Page 27 of The Spirit of Love

Chapter Sixteen

Production dinners are a mixed bag. At best, they can be a release valve at the end of an exhausting shoot, a way to blow off steam with the production assistants over company-expensed dumplings and inside jokes.

But tonight, with Rich staying over, and with Jude’s traveling team of set bros already pregaming loudly in the room next door to mine, I am feeling a strong urge to bail.

Even though Jude hasn’t turned out to be as bad a director, or person, as I feared he would be, I don’t think I’m quite enlightened enough to sit around another table praising his work today.

The walls of the saloon are made of clapboard and hung with desert relics, bull skulls, saddles, and rusted road signs from a hundred years ago.

There’s a rock band setting up on a tiny stage in the corner and a stretch of open barstools opposite the pool table.

The last of the day’s sunlight struggles through the smoked glass windows as I sidle up to the bar and peel a laminated menu off its sticky top.

The bartender, a pretty Latina woman with a silver septum piercing, smiles my way. “What’s your poison?”

“A burger, medium rare, and a Sierra Nevada.”

I open Instagram, and the first thing that pops up is a video Olivia posted of herself and Jake screaming at each other as the two of them leap out of a plane, holding hands. The caption reads, “One week until we take this fight into forever. Can’t wait to marry you, Glasswell.”

I can’t believe they’ll be married in a week. I can’t believe a week ago I thought about bringing Sam to the wedding as my date.

What would Sam look like holding my hand as the two of us jumped out of a plane?

What would he look like in a tux, on a dance floor, with me in his arms?

All things I’ll never know. I don’t mind going to Olivia’s wedding solo.

I’m used to that by now. Even back when I was dating Eric, he made it clear that my friends were my business, that he’d be glad to hook up after I was done spending time with them.

“This beer comes courtesy of that gentleman,” the bartender says, gesturing to the side of the saloon.

“Oh, no, please,” I say, “tell whoever it is I’ll be paying for my own hangover tonight.” I don’t even need to look at the elderly desert lizard who likely bought my drink to know this is my answer. But then, on impulse, my gaze follows the bartender’s nod, and who else would it lead to?

Jude de Silva.

He’s sitting at the other end of the bar in his blazer, looking completely out of place. Why is he here? Why isn’t he at the production dinner, being worshipped by all?

He points at his drink—a Sierra Nevada as well. He points again.

He’s trying to tell me something. I lift my own drink off the coaster, where he’s scrawled a note in pen.

Acknowledging the obvious: We’re both here.

There’s an arrow prompting me to flip over the coaster.

Would you rather: A) lean into our introverted instincts and pretend we’ve never met, or B) celebrate you saving today’s scene with another round?

My chest tightens with trapped frustration as I tell myself Jude is the director of my show, so I can’t behave like a completely antisocial Neanderthal. But one assumes Jude also came here to be alone, so what if he wants me to pick option A?

I reach into my bag for a pen and scrawl under his question:

Dealer’s choice.

Just when the bartender—who seems to think this coaster-passing is cuter than it is—delivers my response to Jude, a horde of twenty-odd bikers flood the bar, crowding in around me as they bark out Budweiser orders.

I look toward Jude, who glances at the empty stool to his left. He raises an eyebrow and smiles. Surrendering to the cosmos he doesn’t believe in, I rise from my stool, offer it to the hair-sprayed, leather-clad biker chick waiting behind me, and signal to the bartender that I’m moving seats.

“I was hoping it would go that way,” she says.

I slide in next to Sam. “Those bikers were right on cue.”

“Well worth the fifty bucks I paid them.”

“I thought you’d be at the production dinner. Kevin and Matt were pregaming strong on the deck next to my room.”

“I can see why you’re here,” he says with a wince. “Today was exhausting. Exhilarating but exhausting. I needed some space to come down.”

Jude’s comment makes me jealous. I want that exhilarating, exhausted feeling. I was supposed to have it on this trip. I was supposed to be the one needing to come down right now.

“Oh,” he says, picking up on the shift in my mood. “I didn’t mean I needed space from you.”

“Two burgers,” the server says, setting down our identical plates.

We reach for the ketchup at the same time but then both pull back to let the other take it. Finally, we both take a bite and chew in contented, if awkward, silence.

“I have an amazing burger recipe,” Jude says.

“I pack crumbled blue cheese and these homemade pickled jalapenos in this little secret lair inside the patty. Throw it on the grill…” He studies my expression.

