Chapter 38 #4
I need to steer this conversation elsewhere.
"Let me guess—you were that kid staring out the window while everyone else struggled with fractions.
Too smart for the classroom, right?" I flash him a knowing smile.
Max shifts in his seat, and I can practically see the wheels turning behind those eyes.
That's the thing about brilliant people—they never quite fit in those little desks, those rigid schedules.
Did they bump him up a grade? Two grades?
He clears his throat. "Let's get back on track." He shifts closer. "You write screenplays, don't you?"
My pulse quickens, blood rushing to my face. I never mentioned screenwriting to him. Never wanted him to see the stack of rejections, the unanswered queries. "What makes you say that?"
"Those notes I glimpsed—character descriptions, bits of dialogue.
I recognize the format." His hand covers mine, warm and steady, but all I feel is pity radiating from his touch.
I slide my hand away. "Listen, Celeste," he continues, his voice softening.
"Breaking into screenwriting is brutal. Finding representation in Los Angeles?
Nearly impossible. But I might be able to—"
I shake my head. "No. Stop. I'm not good.
" My chest tightens, my heart fluttering like a trapped bird.
He'll ask for my screenplays next, read them once, then never mention them again.
I can already see his polite smile masking thoughts about my wooden dialogue and predictable plot twists.
We'll pass each other in hallways, him ducking into rooms to avoid my hopeful "Did you finish reading it?
" I'll catch glimpses of pity in his eyes.
The silence between us will grow, filled only with my unasked questions and his unspoken criticism.
This screenplay thing—it'll kill whatever's starting between us before it even has a chance. I'm certain of it.
He leans back, his gaze sharpening as he studies me. Something in those eyes tells me he sees right through my evasion. "Celeste, you need to risk it. Good screenplays? I'll assemble the team to bring them to life. It's my specialty."
"No," I counter, "it's mine." The audacity. Since when does the CEO personally scout scripts and build production teams? That's literally my job description, not his corner office responsibility.
He arched an eyebrow. "Don't play coy. If your scripts have legs, Kensington Pictures can get them off the ground."
I shake my head, feeling the room tilt slightly.
"You're missing the point. This particular plot twist is telegraphed from page one.
" I drain my glass and signal the bartender for another.
"Want the sad truth? I've got fifteen screenplays gathering dust on my hard drive.
Fifteen. Been writing since middle school.
You know how Gladwell says you need 10,000 hours to master something?
I've doubled that, easy. And what do I have to show for it?
A collection of rejection emails from every agent with a pulse in this town. "
The words tumble out faster than I can filter them.
A tiny warning bell rings somewhere in my brain—the same bell that failed to sound during countless embarrassing nights before.
I know the pattern: one minute I'm sharing personal truths, the next I'm confessing childhood secrets or crying about my mother's cancer. And then comes bitchy Celeste, where I start screaming at anybody in my purview. Bitchy Celeste comes out when I’m really loaded, after which passed-out Celeste makes an appearance.
I must stop myself right now before I go through all the iterations of drunk Celeste.
I eye my fresh mango margarita—fourth? fifth?—and slide it firmly away from me. Whatever fragile connection we're building, I'm not about to drown it in tequila.
The room suddenly feels too small. My tequila-fuzzed brain registers something in Max's emerald gaze—that soft, tilted look reserved for stray cats and charity cases.
Of course. He's the golden boy with the magic touch, while I'm just...
what? Willy Loman from Death of a Salesman.
A nobody with delusions of someday. The kind of person who thinks they're special until the world reminds them they're not. That's me in a nutshell.
I mutter something about feeling sick and push my chair back.
The restaurant buzzes with conversation, bodies pressed against each other like sardines, a line still snaking out the door.
My chest tightens at the thought of another sixty minutes trapped here, followed by that silent car ride home with Max's judgment hanging between us.
I duck into the bathroom, pull out my phone, and order an Uber.
Let him figure it out. Let him hate me again.
I'm done being someone's project, someone's broken thing to mend.
The Max I thought I knew wouldn't have looked at me that way—like I'm a problem with a solution, not a person with feelings.
I get my Uber and hail the ride home.
And then prepare myself for the fallout.