Page 86 of Retool

Not that I had to worry about it now.That was all in the future.For now, I had to get through twenty-four hours, and then I’d be back.I’d be home.With the people I loved.

Until the next time I had to fly out.To meet with the writers.Or to meet with the executives.Or if they wanted me on set for some reason (probably not).Or for a premiere.Or for the next deal, the next offer, the next opportunity.

Which was good.Which was very good.This was what every writer dreamed of.This was what we all wanted.This kind of opportunity.This kind of success.What I was building—what I waschoosing—was the rest of my life.And it was all mine, everything I wanted—and at such a small price.All I had to do was leave.For twenty-four hours.Tops.

The shoulder widened into a pull-out ahead.I slowed and eased the Jeep onto it.I sat there as an RV rolled past, and it made me think of my parents.And then an aging Buick.And then a Honda Pilot with floral pink script in the rear window that said DOG MOM.And I laughed because no matter what Bobby thought, the Pilot was totally a mom car.And that was when I realized I was crying.

Traffic opened, and I swung around.

Maybe I was being an idiot.Maybe this was my one chance, and I was blowing it.Maybe L.A.was the right choice.For someone.

But if it was a mistake, it was mine.And this was my life, after all.And I only got one shot at it.

When I started up the drive to Hemlock House, the sun was setting behind it.It rendered the sprawling old mansion in silhouette: the dormer windows, the chimneys, the roof.And for a moment, as I drove into its shadow, I couldn’t see anything as my eyes adjusted.

And then I could.

I parked in front of the house.

I got out of the Jeep.

Bobby was on the veranda.The blue bicycle—mybike—was propped against the wall next to him, and he’d taken off the chain and laid it out on a piece of newspaper, and he was trying to do something with a can of WD-40.He must have heard me coming up the drive (the Jeep isn’t exactly a stealth vehicle), but he kept working until I started up the steps.

And then he sat back on his heels and turned, wiping his hands with a rag.He smiled, that big, ridiculously goofy one that was the real Bobby Mai.And then, voice rough, he said, “Hi, babe.”He stopped.And somehow, his smile got even bigger.“Welcome home.”