Something to Talk About(24)

Running tended to help Emma clear her head. She could work out problems as her feet hit the ground. She liked to coordinate the difficulty of her runs with the difficulty of her problems.

On Saturday, she ran at Griffith Park.

She ran up. West Observatory Trail. From the start to the observatory was only about a mile, but the elevation change had her breathing hard early. Her feet sent up clouds of dust with every stride.

She wasn’t worried about the accidental kiss. No. That was going to be fine. She’d decided. And if she believed enough, it had to be true.

The problem she was working out instead was what she wanted to do.

Which—

She knew what she wanted to do.

Or did she? How could she be sure? What if she started on the path she thought she wanted, only to be wrong? She liked her job now. It was good. Interesting. She was good at it. She didn’t quite see why she couldn’t stay on as Jo’s assistant when Jo moved to Agent Silver. Maybe not forever, or anything, but at least for another year or two. She was still getting her footing. By her third year as props PA, she had everything figured out forward, backward, and sideways. Why couldn’t she do the same thing as Jo’s assistant?

Because she knew what she wanted to do.

She should have gotten out here earlier, before the tourists and the sun. Only April, but it was hot enough for sweat to drip down her forehead and pool at the base of her back.

Even if she was right about where she wanted to end up, she didn’t know how to get there. The path she expected to take didn’t work; she’d dropped out of film school. Maybe that had been a bad time in her life or maybe she just wasn’t good enough. Regardless, there wasn’t any sort of map plotted out for her now. Not any particular next step. Emma latched onto the metaphor as she ran. She could make a misstep, lose her footing, roll her ankle. She could get a cramp halfway through and have to pull up. Or worse, she could not have it in her. She worried about that most as she pushed herself up the incline. She already failed once. What if she got another chance and still couldn’t do it? What if she never made it to the top? She could get lost somewhere in the middle. Veer off the poorly marked path.

She was almost to the observatory on top of the hill. The water in her CamelBak was cool and refreshing. She wished she could pour it over her face. Hopefully she wasn’t sweating her sunscreen off. She kept going.

Tourists crowded the observatory parking lot. Cars packed in side by side while others circled like they were going to somehow get lucky and find an empty spot. Emma walked, hands on her hips, letting herself catch her breath. She tried to avoid interrupting anyone’s photos—of the city, the Hollywood Sign, each other.

She found a spot without people in it and stopped to stretch a little.

The Hollywood Sign sat on the hillside in front of her.

“I want to be a director.”

She hadn’t said it out loud since she left film school. Had barely even let herself think it.

It was terrifying.

None of the problems she considered on her way up were solved. Nothing was for certain. She could be wrong, could get stuck, could not have enough to get there.

But she knew what she wanted to do.



* * *



—

On Monday, Emma arrived at the restaurant for lunch before Jo did. No matter how many times over the weekend she had told herself everything was going to be fine, her whole body felt like a coiled spring, like a bolt screwed in too tight. She squeezed her purse against her side and took a step up the sidewalk away from the restaurant when a black car pulled up to the curb.

Emma pressed her lips together as Jo got out. She was still considering fleeing.

Then Jo smiled in greeting. Her regular, happy-to-see-you, not-at-all-stressed smile, and Emma felt like she could breathe again.

“Good to see you survived your hangover,” Jo teased gently.

Emma grimaced. Apparently they were going to address the kiss—the accidental kiss—right off the bat.

But instead, Jo said, “Let’s get a table. I’m starving.”

Okay then. One problem down. Or ignored, anyway. Emma didn’t care about the specifics. Now she just had to get through the career talk.

She might have spoken her dream out loud to herself, but she stayed quiet as they were led to an outdoor table. And as they ordered, and as the waiter brought her a lemonade and Jo a sparkling water. Jo talked sparingly, about the wrap party, about how work in the summer would be easier on them.

She let Emma be quiet until their food arrived, and then she said, “So what do you want to do?”

Emma had ordered a steak salad. She stuffed a hunk of meat in her mouth instead of answering. “Hmm?”

Jo smiled. “I need to know what kind of recommendation letter I should write you.” She stabbed a bite of her Caesar salad. “What job do you want next?”

Emma wanted to direct.

But that was too scary to say out loud. It was a big dream. There were too many ways to fail.

Emma shrugged, noncommittal.

“You’re too good for this, Emma. Too smart.”

Emma didn’t like that, Jo making it seem like her job wasn’t important enough.

“I like my job, Ms. Jones,” she said.

“Ms. Kaplan.” Jo’s voice snapped around the K. “I’m not letting you stagnate as my assistant. It’s nonnegotiable.”