Lies, Love, and Breakfast at Tiffany's

by Julie Wright

  The tone of the drive didn’t match the tone of the walk or of dinner. The fun of the evening had been dampened by the gloom of that phone call.

  I should have eavesdropped. If he’d ended the call with “I love you,” then I’d know, right?

  But maybe not. Lots of people didn’t end calls with sappy farewells, even if they felt actual love for each other. Though I had the feeling Ben was the sort of guy who would call attention to the sappy. He loved logic and often had to bring me back to it when we’d gotten into deep discussions about things I felt passionately about, but he was also silly and fun in the goofiest way possible. I imagined him to be the sort of guy who would give in to the emotion because it was the logical step to take for someone who felt those emotions.

  I breathed a sigh of relief when I turned into the lot at Burnout and saw Ben’s car still in the parking lot. Unfortunately, his car wasn’t alone.

  It had the unwelcome company of a tow-truck driver backing up to the front end of Ben’s car.

  “No,” Ben whispered. “No,” he said again, louder. He barely waited for me to come to a complete stop before he practically leapt from his seat in his panic to keep the tow-truck driver away from his car.

  Through my windshield, I saw Ben waving his arms and heard him calling out to get the driver’s attention.

  I turned my car off and hurried to join Ben.

  The driver saw Ben and me, visibly sighed, and put his truck in park, though he didn’t turn it off. He opened his door and swung his legs to the step as he lumbered down. He approached Ben and me with a look that said our presence was a huge inconvenience.

  “I’m going to assume this is your car here?” the driver asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Ben said.

  “You can’t park here.”

  “Funny,” Ben said, “because I’m certain that the sign at the entrance to this lot said parking on it.” Ben flashed an amiable smile that was not returned. When Ben realized the driver didn’t feel like participating in jokes, he tried appealing to his better nature. “We never meant the car to be here so long, but we left it because we had a friend leaving the club who needed help getting home. You wouldn’t have wanted him on the road intoxicated, would you?”

  “Nope, I wouldn’t. But the report we got was that this car has been parked here for over thirty-six hours. It doesn’t take thirty-six hours to sober up. Sorry, but we’re under contract to tow the car. You can pick it up at the impound lot.”

  Alarmed at this news, I stepped into the conversation. “I really am sorry the car has been here so long. It’s my fault we didn’t come back for it immediately. I know you’ve come here all the way from wherever your garage is, and I will happily pay your costs, but towing and impounding really isn’t necessary.”

  He seemed to think over what I’d said before sighing deeply as if I’d caused a great disturbance in his personal life force and finally nodding. “Fine. But there’s going to be a fee.”

  “Absolutely.” I nodded, too, just to make sure he knew we were in agreement. I pulled my credit card from my wallet and handed it to him.

  “It’s my car,” Ben protested, fumbling for his wallet. “Why should you pay for it?”

  “Because it’s my fault you had to leave it here. Let me make this right.” I pressed my card toward the tow-truck driver, who seemed confused as to which card to accept until he met my eye.

  He took my card and shrugged at Ben. “Sorry, dude. The lady looks more dangerous than you do.” He stomped back to the cab of his truck, where he likely had a card reader and the paperwork. Even from where we stood, his muttering about his dad not raising any dummies and that only an idiot argues with women could be heard clearly.

  “What did you do to convince him you were dangerous? Cry your blood tears at him while I wasn’t looking?” Ben stuffed his card back in his wallet and scowled.

  I laughed. “I just gave him a look that let him know I meant business. It’s an important look for a woman to master if she’s going to work in Hollywood.”

  “Has working in the industry been so bad?” Ben asked, genuinely interested in my answer, though the crease in his brow indicated he didn’t like thinking about what that answer might be.

  I shrugged and leaned against my car to wait for the tow-truck driver to come back. “Maybe it’s different for actresses. I don’t really deal with the casting couch so much as the cold shoulder. Old-school guys like Dean believe if women are going to be involved in production, they belong in wardrobe and makeup or on the secretarial and administrative assistant side of things.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said and leaned against the car alongside me so the length of his body barely brushed against mine as he breathed.

  “It’s getting better. Stuff’s getting better. Stuff’s getting better every day.” I grinned at him, glad he was on my left so I could actually see him. “Name the film.”

  He thought about it for a long time—long enough that the tow-truck driver came back with my card and paperwork to be signed. I glanced over the paperwork, noting that the price he charged me was considerably less than I expected, but considerably more than what the work he actually did was worth. The receipt was going to the Sliver of Midnight budget for reimbursement. I signed my name in two places, and the driver readjusted his stance in a challenge.

  “Well?” he said.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Well?”

  “I need to see you drive that car off. I’m not an idiot. For all I know it’s broken down, and you plan on leaving it here for days longer.”

  I passed my hand over my eyes and then scrubbed it down my face. This meant any kind of goodbye with Ben would include an audience of the NASCAR hat–wearing variety.

  “It’s probably for the best since you need to get home and get some sleep,” Ben said to me. He paused like he might say something else, but he only smiled and gave a salute to both me and the tow-truck driver.

