The Last Birthday Party

by Gary Goldstein

  “I started walking today. Bertha and I did a half hour around my backyard.”

  “How did the old girl hold up?” Annabelle bantered. Another good sign?

  “Let’s just say she behaved herself,” Jeremy joked. “I’m putting her on a diet, by the way. I told her, ‘If I have to haul you around for another month, you’ve got to knock off some weight.’” He nervously awaited a chuckle from the other end. There was none.

  “So what can I do for you, Jeremy?” asked Annabelle. Jeremy wondered the exact shade of brown her knowing eyes might be at that moment.

  He told her about Matty’s newly single status and interest in meeting her nephew. Annabelle brightened, and offered to text Jeremy a picture of Gabe and a phone number he could forward to Matty. “I have a good feeling about this,” she assured him.

  “Great,” Jeremy said, “maybe I’ll see you at the wedding.” He was getting a downhill vibe about the whole conversation. Maybe he had developed feelings for someone who wasn’t feeling them back.

  There was quiet on the line until Annabelle said, “That’d be nice.” Jeremy’s heart thumped and, what the hell, he dove in.

  “I don’t want to wait until the wedding, Annabelle. I miss you and want to see you and really think we need to talk. I’d meet you at your place but as you know I can’t drive so I’d love for you to come here. Please say yes.” Jeremy held his breath. He was tired of not confronting things head on—his last years with Cassie being an obvious lesson.

  His words hung in the air like particles in space, swirling around, impossible to grasp, yet even more impossible to avoid. Jeremy shut his eyes tightly as if waiting to be punched. The silence was excruciating, broken only by music blaring from a passing car outside his office window.

  Jeremy was about to hang up the phone, avoid the pain and humiliation that was certain to accompany Annabelle’s response, when he heard a deep breath on the other end followed by five little words that would change his life: “I’ll be there at eight.”

  SIX WEEKS LATER

  CHAPTER

  20

  For the first time in more than two decades, Jeremy sat across from a film development executive to discuss a screenplay he had written. There were a few key differences, however, not the least of which was that Jeremy was now fifty, and the exec was about the same age—let’s say twenty-eight and a half—as the opinionated, self-assured up-and-comers he used to meet with back in the day. How could Jeremy be so much older while the person with the magical and extravagant power to shape his entire professional future could remain so doggedly stuck in time?

  It was as if Dorian Gray himself had lived on, graduated from USC’s Peter Stark Producing Program and then, in record time, worked his way up to a creative VP for Monolith, which in a few short years had become a major—and majorly deep-pocketed—player in the streaming wars.

  There was that too: streamers were not part of the equation back then, not a part of anything yet. It was mainly about selling to the more traditional studios and production companies that were still making films to be seen as God intended: in a movie theatre while scarfing overpriced popcorn and soda with hundreds of other reactive, sometimes deeply annoying, if often equally passionate people.

  Suffice to say, at least on the face of it, there were more options now for screenwriters to peddle their wares. “Everyone is desperate for material,” was the common refrain in these content-heavy days. Jeremy would soon find out if that was true, wishful thinking or, like much else in the business of show, complete bullshit.

  How Jeremy found himself sunk in a buttery, biscuit-brown leather couch in a bright but indistinct little office overlooking the manicured gardens of Monolith’s shiny Santa Monica campus was a long story. But like so much in Jeremy’s newish life these days, all roads seemed to lead either to or from Annabelle.

  Annabelle.

  What a unique, delightful, astonishing, nurturing, beautiful, tender, sexy, and, above all, decent human being she was. But, as Jeremy would discover in their lovely string of days together, she was also haunted and self-protective, watchful and reflective, and not one to plan too far ahead. Which isn’t to say that she wasn’t unfailingly reliable.

  That night six weeks earlier when Annabelle told Jeremy she would be at his house at eight, she was ringing his bell at 7:59 and 59 seconds. She was ridiculously prompt and deceptively organized. She made Jeremy want to be a better man, which, in his and many people’s minds (see Helen Hunt’s character in As Good as It Gets), was one of the best things you could say about someone.