“What? Is this boring? Do you not like to cook? I thought because you were in the kitchen the other night, you were maybe into—”

“I cook,” I say. “I don’t know why, but I assumed you didn’t. I kinda took you for a toast-burner.”

“Recovered toast-burner,” he says. “These days, my kitchen is the place where I can use my hands and let everything go.”

“Apparently I only cook when I’m angry,” I say. “My brother-in-law called me on that the other day.”

“So…have you been cooking much since I came on Zombie Hospital ?”

“I’ve packed my sister’s deep-freeze full,” I joke.

Something cold and wet nudges my ankle and makes me jump. I spin around and look down into the adorable brown face of some kind of shepherd mix puppy crouched under a barstool. “Woah, there’s a dog in here!”

“Oh, shoot,” Jude says, jumping up. “Where are my manners? Fenny, this is Walter Matthau. Walter Matthau, Fenny.”

I put out a hand to Walter Matthau, who places his paw in my palm. He has soulful eyes but a puppy’s wagging tail. I give his head a scratch and he nuzzles into my touch, the way my old dog, Milo, used to do.

“I can see why he hates you,” I tease. “You take him to bars. You forget he’s there. You don’t introduce him to your colleagues.”

“That was terrible,” Jude agrees. “It’s no excuse, but you—I—when I saw you here, I got distracted.”

“Has he been with you all day?”

“I had a dog walker with him this afternoon while I was on set, but I’m trying to take your advice.” He gestures around the bar, then at the dog giving him quite the side-eye. “This is the closest I could come to a guys’ trip for now.”

“That’s great, Jude,” I say, and mean it.

“Unless he runs off with you.” Jude nods at his dog, who has all but crawled on top of me. I give him one more good belly rub and then rise to sit back next to Jude.

“I miss my dog,” I say. “Milo died last year. Brindle boxer. Very wise and dignified.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I heard all dogs go to heaven.”

“Which you don’t believe in,” I say with a smile. “Don’t patronize me just because my dog died. Anyway, I think Milo was reincarnated as, like, a really beautiful spider, spinning webs on a giant cactus at the Huntington Gardens.”

Jude looks at me as if he’s trying to figure out whether I’m serious, but then he seems to get that that’s not really the point. He smiles and so do I.

“Thanks for today, on set,” he says, biting into a fry.

“Yeah, what happened there? Is it okay to ask? The morning went so smoothly. Is it Buster you have a hard time working with?”

“No, Buster’s great. It was all me. This is embarrassing, but I get vertigo. Not great around steep drops. I was on my way to freaking out, but you saved me, Fenny. You saved the scene.”

“It was nothing—”

“It was not. Why do you downplay your strengths?”

I blink, surprised. “I know my strengths. I don’t downplay them. When I say it was nothing, I mean it changes nothing. I’ll still be rewriting scripts later tonight and into infinity.”

“You should be directing,” he says, just as I’ve taken a sip of my beer.

I have to fight hard to not do the spit-take gag.

“I’m serious,” Jude goes on. “You’ve got all the instincts. The actors revere you. You know everything, see everything, grasp everything. Buster said you’d already helped him block the scenes. You were made for this! You’re Zombie Hospital ’s unicorn. And unicorns need to direct. What?”

“Gee. It’s a great idea, Jude,” I deadpan, meeting his eyes. “Why didn’t I ever think of that?”

There’s a pregnant pause as I watch understanding flow into his brown eyes. They soften, turning down a bit at the corners.

“Oh,” he says, still looking at me.

The energy between us is so fraught that I can’t speak for fear of crying. I think Jude sees me, underneath the layers of protective sarcasm. I think he sees what I wanted, what he took from me, what it means.

“Fenny,” he says, and his voice is different. “They told me there was an unexpected opening.”

“It was unexpected to me, too,” I say quietly.

“Rich told me—what an ass —he said something about the director they had lined up being institutionalized.”

“Maybe he was gazing into the future.” I take a drink. “But for now, she’s very much still here.”

“That’s why you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” I confess. “Not anymore. Not that much.”

“That first day, when we met…” He trails off, studying me. “I couldn’t figure out what I’d done wrong. I was like, Do I remind her of some ex-boyfriend? ”

I almost spit out my beer again. I should really pause on the drinking until we’ve concluded this portion of the conversation.

“I’m sorry,” he says, cringing. “That was—wow—embarrassingly presumptuous of me.” Jude’s cheeks have turned a surprising shade of rosy.

“How so?”

His voice has gone higher, clearer. “I did not mean to imply that I think I look like someone you would date or should date—”

“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s simpler than all that. I just wanted your job.”