Every other series regular was white.
Jo never mentioned it. No one ever mentioned it. Jo had never known if people were ignoring it or simply didn’t notice. She said nothing, and had her pick of scripts when the show ended. Her transition to film went smoothly; she did four movies, all blockbuster hits.
On the ten-year anniversary of The Johnson Dynasty’s premiere, Jo published a column.
She wrote about what it was like being a Chinese American in Hollywood. What it was like to be the butt of racist jokes on her own television show. About casting notices asking for white actresses only.
She stopped being offered scripts.
It was five years later that she wrote her own. The network billed it as a Cinderella story, made themselves seem like they were doing a good deed, giving a disgraced actress a chance at writing. Jo won four Emmys in a row.
She’d stuck to writing and producing ever since, so she wasn’t usually recognized in public, or at least not bothered.
But of course today, the day she wanted to just sit in the bleachers and cheer for her nephew, a set of parents climbed toward her, and even though she was looking at her phone and hoping they weren’t talkative, the wife said, “Oh my God, Amanda?”
Jo cringed. Being called by a character’s name was awful. She thought she’d be done with it now that it had been twenty years. She tried to plaster a smile on her face.
When she turned to look at the woman, though, she recognized her.
Avery Kaplan, smirking.
“The sister,” Jo said.
“The fake girlfriend,” Avery said.
Jo rolled her eyes.
Avery set her bag down, not right beside Jo, but closer than Jo would have liked. “Who do you know out there?” she asked, elbow gesturing toward the field as she set up her bleacher cushion.
“Ethan Cheung,” Jo said. “Nephew.”
“Ah, the new kid on the team,” Avery said. “You get to come to your nephew’s game but Emma’s not allowed to?”
“Emma didn’t ask.”
Jo would’ve let Emma out early if she had, since it was summer. When they were shooting, though, she’d rather Emma be at work if she wasn’t. Jo surrounded herself with people she trusted because it was the only way she wouldn’t micromanage. She could leave Chantal in charge, or leave Emma to report back on anything that Jo needed to know; that was how Jo could be away from work and not be anxious. Her production company, the Jones Dynasty—yes, she threw shade in naming it and it made her laugh every time—was her baby, had her name in big bold letters. She needed to be sure its output was up to standards. Emma helped.
“I’m Dylan,” said the man who Jo assumed was Avery’s husband, offering his hand. “We’ve got Ezra and Dani out there.”
Jo shook his hand. “Jo.”
He grinned but didn’t mention he already knew who she was. She gave him points for that.
“How’s the bakery?” Jo asked, because this was one of the rare situations where small talk might be preferable to silence. Avery would probably report this whole game back to Emma, and Jo did not want to come off looking like a bitch.
“Busy,” Avery said.
“You should hire someone,” her husband singsonged at her.
“If I could pay them a decent wage, I would,” she said, mimicking his pitch back at him. She turned to Jo. “Business is good, really. How’s the hiatus treating you?”
“Gently,” Jo said, “now that upfronts are over.”
“I heard you had to deal with an asthma attack,” Avery said.
Jo stiffened, frozen by the memory of Emma gasping.
“Thanks for keeping her breathing.”
Jo let out her own breath. She tried for a smile. “Yes, well, an employee dying on a business trip would have been terrible press.”
Jo’s stomach twisted at joking about it, but Avery chuckled and let the subject drop.
“How old is your nephew?” she said.
“Just nine,” Jo said. Her heart was still racing thinking about Emma’s asthma attack. It had shaken her, and even though she knew Emma was fine, she was terrified of the idea that it could happen at any time. “His first year past the pitching machine. What about your boys?”
“Boy and a girl, actually; Dani is Danielle,” Avery said. “They’re ten.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize—”
“Their goal for the season is to trick people,” Avery said.
“Dani’s the one girl in the league,” Dylan explained. “She got a lot of crap for it last year, so this year she cut her hair short and Ezra grew his into a ponytail.”
“Clever kids,” Jo said. “They must get that from their father.”
Jo’s brother arrived then, right as Jo was chatting with a set of parents and making them laugh. He gave her a look.
“What do we have here?” he said.
“Making friends, don’t I always?” Jo said.
“Not usually?”
Avery offered her hand. “Avery Kaplan.”
Realization dawned in Vincent’s eyes. “Ah. The girlfriend’s sister.”
Avery immediately grinned, delighted.
“Do you have any tips?” Vincent asked as he shook her hand. “On how to handle the burden of being the cooler sibling?”
Avery laughed, and Jo rolled her eyes.
It wasn’t bad, though, sitting with Avery and Dylan as well as Vincent and his wife, Sally. Thomas, Jo’s younger nephew, said hi and then immediately joined the other younger siblings playing under the bleachers. Once the game started, the adults didn’t keep up inane small talk, and when they did talk, Avery was sharp and witty. She reminded Jo a lot of Evelyn, actually.
The kids won, and Jo got dragged to ice cream with the team after, because Ethan asked her with too big a grin for her to say no. Avery chuckled as she walked beside Jo toward the parking lot.