  How much “better” Jeremy had become, if at all, he couldn’t say. But in ways large and small, thanks to Annabelle; the support of Matty and Joyce; renewed regular contact with old friends Josh, Cliff, Zoë, and his cousin Amie (sadly, and not unexpectedly, Norm was lost to Cassie’s side of things); plus his thrilling liberation two weeks earlier from that grotesque abduction pillow, he was feeling lighter, calmer, and far more aspirational.

  For as fast as the time sped by, it also felt like much longer than six weeks since Annabelle had accepted Jeremy’s hastily delivered invitation. When she did arrive, a bottle of Malbec in hand (a nice and promising touch), the anxiety Jeremy and, he would soon learn, Annabelle, had been feeling since they last spoke melted away, and they spent the next three hours talking incessantly, drinking wine, eating a mishmash of snacks, and falling in love. Or at least allowing their deep like for each other to spring out of its shell and take root in the world around them—which in this case was Jeremy’s den, so it felt safe.

  Annabelle—loose waves falling around her face, a touch of peachy lipstick, the koala shirt she wore on her first visit, purplish straight-leg yoga pants, and Birkenstock thongs that revealed delicate, aqua-painted toes—got right to the point as soon as they were ensconced on the cushy sectional with their glasses of Malbec.

  “I haven’t given a thought to another man since Gil died,” she started. “No sneaking around Match or JDate, zero interest in being fixed up—and believe me, a few of my friends have been relentless—not even a harmless coffee date. I’d see an attractive guy on the street and I might as well have been looking at a lamppost.”

  Jeremy was about to say something, but Annabelle raised a hand: “Let me finish.” She continued, “But you? You’re the first guy I’ve even given a second look. And, while we’re on it, a third and a fourth. And let’s not forget that kiss, which was absolutely terrifying.”

  She gulped some wine and Jeremy stayed silent, no idea where the pendulum was going to swing. “Why terrifying? Because it meant that it might finally be time to stop the pity party, wriggle out of the little cocoon I’d spun for myself, and rejoin the human race.”

  Annabelle gazed at her glass. Jeremy wondered if it was time for him to jump in. But he waited and a good thing because she was far from done.

  “But if that was true, then it also meant that Gil was really and truly gone. That he was never, ever coming back and that nothing I could do was ever going to change that. And that, really, now all I was left with was me. Me without Gil. And that also meant figuring out who I actually was without him, who I now wanted to be—or was at least supposed to be.” Annabelle leveled her gaze at Jeremy, who still wasn’t sure it was his turn. “Is this making any sense?” Annabelle asked, those dark eyes hinting of tears.

  “Completely,” he said. “And honestly, after everything you went through? I’m not sure how you could’ve felt any other way.” She watched Jeremy shyly, appreciatively. He moved in closer, his fingers grazing hers. “I just hope my … nonprofessional interest in you wasn’t too insensitive. If it was, I totally didn’t mean it to be.” Annabelle gave a soft smile. Jeremy took her hand. “Not to sound like some compulsive idiot, but I couldn’t help myself.”

  “I guess neither could I,” Annabelle said, her smile widening a bit, “which I hope wasn’t too insensitive.”<
br />
  “How so?”

  “Well, your wife just left you and here I am, swooping in before the body is even cold,” she said, placing her near-empty wine glass on the coffee table. “I mean, not that she’s dead but you know what I mean.”

  Jeremy marveled at her empathy. “I do. Nonetheless, she is gone. She’s been gone for a lot longer than I’ve wanted to admit. And so have I. But thank you for saying that.” He wanted to fling off that damn abduction brace and hug her tightly, feel her completely in his arms. Of course, he reasoned, if it wasn’t for that sling he never would have met Annabelle in the first place. “So are you still terrified?” Jeremy asked.

  Annabelle thought about that, longer than Jeremy would have expected. “You’re a words guy. What’s one step less than terrified?”

  He flipped through his mental thesaurus. “Frightened? Anxious? Apprehensive?” He emptied his wine glass as Annabelle mulled adjectives.

  “‘Frightened’ is too timid, ‘apprehensive’ feels too negative. ‘Anxious’ sounds too … neurotic,” she decided. “What’s something that means ‘I think I’m into this but just want it to go well because I’m not up to getting my heart broken or feeling weird or stressed and don’t want to regret casting off my cocoon for something that may or may not even exist?’”