  He strode purposefully to his car and got in, turning over the engine and giving the tow-truck driver a smirk when the engine revved to life.

  “He thinks he’s funny, doesn’t he?” the driver asked.

  “Usually.”

  Ben waited until I was safely in my car with it started up again before he put his car in gear. Then he waited for me to leave the parking lot first. I turned right and watched out of my rearview mirror as he turned left.

  I drove home and thought about my grandmother, holed up in her new villa and watching My Fair Lady. The idea of joining her dangled in front of me, but my itchy glass eye reminded me that a good night’s rest that didn’t involve crashing on someone else’s couch first didn’t sound all that bad.

  Once home, with the door locked, I was back in yoga pants and the T-shirt from my first movie premiere. I brushed my teeth, removed my glass eye, washed it off, and placed it in the music box Emma had bought for me when she’d been in New York several years prior. The box played “Moon River.” Emma put a note with it that said, “Everyone says you have Audrey Hepburn’s eyes. I figured if you store one of them here at night, it would be like giving it back. xoxo, Emma.”

  Emma’s gift came from the fact that she’d spent more than one sleepless night searching the bathroom, living room, tent, or wherever else I happened to be when I removed my eye and dropped it.

  I flipped back my covers and slid inside, prepared to sleep just as hard as I had the night—well, morning—before. Just as my eyelids closed, a text chimed on my phone. I didn’t move from the fetal position I’d curled myself into and debated whether or not to reach for my phone to see who would possibly need me when my whole body was in shutdown mode.

  The phone won. It usually did, because curiosity was a weakness I couldn’t seem to shake.

  The text was from Ben, which made my heart do a happy flip. “The Postman!”

  Ben wasn’t much of a dig
ital communicator. Getting a text from him was pretty rare, which was how I’d lost touch with him after moving to Portal Pictures in the first place. Getting a text now, when he was all that filled my head, made me feel so much more than I had a right to. I pulled my thoughts back into alignment, gave an appreciative laugh at his finally figuring out my movie quote, and answered, “Did you know or cheat by looking it up?”

  While I waited for him to respond, I rolled over on my back and contemplated what a text from him at that moment meant. Hearing from him now, so soon after seeing him, made me feel like he cared.

  But of course Ben cared. He’d helped me move upward in my career because he knew it mattered to me to achieve my goals and dreams, because he knew that Mid-Scene Films was only a tiny stepping-stone along a complicated path.

  His understanding of my drive and ambition made him the very best of friends.

  How had I not seen him and this possibility with him sooner? The minute I left Mid-Scene Films, I should have been on the phone asking him out.

  “I confess,” Ben finally wrote back. “I looked it up. Is it bad to admit I haven’t seen that one?”

  “So many movies . . .” I wrote.

  “So little time,” Ben responded. We bantered a little while longer before he told me to go to bed and said good night. Even after the conversation ended, I blinked at the screen for the better part of twenty minutes, rereading the messages, looking for . . . what? A sign that I should pry us out of the friend zone? That it was time to act on the stirrings fluttering in my belly? With a roll of my eye, I put the phone down and allowed sleep to take me away.

  The next day, Dean showed up at the office before I did, which was something unusual all by itself. But he also had Adam keeping vigil at my office. Adam derailed my intention to stow my purse in my file drawer by insisting that Dean needed to speak with me immediately.

  “For what?” I asked. My heartbeat quickened. Had he found out about Ben in the editing room? Did he know?

  “He didn’t say. But he looks like someone just told him his cat died.”

  “Dean? With a cat? If Dean had a cat and someone told him it had died, he’d likely pull a few bills from his wallet and thank the person for the favor while asking them to keep it quiet.” Knowing my assessment of Dean wasn’t exactly fair, I sighed the heavy sigh of steam-rolled hope. “You really don’t know what it’s about?”

  “I’d tell you if I did.”

  I nodded. Adam probably would tell me. The collateral respect of spending a night in the trenches together formed an unexpected friendship. Even if Adam had slept through half of it, he’d still been there. I left my purse on my desk and followed Adam to Dean’s office.

  When I knocked on his open door, he glanced up and said to Adam, who stood right behind me, “Did you tell her what I wanted her for?”

  I shot a scowl at Adam, who had said he’d tell me if he knew. Clearly, he had known and chosen not to tell me. So much for respect formed in the trenches. He shrugged and gave a smile that might have been an apology, but probably wasn’t, as he closed the door to give us some privacy. I squared my shoulders and moved slightly to keep my line of sight clear in the room. So what if Dean knew about Ben? I regretted nothing about my actions regarding Sliver of Midnight. I did what had to be done when faced with hard choices.

  “Good morning, Dean.”

  He bristled at my use of his name. He’d become spoiled during my time of deference and apparently hadn’t believed that my newfound confidence would last. Even though he still intimidated me, and even though my confidence was all for show, I would not cower again to this man. Talking to Ben reminded me that the days of the casting couch and passed-over women creatives wouldn’t, couldn’t, get better if I gave my permission for everything to continue.

  Dean no longer had my permission to walk all over my work.

