Chapter 20
Back at the Inn later that day, I turn off my phone and stash it in my pillowcase so I won’t have to see how Chris hasn’t
reached out. I don’t want to think about him, expend one more iota of energy on someone who clearly doesn’t value my presence
in his life, doesn’t see how I’m the best, most vibrant thing ever to happen to him.
In spite of, or perhaps because of, this intense focus to not focus on him, on us, I plummet into obsession, replaying the
brunch in all its grisly details, berating myself for saying too much and not enough, berating Chris for how he should have
acted, might have acted. The angst engorges, pushing up against my bodily walls in a torrent of rain and fire. I have to eject
it, have to let it come coursing out of me in whatever form it pleases. I’m not the captain, only the vessel.
So I open up a blank Word doc and submit to the feelings, my fingers flying over the keyboard to keep up with the voices,
the visions, the vices. A mini play pours out, my most prolific work in ages.
The dialogue is an alternative version of the debacle that took place.
A version of our brunch in which Chris thanks me for being such a caring friend and breaks down his walls and we talk more about Luke and the impact his death had on Chris and how his relationship with Olivia is little more than a misplaced coping mechanism.
The words, the pages, start to stack like dominoes filmed in reverse motion, standing up one after the other, an accordion
of creation. It’s the kind of tunnel vision I’ve been wanting to feel with my playwriting, so I keep riding the wave and soar,
soar, soar straight into the mouth of the serpent.
Tara appears at my shoulder sometime later, though I’m only half aware. “I thought you said you didn’t want to think about
Chris anymore,” she says, snooping at my work before it’s even half baked, greedy for the gooey batter.
“Don’t ask me to make sense,” I say, refusing to peel my eyes away from my screen, from my characters, from my calling. “Or
you’re asking me not to be an artist.”
Hal comes over to join us on the couch, some chemical energy drink in one hand, homemade green juice in the other. “Now you
understand what it’s like to be in flow,” she says. “And why I don’t like to be interrupted.”
I tilt my computer away from Hal. Tara’s snooping is one thing, but I’m not ready for Hal’s judgment, her lectures about how
I need to hone my value proposition and develop my pitch.
“I’ve been in flow before,” I say, though I’m starting to wonder if I ever really have been. If all the times before were
just imposters and apprentices of the real thing. The exposition slanting up, gradual until the parabola shoots up to the
climax, propelling me here, into the eye of the storm that I hope never subsides.
It does let up after a while, but first it doubles down on itself, carries me out into the white-capped waves of a second
draft. In this version, I scrap all the sentimental lines and trade them in for biting humor, so dry it crumbles like sun-cracked
clay.
I don’t edit myself based on what my audience may think of it, if I reach an audience at all.
But I still enjoy how the deviations from the facts of what really happened make it harder to compare my life to this play.
There’s a freedom that comes from letting real life bleed into make-believe, making it impossible to prove or disprove.
The trick is making sure that the fiction still reverberates with the solid thump of fact.
“When can we read the script?” Hal asks late one night when we’re out back in the garden. Astrid is there again too. The two
of them still haven’t shared what their stealth-mode start-up is all about. If you ask me, it’s just an excuse for them to
be spending all this time together, fooling themselves into thinking that they’re being productive. I could hack Hal’s computer
and find out if I wanted to, but I don’t because I’m busy enough.
“It’s not done yet,” I say, editing it on my laptop, wobbly on the patio table whose uneven legs teeter on the gravel. My
eyes are strained from staring at the screen in the dark. Bitterness resurfaces at how Jenni pulled a total Grinch move, taking
all the light strands when she left us.
Tara spritzes her water bottle onto the plants, abetting the ivy in its quest to crawl up the whole wall, over the roof, and
up into the sky or down to the earth, whichever path it chooses, maybe both. “Writing is never done, though,” she says.
Leave it to Tara to spoil my bad excuse with a good rebuttal.
“There’s just a time when you have to say ‘good enough’ and put it out into the world,” she carries on. “Otherwise, art would
always stay hidden and only be discovered after the creators died.”
“Maybe that’s not the worst thing,” I say. “No positive recognition, but no negative recognition either.”
“That doesn’t sound like you,” Tara says. “Taking a moderate stance.”
“What can I say? I’m evolving.” I put a dramatic spin on the word, wag my fingers ominously.
