can’t deny it now, Bill: Something’s up with you. What it is?”
“I’m not your leak.”
“But you know something, don’t you? Yes, you do. Tell us everything, Bill. Tell us what happened.”
Silence.
Honestly, I didn’t even know where to begin.
When it came to my new wardrobe: Boris was what had happened. Remember that time he’d invited me over for dinner, to taste his grandfather’s… meatball recipes? Well, when I finally calmed down enough to call him back, I accepted. And guess what? Boris can really cook. Oh, and he can really kiss, too. We did that. We did that… a lot.
The point being: Boris made me feel so good about myself, I was inspired to go clothes shopping for the first time since moving to LA. Hence the Diane von Furstenberg and a number of other not-usually-my-type-of-thing outfits—all of which had given me enough confidence to stroll right into Nico DeLuca’s backstage coffee bar the next morning, and not even be questioned by the two ex–Secret Service guys at the door. They just assumed I belonged there.
Of course, my upgraded look wouldn’t have been possible if I hadn’t also been moonlighting for Joey as a scriptwriter. This meant I had some money to spend on things other than the rent. Mitch had even fronted my first paycheck as an advance.
I felt rich, almost. Plus, it wasn’t like I had to save up for a year in Hawaii any more.
Yeah… about that. So I called Brock from Mount Cypress, just like Joey had told me to. To make things more difficult, it was a crappy line—or maybe it was the soundtrack to Apocalypse Now in the background, provided by the circling newscopters, I don’t know—but I pushed on with the conversation anyway. I knew I was essentially breaking up with him. But the ways things had been going, “breaking up” was a technicality. I didn’t even expect him to be surprised.
Oh, I had no idea.
“Look, Brock,” I opened, pacing the hospital lobby, hand over one ear so I wouldn’t have to keep asking him to speak louder. “I’m gonna stay out here until the end of the season. I might even stay longer, actually, if we get picked up for another season.”
“What the hell, Sash? You said—”
“I got a writing job. This is real, Brock. It’s not just me sitting on a beach, composing some novel that no one will ever read. It’s a paying gig. It could lead to something.”
“I thought you hated LA,” Brock protested, without actually sounding too upset about it. He seemed to be taking this very well. A delayed-shock thing, maybe.
“Sometimes it’s tough here, yeah,” I replied, earnestly. “But life isn’t perfect, y’know? You can’t just complain all the time. You’ve gotta do what you love—but you’ve also gotta find a way to love what you do.” (For some reason, this didn’t sound as good when I said it.) “If you never commit to anything because you think you’re too good for it, because it isn’t exactly right, then you’ll miss out on all kinds of opportunities, and this is one of those opportunities, Brock. Joey Lovecraft wants me to write scripts for him. He’s paying me. Why don’t you come out here to LA for a weekend—see what it’s like? Maybe we could do our plan in reverse?”
“Uh-huh.”
A long pause.
“What do you mean… ‘Uh-huh?’” I said, testily. “That could mean yes or no.”
“I mean, uh, yeah… right on. Look, Sash, I’ve gotta—”
“Are you even listening?”
“Of course, Sash. Of course.”
“Then what do you think about coming to LA?”
“Me—go to LA? No can do. I’ve got stuff going on. And Pete is living on the couch.”
“Pete? What is he, three years old?” I was beginning to remember how much Brock could irritate me.
“He needs my help, man. He’s broke. Look, why don’t you come out here, like we said, like we had planned, and we can talk? All that hanging around with celebrities—it’s like you’re not thinking straight, Sash. I’m getting worried about—”
A muffled scrunching noise, like someone had just pulled the phone away from him.
Chaos on the line.
“… give it to me…”
“Tell her.”
“… just gimme the phone…”
“Fucking tell her, Brock.”
“… will you stop…”
“If you’re not going to do it yourself, I’ll do it for you, dammit. Jesus, you’re pathetic.”
A female voice—older—addressed me. “Sasha? This is Nadia. I’m Brock’s manager at the Hua-Kuwali. Brock’s been meaning to tell you: We’re fucking. We’ve been fucking since he arrived in Hawaii, actually, but on a more regular basis recently. We’re lying