  “Wow, I don’t even think Roget himself could answer that one.” Annabelle flashed a gentle smile, which inspired Jeremy to say, “How about ‘guardedly optimistic?’”

  She rolled that around. “I can live with that,” she concluded, which gave Jeremy his own flash of guarded optimism. Without another adjective, he took Annabelle’s inviting face in his free hand and kissed the living daylights out of her.

  Jeremy wasn’t the only one enjoying newfound partnership. Matty learned that one’s aunt could be a perfectly good judge of her nephew’s romantic viability, particularly after Matty took one look at Gabe’s shirtless photo and deemed him eminently “callable” (though Jeremy suspected that was in place of another more colorful adjective). Matty and Gabe met up the following night—the night after Jeremy and Annabelle’s auspicious reunion—and, unlike their respective father and aunt, reportedly got immediately busy, shared ten-grain pancakes and veggie bacon the next morning, and were now shuttling between each other’s apartments almost every night.

  As far as Matty was concerned, he’d hit the boyfriend jackpot: Gabe was not only charming and funny and looked like Zac Efron but with better abs, he was also a personal trainer who could give Matty a run for his money on the bench press as well as lots of free workout tips. Jeremy had never seen his son so happy and focused; he was positively glowing these days. He even seemed to be enjoying his job more. That bark mitzvah? It went from “shit show” to “event of the month.” Matty worked on two more of those dog simchas since, plus a party he invented for the felines called a cat-e-chism. Don’t ask.

  Jeremy hoped the Matty-Gabe thing would continue: for his son’s sake, of course, but also because it might get weird with Annabelle if they broke up. A step ahead of Jeremy’s concern, she already told him not to worry, whatever happened was between the boys. And who knows, maybe Gabe was the steadying influence Matty needed. Much as he adored his son, Jeremy needed to start trusting the boy’s instincts more, trust that Matty would find his way and better commit to the world around him. And remember that he was still only twenty-three.

  So Monolith. One night, about a week into both couples’ romantic whirlwinds, they had a double-date dinner at Jeremy’s. They all cooked (Annabelle set the menu and picked up the fixings), drank a lot (Jeremy’s two-drink ceiling was now a distant memory), laughed their asses off, and traded secret stories in an impromptu truth-or-dare-type round-robin. They learned a lot about each other.

  Jeremy could have lived without Matty’s teenage story that involved buying flavored condoms at a 7-Eleven, but at least he was being safe, right?

  Somewhere between the chicken meatballs with spinach fettuccini and the angel food cake with blueberries and coconut sorbet, Jeremy started talking about Offensive Measures, how well the rewrite was going (the second act was taking on an exciting new shape), his plan to finish before the brace was off, and how he just hoped he could figure out what to do with the script once it was ready to show.

  “I’ve been out of the business forever, so the big question is ‘show who?’” Jeremy explained, hardly expecting help from anyone at the table.

  “Do you know Ian Franco?” Gabe asked, a pensive look on his Efron-like face. Jeremy could easily see what Matty saw in him: Gabe was like supernaturally attractive but in an accessible and disarming way. He and Matty looked good together.

  “Is he an actor?” Jeremy wondered. He’d reviewed so many movies with so many performers that everyone sounded like an actor to him.

  “I don’t know, maybe. But this Ian Franco lives in the apartment next to me. Around my age, decent guy, works for Monolith. I’m not sure doing what exactly, but I know he reads a lot of scripts. Maybe I can ask him to read yours. If you want.”

  Wow, as if Jeremy didn’t already approve of Matty’s new boyfriend. “When it’s ready, sure! That’d be great, Gabe, thanks so much!”

  As soon as those words were out of his mouth Jeremy wondered if he’d spoken too soon. Just hand the script over to some probably lower-level development exec? Chance burning a buyer bridge before Jeremy even found an agent to show it around? Who was he kidding? An agent? Yeah, like they were lining up for him. This was the bird in the hand, take it, you schmuck. It could be a lucky step back into a world he’d left behind.

  “Happy to help,” smiled Gabe, exposing a fine set of even, white teeth.

  “Now, who wants dessert?” Annabelle asked as she rose from the table and winked at Jeremy.

