Falling into Forever (Falling into You) - By Lauren Abrams Page 0,25

She sounds like a petulant child.

“I don’t think it makes for a very good story, but I’ll do my best. I owe you that.”

“You most certainly do owe me that.” She makes a little grunt. “We’re supposed to have a round of meetings with some of the production people next week in Chicago. FFG is trying to get a crew in place to start scouting some locations, and they want it done yesterday. I need to be at those meetings to make sure they don’t try to butcher your work, but maybe I can come up at the end of the week to spend some time at the cabin? You should probably come to Chicago, too.”

“I’ll let you know if I can.” I pause. “I’m sorry for not telling you, Eva.”

“You should be. You know, this stuff, these pictures of you and Chris Jensen, they could be an issue, Hals. Fair warning. If I found them in an hour-long internet hunt, that means someone else could, too. I’m frankly surprised they haven’t been found already, with the media storm after Ben’s…”

She pauses.

“You can say it, Eva. Ben’s death.”

She draws in a breath, sharply, because she knows that I haven’t said that word, or so many other words, death or dead or widow or explosion or accident or tragedy, in over a year.

“Okay. I just don’t think it can stay hidden forever. Someone who knew you, who knew Chris, will talk. Someone will make the connection.”

“I consider myself warned.”

I can’t think about that right now. I can’t think about what it would mean for anyone else to discover another one of my long-held secrets, to come marching into my life again with cameras and microphones to ask me about the young Chris Jensen.

It won’t happen. I’ve gotten good at denial, so I push the thought of the possibility to the furthest reaches of my mind.

“Take care of yourself, Caldwell. Love you bunches.”

“You too, Eva. See you soon.”

Click.

The rest of the cab ride is mercifully short, and when we arrive at Sam’s building, I hand some money to the driver and quickly get out of the cab. He speeds off, as if hysterical laughter and possible madness were a contagious disease. I seem to have that effect on people. At least recently.

I glance up at the opulent building, and an overwhelming wave of déjà vu passes through me. I haven’t been here in years.

The momentary high is starting to wear off and the total embarrassment is starting to seep in.

What the hell am I going to tell Sam?

Chapter 8

CHRIS

After I allow myself a good fifteen minutes of laying in the sheets and breathing in the still-lingering scent of her, I consider the possibilities.

I could go to Sam’s apartment right now, but the paparazzi would follow, and I can’t imagine that Hallie would appreciate that.

I could call the private investigator that FFG uses.

Not yet.

Then, it hits me. It hadn’t made sense the week before, when Marcus called me to scream that optioning the Rage series was career suicide.

“You’ll ruin your career, Jensen, the career I’ve carefully made for you despite all of the dumbass moves you’ve made in your life. It’s trash. Who wants to read about some asshole who takes a journey through post-apocalyptic America with his dog, his best friend, and some zombie-vampire hybrid things?”

“The millions of people who read the books?”

“It’ll never transfer to the screen.”

“The millions of people who fucking loved that book and that dog would beg to differ, Marcus.”

“I’m not doing it. Use Jeff as your agent, if you want. You know he’ll never be able to get half the deal that I would have gotten, but that’s not the point. I am out. And you better hear me on my next point, because it’s important. If you choose to do this, you have to realize that this is going to cause a serious fucking problem between the two of us. So, you better ask yourself whether this movie is worth it, Jensen. Whether it’s worth throwing away almost ten years of a partnership. Whether it’s worth losing your agent and your best friend.”

I did think about it. But my desire, my need for the Rage series was too powerful. The last movie I produced had been a box-office hit, but it was trash. I was on the verge of becoming Alan, someone who made movies that were nothing but explosions and bombs and aliens/zombies/vampires/spies. Of course, Rage and its sequels had those elements, too, which was