Funny You Should Ask(18)
“No one’s ever asked me that,” he said.
“I’m sure they all want to know what’s on the list,” I said.
He nodded. The puppy yawned.
“So?” I asked. “What does success look like to Gabe Parker?”
He looked at me and didn’t say anything for a good long while. If it wasn’t for the unwavering eye contact, I might have thought he’d fallen asleep or something.
But he was over there thinking. Thinking hard.
Then, without looking away, he raised his hand, indicating for the check.
“Want to get out of here?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
THE_JAM_DOT_COM.BLOGSPOT.COM
I’M NOT GOOD. I’M NOT BAD. I’M JUST WRITE.
Someone once said that choosing to be a writer was like choosing to be slapped in the face repeatedly.
Was it Salinger who said it? Hemingway?
No, it was a girl in my first-year fiction workshop who came to class drunk on peach schnapps, tossed her short story at our teacher, threw up in a trash can, and walked out of class.
I think about her often.
Because she was right.
It’s also the reason I’m pretty sure that no one actually chooses to be a writer. It’s a terrible choice.
Also terrible? The title of this post.
I hope Stephen Sondheim will forgive me for the egregious pun. I really hope Stephen Sondheim doesn’t read Blogger.
I tried taking a lesson from him, and attempted writing while lying down.
I fell asleep before I could write a Tony Award–worthy musical. Before I could write anything.
One would think all the brilliant ideas swarming around my head would keep me awake. They didn’t. The only thing that keeps me awake is the fear that I’m not a good writer. That I’m not even a bad writer.
No. I’m worried I’m just a boring one.
And that feels like the worst option of all.
xoChani
Chapter
5
The house was beautiful. And enormous.
“There are eight bedrooms,” the real estate agent said. “Plus a pool house that can easily be renovated into a two-bedroom guesthouse. Three acres with a pool and hot tub. Screening room in the basement, next to the gym. Four bathrooms. Kitchen. Wine cellar.”
I had never been in a house as large as this one. The amount of space was obscene. Eight bedrooms? A gym? A sauna?
As far as I could tell, Gabe was one person. What did he need with all this space?
I glanced over at him, but he was being paid the big acting bucks for a reason—his face was inscrutable. I couldn’t tell if he loved the place or was five seconds away from picking up a chair and throwing it through the glass doors because he wanted nine bedrooms, dammit!
Even though he’d gotten more than a little drunk during lunch, he didn’t seem the type to throw a tantrum over the number of bedrooms available to him.
“Do you mind if I take a look around?” Gabe asked the real estate agent.
“Not at all,” she said, taking the hint and leaving the room.
We were in the kitchen. It was clean and modern, with shiny chrome everything and big windows that opened up onto a yard that was truly gorgeous. Impeccably maintained, it looked like a museum lawn.
“What do you think?” Gabe asked.
“It’s beautiful,” I said honestly.
He looked at me and crossed his arms. “But?”
“How do you know there’s a but?” I asked, immediately regretting the way I’d worded that.
He laughed. It was a great laugh, all low and dark and rich. If chocolate cake had a laugh, it would be that.
I kept moving my hand toward my bag, my fingers itching to pull out my tape recorder again, but I was worried that if I did, the happy, relaxed look on Gabe’s face would disappear.
Instead, I just tried to remember as much as I could, hoping that I could use this in my piece.
“You’re not in love,” he said.
“What?”
He gestured. “With the house,” he said. “I can tell.”
The puppy was playing in the grass outside, her tail twitching as she flopped from side to side.
“What don’t you like about it?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m not the one buying the house.”
Why did Gabe care what I thought about a multimillion-dollar mansion that he might or might not buy? It’s not like I’d be coming over to hang out at his pool on the weekends. I almost snarkily suggested that he call Jacinda and ask her, but I held my tongue.
“I’d still like to hear your thoughts,” Gabe said. “Would you buy this house?”
I laughed. “There’s no universe where I’d be in a position to buy a house like this. It’s huge!”
Gabe nodded. “It is pretty large.”
“Are your mom and sister going to move to L.A.?” I asked.
This time, he was the one who laughed. “I can get my family here for premieres and awards, but that’s about it. There’s no way either of them would consider moving to L.A. They love Montana too much to leave. Besides, they have the Cozy.”
I nodded. I thought about telling him that I had ordered a few books from them online, which I’d received with a handwritten note thanking me for my business and a recommendation for another book based on the ones I’d just bought. The suggestion had been spot-on and I ended up ordering it from them as well.