  And those were the fateful few degrees of separation that brought resurrected screenwriter Jeremy Lerner to the office of one Ian Franco a few weeks later on an encouragingly sunny Tuesday morning. Though it turned out, Ian had more clout than it first seemed from Gabe’s description. When Jeremy checked out the exec online, he learned he was actually Monolith’s VP of feature development, which could make him an ideal conduit to move the script forward. That is if Ian even liked Offensive Measures. Which, he did—at least enough to schedule a meet and greet with Jeremy. Pretty quickly, in fact, even if Ian did have to reschedule twice. (Jeremy remembered that from years ago: any meeting that didn’t change times at least once probably wasn’t worth having.)

  Back to the age thing: Jeremy was resigned to the fact that he was a generation older than Ian and so many of the studio and network execs he’d meet now in his screenwriting travels. What could he do about that? Not a thing. He was the age he was, they were the age they were.

  Still, Jeremy figured he could at least make an effort to not show up looking like Ian’s dad but maybe closer to, say, his much—much—older brother. (Notwithstanding, of course, that Gabe surely explained to Ian, by way of introduction, that Jeremy was his boyfriend’s father.) In any case, Jeremy got his hair smartly cut and, for the first time, colored a passably close shade of dark brown to mask the encroaching gray. He maybe looked a whole two months younger, but he’d take it. Annabelle took one look at the newly shorn and dyed Jeremy, started to fan herself, and dubbed him “His Hotness,” so that alone was worth the $140-plus-tip.

  Then there was the matter of clothes. What did screenwriters wear to meetings these days? He imagined nothing that different from what they used to wear—what he used to wear—which is to say nothing special: jeans, a buttoned-down shirt (in or out), up-to-date sneakers (they often provided the personality). Generally, the more casual and unstudied the better; it implied, erroneously, that you spent more time writing than shopping. But Jeremy usually went with whatever he thought he looked best in (he avoided T-shirts, which made him appear kinda bony), while still adhering to the “uniform.”

  Just to be sure,
he called his screenwriter friend, Zoë, who regularly had her share of in-person meetings. She reconfirmed his assumption that, yeah, it was still a come-as-you-are party but cautioned him not to wear anything more than a year old. Jeremy didn’t ask why, didn’t really want to know (though he had his ageist theory), just dug out a pair of slim-fit Levis and a checkered Bonobos shirt Cassie bought him last Chanukah, and his old black Converse All-Stars that, even he knew, never went out of style. And still, he was dressed better than the compact, baby-faced Ian, who looked like he had just rolled out of bed and into his ergonomic desk chair.

  But Ian could have been sitting there stark naked for all Jeremy cared when, after exchanging some pleasantries, which included Ian dubbing Gabe “awesome” and Jeremy praising a new Monolith crime drama he’d squeezed in the night before, Ian leaned back in his chair, took a sip from his Kombucha bottle and said about the last thing Jeremy was prepared to hear: “We love your script and want to make your movie.”

  “You what?” Jeremy asked, unsure if what he’d heard had even the slightest connection to reality.

  Ian grinned. It was one of those rare times someone like him was able to deliver such a totally happy bouquet of news instead of one of those dreaded kiss-offs like “We already have something like it in development” or “I just couldn’t get Megan (or Caleb or Aidan or Vanessa) excited.”

  “We love the world you created, love the whole ’70s paranoia throwback thing, think Garfield would be an amazing part for like Adam Driver or Jake Gyllenhaal and want to get it out to directors ASAP. We’re thinking Fuqua. Do you like Fuqua?”

  “Antoine Fuqua?” Jeremy managed to ask. His head was spinning. He tried to focus on the framed Hockney print of Mulholland Drive hanging behind Ian’s desk, but the picture’s iconic twists and turns just made him dizzier. Jeremy truly thought this meeting would just be one of those bullshit favors an exec does for his neighbor. He thought that Ian would say nice but noncommittal things about Jeremy’s screenplay (if he even read it), ask what else he was working on, offer to keep Jeremy in mind for any open writing assignments (“Though we’re all booked out at the moment,” was the usual instant backpedal), validate his visitor’s parking, and close the door behind him.