Chapter 53
It’s torture. With every cough, every grimace, every loud swallow of saliva, every slight shift of Ingrid’s butt, every suck of her teeth, every flit of Ingrid’s eyes, Maggie panics and pounds on Backspace. It’s so uncomfortable. It feels like going to the bathroom in front of your boss.
She manages to finish five pages before the transfusion machine beeps.
A wire got disconnected, thank God. As Teresa walks in to help, Maggie bolts for the bathroom, where she drops to the floor and hugs Ingrid’s toilet.
She throws up her breakfast. She looks in the mirror afterward, splashing her face, staring at the dark circles under her eyes, the white hairs that now pop up faster than she can run to the salon.
On top of that, her hip hurts. She can’t sleep more than four hours.
She can’t handle alcohol. She’s becoming more middle-aged every day, and still, it’s not enough.
Ingrid has to take more. How did she get herself into this fresh hell?
Fingers shaking, she grabs her phone and searches up Jack. She’s done. She can’t go back in there and write like this. There’s no way.
For a second, she genuinely considers crawling out the window and just taking off.
Running away with the money. Jetting off to a random country somewhere that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the US.
Maybe Cuba? Anything to not have to go back in there and continue coughing up words in front of Ingrid like some sort of monkey scribe.
She thinks of something Cassie once said: It’s impossible to make art when the art’s constantly being judged. She feels so sorry for that poor girl.
Taking her phone, Maggie checks her DMs again—still nothing from xoxohollywooddd—then calls Cassie. Cassie picks up on the first ring.
“Hey! It’s Maggie. I’m at your house. Are you home?”
“You’re not going to believe this. My mom read my script? And she actually said it was good!”
The statement turns Maggie’s mouth sour with jealousy for a second.
“That’s amazing! Hey, if you’re home, will you come down and hang out with us while we do the rest of the transfusion?” she asks. Maybe if her daughter’s in the room, Ingrid won’t continue her sick writing torture.
“Sorry, I’m at Starbucks, writing,” Cassie says. “I have to finish this scene. I promised my mom I’d go to this thing later. It’s an industry event. Do you want to come?”
“No!” Maggie says quickly. The last thing she wants is to spend more time with Ingrid today. At the thought of Ingrid waiting, she takes a deep breath, gets up, and emerges from the bathroom. She clutches her phone in her hand like a life jacket as she peeks into the study.
Ingrid points to the seat next to her, like chop-chop. Blood drains to Maggie’s feet as she realizes this cruel exercise isn’t over. Teresa stands in the corner, waiting for Maggie to sit down so she can hook her up again.
“I gotta go, Cassie,” Maggie says, swallowing hard. As she approaches Ingrid, she adds, “Good luck with the scene. I’m glad you’re able to get out of the house and find somewhere safe and peaceful to do your writing.”
Maggie hopes Ingrid can feel the sharp blade of her words. The warning to stop.