“I want to believe that,” he says.
“Wanting is half the battle,” I mutter. Here we are, having a drink, loosening up. This’d be a great moment to casually ask ‘How’s Charlotte?’ Just a way of showing that I don’t care, that I’m over it. But the words stick in my throat. First of all, opening up the relationship can of worms is unprofessional, and we’re barely out of awkwardness. Second, Flint’s got other problems right now. Third, it’s like Schrodinger’s relationship: as long as I don’t open the box, he is and is not with Charlotte. I can hold on to some sanity. I wonder if they’ve set a new wedding date yet.
Eventually, we all file into the deluxe screening room, a dimly lit theatre with reclining leather seats—with cup holders!—and an enormous screen. Flint sits next to me on one side, Suze on the other. She takes my hand and squeezes it as the lights start to go down. It’s good to have a friend here. Flint and I accidentally place our arms alongside each other at the same time, and we both pull back like we’ve been bitten. Not too long ago, I might’ve held on to Flint’s hand, even here in public, but those days are gone.
The footage starts, and it’s…good. We open on Flint standing on the mountainside, showing off the blue prints. His easy smile instantly wins over the room; I can actually feel the shift in the air. If the suits are into this, maybe we have a real shot when the show debuts on televisions all across the country. I start to relax in my seat.
“And that’s the basics of leveling your foundation,” Show Flint says, laughing as he looks to the side. “You got it?”
“I caught about five words in there I understood,” Show Me says to him. There I am, laughing as the camera cuts to me. I didn’t know how enormous people on screen are until I was actually one of them. Show Me tugs at my yellow hard hat, trying to get it comfortable. “Let’s see. I understood ‘The,’ ‘a,’ ‘an,’ ‘is,’ and ‘lunch.’ I’d say we’re off to a great start.” The big screen versions of us both laugh at that. Meanwhile, back here in screening room reality, my mouth has come dangerously close to unhinging itself and hitting the floor.
I’m in the footage? I’m in the fucking footage? Why the fuck am I in the footage? We were supposed to edit me out! That was the plan. Doesn’t everyone remember? I love it when a plan comes together, and I have an aneurysm when it falls apart.
In fact, going over it in my mind, I did edit myself out. I oversaw the whole thing, standing alongside Juan day after long, sweaty day. There was no alternate cut that we decided to swap at the end; someone literally had to have recut the entire episode in 48 hours to get this. Who has that kind of power or time on their hands?
As the episode continues, laughter and murmurs of interest sound all around me in the dark. That should be a great sign, but I don’t care, because I’m still stuck on the ‘I’m in most of the footage’ part of the evening. I’m pretty much the second star of the whole damn show. There’s even Show Me and Show Flint standing knee deep in the river, him teaching me how to fish. And then—splash—there I go, right into the water. I’m sitting there, laughing and shrieking as Flint helps me back up.
To my right, Flint leans over and whispers, “What’s going on? I didn’t know they were going to keep this.” His voice sounds so strained, it should be put on bed rest and given some aspirin and told not to exert itself like that again.
“You are not the only one,” I grind out. My jaw feels like it’s locked shut. The episode concludes with footage of Flint and me standing over by the cliff, looking down into the autumn trees below us.
“Think you’ll be ready for another day tomorrow?” I ask him. He nods, that easy smile playing on his face.
“First thing I need is a beer,” he answers. We both head up the hill. And that’s how the episode ends. Screen goes dark, lights come up. The world around me is muted, like I started shoving cotton balls into my ears. There’s applause, even, but I’m not listening to any of it. Who the fuck did this? Was it Tyler? God, it probably was that brat, or one of the brain dead executives. I’m going to murder someone, probably with the heavy base of one of Davis’s Emmy awards. All right. First thing is to sneak up to Davis’s office, pick the lock, then—
“Laurel.” There he is, standing over me. Herman Davis is…smiling. It’s as rare as the sighting of an albino Pegasus. Which means it doesn’t exist and you’re crazy for thinking it does. “Great audience reaction, don’t you think?” Davis asks, his tone conversational. He must think it’s weird that Flint and I are gaping up at him like some open mouth bass in formal wear.
Wait a minute. Why isn’t he flustered by all this? Why isn’t he asking me questions about what the hell I thought I was doing? The cut I showed him only featured Flint. I was completely out of it. He knew that’s what the show was.