Chapter 63
It all comes tumbling out. The most perfect pitch I can muster. Quinton was right about me practicing in front of a mirror, but instead of twenty times, I probably shot this pitch out of my mouth a thousand times before saying it right now to his face.
All that practice was worth it — it comes flowing out, smooth as butter. Exactly how I’d planned.
“. . . and in the end, he remembers his wife was waiting for him back at the flower shop, while the owner hands Claire the note he’d left for her six years prior. The two of them run down the sidewalk, while the audience already has a hint at what’s to come.”
I sit back, my ribs flaring like I’ve just finished the most stunning vault routine at the Olympics. “End scene.” I smile at him, unable to contain my excitement that I’ve just officially pitched Quinton Rockwell the film I’ve worked on for years, which I completed here in the last six weeks, while sitting in his very own garden.
He leans into his chaise lounge, then takes a small sip of his drink, setting it back down on the table without looking over. My heart is pounding so loudly I literally wonder if he can hear it over the sound of the waves crashing in the distance. The ocean sounds so feisty tonight.
I shuffle my feet, unable to contain the immense amount of adrenaline flowing through me. I want to stand up and scream, “ Well ?” Just to get him to say something. Anything. It’s been too long. I was expecting him to at least give me his initial reaction. Something other than stone-cold silence.
My eyes widen, then close, and I exhale quietly. He’s not even looking at me. He must hate it. I picture myself coming home tonight and, instead of popping champagne at midnight, I’m falling asleep crying into my pillow before having to leave tomorrow.
A full minute goes by where Quinton is just staring up at the stars. He picks up his glass and swirls it around a bit, not taking another sip.
I try breathing out slowly, but it comes out louder than I hope, sounding like an exasperated sigh. He turns to look at me, swirling his glass, then closes his eyes again.
“Quinton?”
This time he holds my eye, but still doesn’t say a word.
I look right and left, the awkwardness taking over my better judgment.
“Well?” It comes out high-pitched and squirrely. Exactly the opposite of how I saw this moment going. But geniuses need time to process, so I’ll just let him take whatever time he needs. I settle back against my chair. Willing myself to wait patiently.
“Well . . .” He breathes out steadily. “Do you want the good news? Or the bad news?” My breath hitches, and I can’t respond. I can’t choose good or bad. The good news is, he still thinks I’m pretty? And the bad news is, I don’t have a future in film?
He shifts to his side and sets his glass down.
Oh God.
He hates it. He fucking hates it. Okay. Well, he’s not the only director in Hollywood, right? He’s just the only one I’ve got the undivided attention of in this moment, and he’s about to give me a solid rejection. I can feel it.
“Let’s start with something easier than my assessment of that script. Why did you really come here tonight?”