Page 16 of The Spirit of Love

“Uh-huh.” He nods, inscrutable. A beat passes when we just stare at each other.

I go from wanting him to confess—that what, he ate Sam’s heart and stole his body?

—to getting lost enough in our staring contest that I forget what we were talking about in the first place.

My chest warms. I hold my breath. Finally, Jude looks away.

“Want to know what I’d be doing?” he asks, running a hand through his close-cropped dark hair.

“Why not.”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Nothing.”

I look at him. Wait for more.

He looks down at his feet and toes the pebble in the path with his brogues.

“I was in a bad way when I came to Hollywood. Sleeping on my friend Matt’s couch while I made my first film on less than a shoestring budget, credit card debt, and favors from Matt and his friends.

I had no experience outside of one film class in college, just this kind of vision for what the film could be. ”

“So you just willed Brujo of the Maypole into being?” I ask, skeptical.

He tosses his head. “Matt showed the rough cut to a producer friend, and we got lucky with distribution. But what I’m trying to say is that directing saved me. I fell in love with it. And I think this is it for me. I don’t—can’t—see another life.”

I want more details, but I don’t want to ask. Jude has gotten my attention, but I’m still angry. He got such a big break right out of the gate and then showed up this morning and took mine, too.

“I’m going to level with you, Fenny. I can tell you’re not happy about the direction we’re going in. I can’t imagine Rich sprung that on you nicely.”

Oh, wow. He’s going to go there. Am I ready for this? To hear him defend stealing my job?

“Rich isn’t known for his bedside manner,” I say, leaving the conversation open, leading him to the edge of the cliff.

I realize Jude is right, that I should be mad at Rich primarily. And I am, but I also expect it from Rich. I’m used to it with Rich. And as of this morning, there’s so much rage in me that it has to flow out somewhere, and maybe it’s like lightning. The tallest thing in the room attracts it.

Jude stops walking and gathers himself, like a man about to make his toast. “To be a writer of your talent and experience,” he says, “and to be asked to do extensive rewrites on the eve of principle photography—I can see why you’re frustrated.”

A writer of my talent and experience? No mention of directing. Is it possible he just thinks I’m pissed about some extra work?

“I want to encourage you,” Jude says, “to feel free. Try something new. This may sound weird, but imagine these rewrites are…a fling. You’re having an affair with the script. Something you wouldn’t say yes to forever, but for a little while, you’ll give it a whirl.”

I roll my eyes. “Just grasp that script and spread my legs?”

“Well—I—”

“Let it take me from behind?”

“I was only—”

I roll my eyes again. That’s not the way my work works for me.

I’m methodical about my research. I don’t whirl.

I don’t fling. I did fling last weekend; I took my eye off the ball for forty-eight hours, and look where it got me: my job stolen.

I know there’s no causal connection between my fling with Sam and Jude ruining the next year of my life.

He was already on his way in to wreck it, regardless of how many beachfront orgasms I had last weekend.

I give Jude a skeptical look. “You’re the expert on flings?”

“God, no.” He laughs. The tips of his ears turn pink. “Actually, my ex broke up with me over this show.”

I point at him. “That I would like to hear more about.”

“We were watching last year’s season finale, and I kept rewinding parts to show her again, to make sure she got the jokes, the references, the cultural vocabulary. She wasn’t laughing at anything. She was just…eating. Finally, I put my hand over her quinoa salad—”

I burst out laughing.

“Yeah, Lisa did not like that. We had a huge fight, and a lot of other stuff came up, but anyway…I think it was for the best.”

“You broke up over Zombie Hospital ?” I’m stupefied yet a little thrilled.

“I take the media I love seriously. And while Lisa was moving her stuff out the next day, I emailed Amy Reisenbach—”

“The president of CBS?”

He nods, like this is no big deal. “I asked if there was ever anything she could do to get me on the show.”

I stare at him. “Sorry, you did what?”

He lifts a shoulder, casual. “I told her it was the sharpest writing I’d seen on network TV in years, and I wanted to get in however I could.” He’s studying me. He smiles and a light goes on in his eyes. A light that reminds me of Sam because it’s…kind. “You wrote that episode.”

“It was a joint effort,” I manage to croak out, suddenly feeling like I might be sick. Holy Catalina. Jude de Silva is here because of me .

“Sure,” he says, “but you got the credit, which means it was yours originally. I checked. That’s why I wanted to talk to you today in particular. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for what feels like a long time. Although I have to say, you’re not exactly what I expected.”

I narrow my eyes. “Meaning?”

“You’re younger than I guessed. Also, more…female.”

“You thought I was an old man because I’m funny?”

“That’s not what I mean. I couldn’t tell from your name, and IMDb doesn’t have a picture.” His eyes pan my face, like he’s uploading the missing photo with his mind.

“Also,” he says hesitantly, “what happened in Rich’s office this morning threw me for a loop. What was that about?”

He’s looking at me for an explanation, but I don’t owe him anything.

He should see the loop he threw me for. I’m still in it, shrieking inwardly, begging to be let off.

And now I can’t even blame him. He clearly doesn’t know I was meant to direct this season and he’s ruining my life because I wrote a good episode. I brought this on myself.

“Gardens are closed,” a green-jacketed security guard says, rounding a bank of blue agave. He points a flashlight toward a wide path and says, “Exit’s that way.”

“So ends our film noir,” I say to Jude.

“?‘I steal,’?” Jude whispers.

“What?” I ask, startled.

“That’s the last line of I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang ,” Jude says. “My favorite film noir.”

I love that movie, too. Edie and I used to watch it with my dad on the couch in our garage, but I don’t tell this to Jude de Silva. Even if he’s not just here for the paycheck, even if he does claim to be a fan of the show, he’s still my competition. Not my colleague. Not my friend.