  For all the time I’d spent complaining about Dean Thomas not showing up, I didn’t know how I felt about him not continuing the trend if he was going to insist on impromptu meetings first thing in the morning. He was clean-shaven, and his eyes had the desperate but lucid look of a man recently coming off an addiction. Dean muttered a quick, “Have a seat. We have things to talk about.”

  I sat. No reason to be uncomfortable. Then I waited. Whatever he needed to say would be said when he wanted it said.

  “Sliver of Midnight is already creating buzz. Just out of the gate and already flying.” His dark brow furrowed over his nose as he contemplated what his own words meant. “We only have those few changes to make, and it’ll be screen ready. I was wondering what your timeline was regarding this film. We’ve put all our focus here and need to get going on other films that have been neglected. I let you get your feet wet with this project, but now we need to get serious and get to work.”

  He let me get my feet wet? The man had dumped me in an ocean and held me under the surface in an attempt to drown me while he stayed in the boat, drinking martinis. “With all due respect, Dean, I am always serious, and I come ready to work every day. That’s why Sliver of Midnight is all but screen ready.”

  He cleared his throat, stretched his neck, and adjusted a small stack of papers on his desk. “Right. So, what I need from you is to finish up the film as soon as possible, but I’ve also uploaded a few scripts to your box. I’d like you to read through them today. We’ll be doing them both simultaneously, so work will be double time for us.”

  “Us?”

  He gave one short nod. “Yes. Us. I will be more hands-on going forward.”

  He still hadn’t complimented me or commended me for the work I’d done on Sliver of Midnight. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I kept waiting for . . . something. Some acknowledgment.

  When the silence stretched on without any further comment from Dean, I straightened in my chair and leaned forward. “All right, then. I guess since that’s all . . .” Dean still didn’t say anything. I stood, taking his silence as my cue to leave.

  Before I reached the door, he mumbled. “Danny knows I didn’t do much with the last film. He asked me about it when we were alone after the screening. He said I needed to get sober . . . like he knows anything about it.”

  I stopped. Was I supposed to respond in some way? Was he even talking to me? Or talking to himself?

  “Everyone liked working with you,” Dean continued.

  He had to have been talking to me because I felt certain no one would have ever said they liked working with him. Maybe in the past, he hadn’t been so sullen and broody, but lately . . .

  “I liked working with them, too,” I said, turning to face him.

  He met my eye, and though he hadn’t been drinking, there was definite unhappiness behind those dark eyes. It made me want to ask what was going on in his life. It made me want to know all the reasons why he had abandoned a career he used to love enough to do well. I didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer any personal information.

  “I’ll be to all the meetings with the sound engineers and directors going forward,” he said. “My mark will be apparent on any work with my name.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” I said. I’d almost added the deferential title “sir” but caught myself at the last minute.

  “You’re not the only one here capable of taping a good movie together.”

  I stiffened, going from feeling sorry for him to being offended by him in an eyeblink. Taping? Did he think the work an editor did had no real artistic significance? “Why did you hire me, Dean?”

  He blinked, obviously not expecting the question. He shrugged. “Because you’re qualified. Get to work. Those scripts need to be read. We can talk later.” He nodded toward the door, an evident dismissal.

  I left, closing his door behind me so I could take a deep breath without him seeing or hearing me. I put my hand on my stomach. What did I feel? Dizzy? Sick? The conversation was strange.
His even being in the office so early was strange. It made me wonder exactly what Danny had said to him to make him so evidently agitated. Dean calling me qualified might be the closest he’d ever come to paying me a legitimate compliment.

  I raised my eyebrows at Adam. “What was that?”

  Adam ran his hand under his nose and shrugged. “Danny really liked your work,” he said. “That was pretty much all I could hear through the door. He called you one of the top up-and-coming talents of the film editing world. Told Dean you had a distinctive style. He called your sense of timing genius.”

  I forgave Adam for his earlier lie of omission. This new information proved too valuable to let a little annoyance get in the way. “Did he really?”

  Adam nodded. “At least one of us is having good luck with our chosen careers. The season is almost over for Gray Skies. The part I’d originally wanted went to a half-baked actor. But new parts come in all the time, you know. I’ve seen the scripts. Every one of them has a part where a new character is introduced that I could slide into.” He shook his head. “Dean is never going to get me an audition.”

  “Have you reminded him?” I was glad I wasn’t waiting on an audition opportunity for anything. Postproduction had its glitches and inconsistencies, but it was insanely better than trying to schmooze your way into actual acting.

  “He said there would be a shot in a few weeks.”

  I shrugged. “There’s your answer then. A few more weeks isn’t so long to wait, is it?”

  “It’s the same thing he told me a few weeks ago.” He jiggled his shoulders and turned his back to me.

  I headed to my desk. I had scripts to read and a film to finalize.

  I texted Ben to tell him the good news.

  He texted back a movie quote. “You’ve been officially labeled a disturber of the peace.”

  “Fellowship of the Rings,” I texted back. “And why am I a disturber of the peace?”

  “It’s not a bad thing. Anyone who excels at what they do is bound to create buzz—the noise of success. I’m proud of you.”