“Who knew Jo Jones was such a softie?” she said.
“Only for my nephews,” Jo said. “And if you tell anyone, I’ll have to have you killed.”
Avery chuffed out a laugh, and Jo almost wished she weren’t Emma’s sister. She wouldn’t mind having a friend, but that seemed complicated here.
* * *
—
“Good morning, boss,” Emma said the next day, handing Jo her coffee.
“Morning,” Jo said. “Thanks.”
She was a little wary, but there didn’t seem to be anything behind Emma’s smile. Perhaps Avery hadn’t discussed last night with her yet. In that case, Jo wouldn’t bring it up, didn’t know exactly what to say anyway. I watched your niece and nephew play baseball last night sounded a bit strange. She took her coffee and went to work instead.
Jo wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but she’d expected that writing Agent Silver would be easier. She was used to being television Jo Jones—a powerhouse who got what she wanted because she’d already proven herself. And while the whole point of branching out and doing Agent Silver was to push herself to do something she didn’t have experience with, it felt unsteady, not having a reputation and history of work to rely on. Film was brand new. Action was brand new. There wasn’t room for mistakes.
So she worked hard during the beginning of hiatus. She’d dive back into Innocents as summer went on, but she wanted a good first draft of Agent Silver before then. It meant she was a little busier than usual. Still, she made an effort to go to every one of Ethan’s games.
She waited for Emma to say something about it or to ask for the afternoon off, too, but Emma never did.
Things were good with Emma, though, and better with no one around. The asthma attack at upfronts had caused the rumors to flare up, but they had quieted down since then. Jo no longer felt like she had to analyze every interaction they had. She gave Emma directing “homework”—books to r
ead, movies to watch. While it would likely be some time before Emma had the chance to direct, it was never too early to learn.
One day Jo was having trouble with a scene in Agent Silver, so she called Emma in to work in her office. Emma, as always, got to work silently, no questions asked. It wasn’t until Jo sighed for perhaps the forty-fifth time that Emma cleared her throat.
“Boss?” she said.
Jo mmmed at her but didn’t look up, her head buried in her hands.
“Is there anything I could help you with?”
Jo stretched, cracked her neck. “I cannot get this scene right.”
“Let me read it,” Emma said.
Jo stared at her. Few people had ever read a Jo Jones work in progress, and no one should’ve seen this particular one—the studio kept everything for Agent Silver on lockdown.
“I mean,” Emma said, shrugging slightly, “if you want. I could be a new set of eyes.”
Jo wasn’t supposed to show the script to anyone.
“Look, it’s not like I’m a writer or anything,” Emma said. “If you don’t want me to read it, will you at least take a walk or something? You need a break.”
Jo thought of that day back in February, when Emma swore to always remind her that she could do this.
“I can’t share the file with anyone,” Jo said, “but you could read it on my computer?”
Emma beamed. “Works for me.”
Jo scrolled to the beginning of the scene in her script. She brought her laptop to Emma on the couch and practically dropped it in her lap. She knew she was tipping her hand in terms of nerves, but she couldn’t help it.
“I need a refill,” she said, grabbing her tumbler and heading toward the door.
“I can get it—” Emma started.
“No, you read. It’s fine. I’ll just—”
Jo did a loop of the hallways, did another for good measure, before heading to the kitchen for more cold brew. This was why she didn’t share her writing before she was done with it—her skin felt like there were bugs crawling all over it. She was a good writer, she knew she was a good writer, obviously, had Emmys to prove it, but it still felt as if she’d cracked her chest open and Emma was rooting around inside right now.
It was almost fifteen minutes later by the time Jo finally returned to her office. Emma was still on the couch, refocused on her own tablet, Jo’s computer on the table in front of her rather than her lap. She looked up when Jo entered and gave her a small smile.
She hated it. She thought it was awful. This was fine. Jo would just go fling herself off the nearest building. This one, she realized, was the nearest. She should turn and head to the elevators.
“Boss,” Emma said gently.
It was all Jo could do not to tell her it was okay, she didn’t have to say anything, they could pretend this had never happened. She grabbed her laptop and took it to her desk.
“I’m really excited you’re writing Agent Silver,” Emma said.
Jo’s eyes snapped to Emma’s. That wasn’t what she expected.
“You’re an amazing writer,” Emma said. “Your stories are great.”
“But?” Jo offered.
“But this isn’t your story.”
Jo scoffed. Emma put both hands out in a “give me a minute” gesture.
“Hear me out,” she said. “In a lot of the Silver movies—too many, really—the women are background characters even when they’re main characters, you know what I mean?”
Jo inclined her head in agreement.
“In a lot of the movies, Silver’s kind of an asshole. But, like, an asshole who is written by a dude who doesn’t think he’s writing an asshole character.”
Normally that would garner at least a chuckle, but Jo still felt like she was sitting on a bed of nails. Any wrong move and she’d be impaled.
“You’re not an asshole, and your Silver isn’t going to be, either,” Emma said. “You shouldn’t make him a dick just because other people are afraid you’re going to make him too nice.”
