Thank You for Listening(102)

“Yeah, I don’t think she’s taking calls, Manse.”

“Totally, totally. But production’s getting antsy. Any ballpark on when she’ll be able to get back to Georgia, sweetie?”

Sewanee took a moment before responding. She thought about herself. About her passion for acting. About how it had always been challenged by the realities of the business. About the vagaries and rejections and frustrations. About how most of her prodigious talent went not to the actual work, but to acting as if she liked people like Manse. About what Adaku had said: how lucky Sewanee was.

“Sweetie, you there?”

She’d wanted to keep the anger out of her voice but decided now that, actually, she didn’t. Her voice, after all, was her superpower. “First, it’s Sewanee, not sweetie. I know, easy mistake. Second, do you know why this happened?”

There was a small beat. “Because she’s a gladiator! She’s a–”

“You. You and the clown car of assholes around her who pretend to care. She’ll call you when–”

“Hey, easy, k? Just because Adaku–”

“Don’t interrupt me or I’ll hang up. She’ll call you when she’s ready. Meanwhile, if production is antsy, so be it. It’s a movie. It doesn’t matter. Adaku matters. And if you’re antsy, I suggest you take some time to reflect on how your actions contributed to this situation. For instance: You keep pronouncing her name AH-duh-koo. It’s ah-DAH-koo. You’re her manager, all these other people take their cues from you, and if you can’t even–”

“Whoa, don’t spin this like I don’t care, you don’t know me–”

“Manse, you interrupted. Bye.”

She hung up. And felt like a million dollars before taxes and commissions. She stood, stretched, and decided she’d get herself a milk shake, too.

SEWANEE WALKED THROUGH her front door around midnight, after having been kicked out at the end of visiting hours, stopping by Seasons to retrieve her abandoned car, and attempting to sneak into Mark’s to appropriate some snacks for the next morning only to have the man himself bar her exit until she told him absolutely everything.

She turned on the light and was greeted by the shattered Tea-For-One service still scattered across the kitchen counter and floor.

Ah, yes.

She swept up all the pieces, then took a shower and was falling into bed when her phone rang. Her exhaustion took a backseat to her happiness at the name that appeared on her screen.

“Look at me picking up when Brock McNight calls.”

She heard his husky chuckle. “How far we’ve come.”

“Good . . . morning?” She was beyond the ability to do time zone math.

“It is. Good evening to you?” He sounded equally unsure.

“It’s dark, so maybe? I exist outside of time now. I’ve transcended . . . the . . . thing.”

He laughed. “How’s it going there?”

She caught him up briefly, promised to tell him more tomorrow, and sighed. “I’m so sorry we didn’t get to . . . you know.”

“That’ll teach you to play games, Sandy.”

“Lesson learned. That is not how I wanted our trip to end.”

“Well, if you want to you know–and here I thought you didn’t like euphemisms–I’m currently looking at flights to L.A. in a couple weeks’ time.”

They locked in a date and it made Sewanee so happy, that date, so anticipatory, that she wasn’t sure how she would get through all the other dates before it. “How’s Dublin? How’s Tom?” she asked.

“Good. Better. And his pub’s doing fantastic. The lads and I jammed last night.”

“That’s great.”

“So, listen. I found something here.”

“Okay?” Her tone took a sharp left into tentative.

He chuckled. “Why do you always expect the worst?”

She huffed. “Have you met me?”

He chuckled again. “So, this is . . . well, you’ll decide what it is. It’s yours.”

“Again, okay?”

“Tom had a box of June’s old books. Early ones, out of print now. No idea if any of them hold up, but I was thinking . . . you said the other day you might want to do more Romance and, well, none of these books have audio versions.”

“Oh my God.”

“So, the box is yours.”

“Oh, Nick, no–”

“Tom’s got a lawyer here, so I’ll get something drawn up that gives you the copyrights.” The silence was too long. “You still there?”

“Nick. That’s . . . you can’t.”

“I can. I am.”

“But it’s–it’s too much. A whole box of June French IP, that’s a gold mine for you. I can’t–”

“You can and you will. I want you to. Please. She’d want you to.”

Sewanee flopped back on the bed. What she could do with this. The projects she could make, the people she could employ, the possibilities– “They might be good for nothing but kindling. According to the flap copy, one of them is about a video store clerk and a pager salesman. But you’ll read them and decide. Do with them as you will.”

She swallowed. “Nick?”