Instead, she skimmed the menu, trying to stay engaged as her mother filled her in on everything she’d missed at Madison’s graduation party several weeks earlier. Apparently, one of Madison’s friends had shown up in a nearly identical dress, drawing all the attention away from poor Madison. Grey murmured sympathetically, which was all that was needed from her.
The hostess came over to take their drink orders, apologizing again for the wait. Grey studied her. She looked like she was barely out of her teens, curvaceous and striking, with a platinum pixie cut and a bright slash of lipstick. Grey wondered why she’d moved to New York, what dream she was chasing, whether she would ever catch it. Whether anyone ever did.
“So, where are you staying?” her mother chirped as the hostess scurried away again.
“The Bowery.”
Her mother raised her eyebrows. “I assume he’s paying?”
Grey went pink. As always, her mother somehow sensed exactly which buttons to press. How could she have known that earlier that morning, after Grey had stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a plush towel, she’d looked out at the spectacular view from the bathroom window and felt paralyzed?
She hadn’t felt strange about the expensive meals and opulent accommodations she’d experienced when she and Ethan had still been bound by their contract. She’d been able to rationalize them as perks of the job, one in which they were equal partners. But now she was just along for the ride, basking in his benevolence. She knew she should just enjoy it and be grateful, that anyone else would be thrilled to be in her shoes. And she was, mostly. Except for the twisted, anxious part deep inside her that felt like Cinderella two minutes before midnight.
A position her mother could probably relate to, come to think of it.
She rolled her eyes. “Mo-om.” She was glad Ethan wasn’t here to see her this way. The question was always when, not if, she would turn into a brat in her mother’s presence.
“Sorry. You’re so sensitive sometimes, I never know what’s going to set you off.”
“I just don’t know why you would ask when you clearly already know the answer.”
“I didn’t know. You don’t tell me anything. Everything I know about you two I have to read in the tabloids. How do you think that makes me feel? Do you think I liked having my dentist be the one to tell me that my daughter’s bare behind was all over the news, and then some?”
There it was. They hadn’t talked about Grey’s scandal, and a part of her had na?vely hoped they’d never have to.
“Yeah, that must have been really hard for you,” she muttered. The sarcasm seemed to fly over her mother’s head.
“All I’m asking for is a crumb of information every once in a while.”
About Ethan, or about me? Grey swallowed the provocation, refusing to let herself revert fully to a sullen teen.
“You’re right. Sorry.”
“So, where is he, exactly, that’s more important than you?”
* * *
—
ETHAN DRUMMED HIS fingers on the corner of the table. He’d arrived at the restaurant early, humming with nervous energy. It had been years since he’d seen Perry.
When the studio had declared Ethan too inexperienced to direct Dirtbags, insisting instead on bringing in an established director, Ethan had been prepared to hate him. He’d seethed with insecurity the first few days on set. However, Perry had disarmed him immediately with his gruff, no-nonsense approach, coupled with his overwhelming patience and generosity in explaining every decision he was making. Shooting Dirtbags had been like Ethan’s own personal film school: everything he knew about filmmaking, he had learned on that set.
It had hit him halfway through the plane ride to New York, cruising thirty-five thousand feet above Kansas: Perry should direct Bitter Pill. He couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to him sooner. It was perfect. The way to honor Sam would be to return to their roots, recruit the man who had shaped their first screenplay into a classic. He’d immediately pulled out his laptop and forwarded Perry the screenplay.
Ethan had seated himself facing the door, so he saw Perry as soon as he strolled in. He was immediately struck by how young he looked. When Perry had directed Dirtbags, he’d seemed a thousand years old to Ethan; now in his early fifties, it seemed like he hadn’t aged much since then. Ethan realized with a start that he was now almost the same age that Perry had been then. When Perry spotted him, his face lit up.
“Ethan!” Perry boomed, charging across the restaurant toward him. Part of the reason working with him had felt like film school was that Perry had (what Ethan assumed to be) a professorial vibe: ruddy face, wild strawberry-blond hair, patched elbows. He wrapped Ethan in an enormous bear hug before stepping back and holding him at arm’s length, appraising him.
“It’s good to see you, old man,” Perry said with a grin, the familiar affection in his voice warming Ethan from head to toe as they slid into opposite sides of the booth.
He’d brought Perry to one of his favorite old haunts, a West Village gastropub famous for its decadent burgers. But when he mentioned it as they perused their menus, Perry dropped his eyes and shook his head.
“Can’t do red meat these days. Doctor’s orders.”
He was reluctant to elaborate, but Ethan eventually dragged it out of him: two years ago, after a heart attack followed by a double bypass, Perry had been forced to overhaul his lifestyle. Ethan found it hard to believe that Perry, who’d never met a vice he didn’t embrace wholeheartedly, no longer drank, smoked cigarettes, or ate meat. However, he did have to admit that Perry seemed more vital than he’d ever seen him. A brush with mortality would do that to a man. It also explained why someone who famously never watched his own films once the final cut was finished would allow his oeuvre to be so publicly and thoroughly celebrated—let alone agree to be part of it.
“It’s fucking bleak, is what it is,” Perry said cheerfully, digging into his Caesar salad. “This is it, I’ve done everything I’ll ever do that’s worth a damn. I can just wave to the adoring crowd and turn into a pile of dust.”
Ethan took a sip of his beer. This was the opening he’d been waiting for.
“Do you have anything lined up next?” he asked casually between bites of a burger that was almost too big to fit his mouth around.
Perry shrugged. “Not sure. One of those streaming sites has been trying to get me to do something or other. Ten years ago I would’ve told them to go fuck themselves, but I guess that’s where everything interesting is happening now, right?”
Ethan nodded vaguely, then cleared his throat. “Did you get a chance to read through what I sent you?”
As soon as he saw the look on Perry’s face, he regretted asking. He regretted sending it. He regretted the whole fucking thing.
“I did,” Perry replied, unable to meet Ethan’s eyes. It didn’t seem like he wanted to say more, but the door had already been opened.
“What did you think?” Ethan asked, though he already knew the answer.
Perry sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know about this one, Ethan. I don’t think it’s there yet.”
“Well, what does it need?” The desperation in his voice embarrassed him.
“I’m not sure. I’d have to take a closer look at it, but my instinct is it’s doomed from the start. I just don’t see what benefit there is to remaking it; the original is damn near perfect. It doesn’t feel like you’ve found your own angle yet. You’re setting yourself up for failure. What’s more, you’re selling yourself short. I know you’re capable of more than this.”
Ethan knew Perry was trying to be kind, but the wad of meat he’d just swallowed felt stuck in his throat. He struggled to reply.
“I know. I know it’s not ready. But I really want—I need to make this work. For Sam.”
He didn’t have to say any more. Perry’s brow creased with sympathy. Ethan looked away, draining his beer.