It was a nice sentiment, but—“A writer changing doesn’t mean a character changes,” Jo said. “Especially when the actor is the same.”
“You’re a writer, Jo,” Emma laughed, not meanly. “Use your imagination. You really don’t think Silver has any hidden depths?”
A light bulb went on in Jo’s head. She let out her breath.
Hollywood decided people’s reputations for them. It was the same for Jo as it was for Agent Silver. Just because people thought they knew everything about her didn’t mean they did. Emma was right—of course there was more to the character than had been shown in previous movies.
“Okay,” Jo said. “I think I can do this.”
“I know you can, boss.”
Emma beamed at her, and Jo couldn’t help but grin. She selected three full pages of text. Pressed delete. Before she could be overwhelmed by the blinking cursor, Jo’s fingers flew across the keyboard, a new idea coalescing. She could’ve kissed Emma for making it so easy on her.
The next day, Emma knocked on Jo’s doorjamb in the afternoon. She held a stack of papers.
“I need more room than my desk to spread these out on,” Emma said. “Can I work in here?”
“Of course.”
Later in the week, they ate lunch together in Jo’s office. Jo wasn’t always committed to feeding herself; she got too involved in her work and forgot. Without Emma, Jo might have starved by now. Emma brought her sushi, and Jo made Emma join her to eat. When they finished, Emma started working on her tablet. Neither of them ever addressed the fact that she stayed working on Jo’s couch until five.
It became habit. Jo invited Emma in or Emma invited herself in or neither of them said anything, Emma just brought her work into Jo’s office. It was easy, and less distracting than it should’ve been. They both got work done, and Emma made sure Jo never skipped lunch. Jo did catch herself looking at Emma occasionally. She was always impressed by the other woman’s focus, her work ethic. It was rare that Emma even noticed Jo’s eyes on her, but if she did, she’d give her that soft smile. Then she’d raise her eyebrows and make Jo get back to work.
Even while they worked so closely, Jo didn’t do much supervising. Emma knew what she was doing, and Jo trusted her. Jo was vaguely aware of what Emma was working on day to day—planning things for when the cast and crew came back, beginning the search for her replacement, learning more about directing—but Emma was independent. So when Jo heard a disgruntled huff from her couch one day, she didn’t know what it was about.
“Problems, Ms. Kaplan?” she asked, not looking away from where she was editing the Agent Silver script.
“This doesn’t have half the stuff I do on it!”
Jo hit save, then looked to Emma.
Normally, Emma’s feet were tucked under her, or sometimes at the other end of the couch, legs stretched long. She almost never sat on the sofa in a normal fashion. Today, though, both her feet were on the floor, her elbows on her knees, brows furrowed at the tablet propped up on the table in front of her. Jo watched until Emma stopped glaring at whatever was on her screen, and made eye contact.
“I got the job description for my position from HR,” Emma said. “I figured I’d tweak it a little and then post it to find my replacement. But this is missing a ton of stuff I do.”
Jo chuckled. “Why do you think you’re being promoted?”
Emma went back to squinting at her tablet.
“This makes it sound like I’m just a secretary.” Emma, being Emma, quickly amended, “Not that there’s anything wrong with being a secretary, but I do more than this.”
Jo was well aware of that.
“Of course you do,” she said. “You could’ve had the associate producer title from day one with the amount of work you took on.”
Emma’s work e
thic was why Jo stole her away from Aly in props at the end of the previous season.
“You’re hiring my next assistant,” Jo said, “not my next Emma.”
“Oh.”
Emma’s voice was quiet, underpinned with wonder. Perhaps she hadn’t realized how valuable she was.
Honestly, it was something Jo had been worrying about. As though the move from Innocents to Agent Silver full-time wouldn’t be stressful enough, Jo would be doing it without Emma. She’d have an assistant, of course, but not one who had figured out how she ticked, knew when to interrupt with food, wasn’t afraid to throw sass at her when she got snippy. There was no one else she’d trust to read scenes from her scripts, the way Emma occasionally did, ever since that first day she offered.
Emma was Jo’s cheerleader, but she was never afraid to give Jo a kick in the pants if she needed it. She made Jo better.
“The job description likely only needs to be edited regarding Agent Silver instead of Innocents,” Jo said. “Other than that I’m sure it’s fine.”
Emma’s brow hadn’t unfurrowed.
“Is there some other issue with it?”
“No,” Emma said. She took a breath. “I guess it’s just weird—hiring my replacement.”
Jo had no doubt Emma would hire a capable new assistant. But she wouldn’t be able to replace herself.
“Want to take a break to look at the new opening?” Jo asked.
Emma blinked the concern off her face. She set aside her tablet and reached toward Jo’s computer, opening and closing her hands. “Gimme.”
Jo handed over the laptop. She still had to leave the room when Emma read her writing. She’d grown more comfortable with it, but she wasn’t that comfortable.
She did a lap, refilled her tumbler with cold brew from the fridge in the break room, then returned to her office.
Emma grinned at her.
“I think you’ve got it this time.”
Jo’s jaw dropped. “You do?”
Something to Talk About Page 10