“Start-ups are like that too,” Hal says, pivoting the conversation back to herself, like she does best. “They’re never fully
done. It’s all about just getting to the MVP—the minimum viable product,” she explains importantly, as if we don’t know this from the thousand times she’s used the acronym. “And then sometimes
you have to launch before you’re ready so you can be the first mover, capture the market share before your competitors. Sprinting
is the only speed in the start-up world.”
“That means you should be close to launching by now, right?” I ask Hal. “How about this? I’ll let you see my script if you
tell me what your start-up is.”
I know she won’t take me up on it, so I’m safe.
“That’s not the same,” Hal says, shooting down my proposal. “There are intellectual property concerns for my business. Our business,” she corrects quickly, as Astrid emits an acerbic “ahem.”
“Writing is intellectual property too,” I retort.
Astrid comes to my defense. “Hally, love,” she says. “We can tell your friends. We can trust them.”
I’ve got to admit I like Astrid more than I was expecting to, despite the fact that she’s started staying over sometimes,
breaking our sacred ground rules. Hal says those rules were made during a different era when we were sharing rooms, and now
that she has her own, she should be able to fill it however she likes.
“Fine,” Hal says, unable to resist Astrid. She pauses for a dramatic crescendo. “It’s a software app.”
Tara and I exchange a look, reciprocal underwhelm. “Aren’t all apps software by definition?” Tara poses. She does it in a
gentler way than I would have, but Hal still gets prickly, like we’ve attacked her baby, gone straight for the jugular.
“I wasn’t done yet,” Hal says. “It’s a social impact platform that fosters global diversity and inclusion across an array of end markets.”
The buzzwords fall flat onto the stones beneath our feet. Not the grand reveal that Hal had hoped for.
“You’d better not be using AI,” I say. “It’s destroying the planet, way worse than eating meat.”
“Of course we’re using AI. How would we get funding without it?” Hal says. “You don’t understand the funding landscape.”
Astrid slides in. “We’re building an app to help friend groups become more diverse,” she says, and we’re already hooked in
more, both by her accent and by her word choice. “Data shows that most people stay in their little bubbles—politically, geographically,
racially, you name it. Our app will match you with people outside your bubble. Expand your world, expand your heart.”
“I like it,” Tara says straightaway. “Exactly what we need in this divisive age.”
She’s always the most optimistic judge on our Shark Tank panel. I’m the toughest and love living up to the reputation.
“It’s a decent concept,” I admit, beginning with praise so the criticism won’t smack so hard. “Though definitely don’t use
the words diversity or inclusion—everyone knows that movement is dead. And who are your customers? The people who need this app most won’t download it. They
like their homogeneous echo chambers, cling to them.”
“That’s true for the extremists,” Hal says. “But there’s a large segment—the forgotten middle, we call them—that want to meet
people from other walks of life; they’re just too lazy to put in the work themselves. So they’ll outsource it to us, and we’ll
make it easy for them.” She delivers the words with the air of someone who’s already raised millions and now can’t be bothered
explaining herself to commoners like us.
“What’s the monetization play?” I ask.
“Monetization isn’t important in the early innings,” Hal says.
I can tell she’s annoyed by my question but respects it too, how I’ve learned my business lingo.
“It’s all about customer growth and retention.
Once we have people hooked, the options are endless.
Subscription model, ad revenue, it goes on. ”
“Hmm,” I say. “I’m not sold.” It hinges on the marketing, I tell them. “You could hire me for your launch campaign, if I get
an equal split of equity,” I say.
“You’re insane,” Hal says. “No way we’re diluting our shares.”
But Hal’s confidence looks a bit rattled from my grilling, which isn’t what I intended.
“Look,” I say. “Even if your product was the worst thing in the world—which I’m not saying this is. But even if it was a complete
fraud, a total hoax, I’d have faith you could sell it to anyone with a pulse. Maybe a few corpses too.”
This cheers Hal right away. It makes me want to drop a few more compliments on her now and then, give her a boost without
bloating her ego. “We’re applying to a female founders accelerator,” she says. “They’d give us some funds as we bootstrap,
so say your prayers and cross your fingers.”
“You know I don’t pray,” I say. “But consider my fingers crossed.” I twist them together, fingers and toes, until I’m in a
pretzel. “You’ll get it for sure.”