for me, but for Dylan too.
“Oh, God, Tom,” I just about manage to squeeze the words out between the fingers of my other hand, which has flown to my mouth. The beautiful vision of him standing next to me blurs as my eyes fill with thick tears.
“It would make me the happiest man alive to move here and be with you. To watch you both grow and bloom. Watch you have the life you deserve. Watch Dylan grow into an amazing young man.”
He lifts my hand to his lips. A shiver runs down my arm and into the very core of my being at the merest brush of his mouth.
Then he presses my hand flat against his chest, right over his heartbeat. “I want to be by your side, helping, as much as you want or as little as you want, with the bumps in the road. And, Lord knows, I know there’ll be bumps with a teenaged boy.”
I smile through the rivers rolling down my cheeks as he continues. “I want to celebrate the wins with you, commiserate the losses and annoyances with you. And I want to love you. And be loved by you.”
Good God, I love him. With all my heart. With every part of every part of me.
I can’t get out any words, but I can get out of my chair.
As I stand, he lets go of my hand, brushes the tears from my cheeks with his warm fingers, and holds onto my face as he looks through my eyes and deep into my soul. “I’ve always thought I don’t belong anywhere. But you’ve taught me that belonging isn’t about geography. Where I belong is with you. Wherever that is—London, Blythewell, LA, or fucking Jupiter.” He squeezes my face. “You are where I belong.”
I should have a good response. I should have all the words, just like he had. I can feel all the words. But they’re swimming in space and refusing to arrange themselves into a sensible sentence-like order. All I can manage is, “You are where I belong too.”
“I love you, Hannah. But I wish there was a word that meant more than that. Because it feels like more than that. It feels like more than love. But love is the only word I have. So, I love you.”
Throwing my arms around his neck, I bury myself in the strength and the scent of my first love, my one love, the love of my life and of my world and of my everything. “I love you too.”
He holds me tight against him, like if we ever let go of each other again the world might spin off its axis.
I squeeze my eyes shut while my heart thuds in my ears. But the clicking of the office door being opened cuts through.
I open my eyes to see Axel’s face peek around it. “Everything okay out here?”
“Never better,” Tom says into my neck.
I barely manage to focus on Axel through my watery eyes. “And I quit.”