Part 7 (2/2)

I thought about that night before, the day we'd been unpacking, when I'd imagined I'd seen those ghosts from the past. But those had been fantasies, fleeting flights of fancy. This felt different. Maybe I was still asleep and dreaming.

”There's even supposed to be a ghost.” That's what Gina had said about our apartment.

That was ridiculous. There was no such thing as ghosts. But I was suddenly a lot more sympathetic toward people who claimed to sense them. Now I knew what it felt like, how your skin p.r.i.c.kled, and your hands and feet went cold. For a second, I thought about going back into the bedroom to wake Kevin. I hadn't even closed the door behind me - I could still hear him breathing. I wasn't sure what he'd think though. And if I went to get Kevin, I wasn't sure the presence would still be here when we got back.

”h.e.l.lo?” I whispered.

The music stopped. Had it stopped abruptly, someone turning a switch, or had it just come to the end of the song? I couldn't tell. I'd been listening for an answer to my question, not listening closely to the music. But did it even matter if it had stopped suddenly, if I'd only been overhearing the neighbor's radio?

Outside the windows, the freeway hissed.

There's no one here, I thought. It was just like before, that night I'd imagined the past, but this time, I'd let my imagination get away from me.

I turned back for the bedroom, then realized I needed to use the bathroom first.

Halfway across the room, a male voice said, urgently, ”Whatever you do, don't-”

I turned back for the bedroom, hoping that Kevin would be standing in the doorway, warning me that I was about to stub my toe on a table or something.

He wasn't there.

Maybe it was another trick of the acoustics, another noise from the neighbor's apartment?

It didn't sound like that. As with the music, it had sounded like it was in the apartment with me, in the same room I was in. But the voice had sounded a little like a radio too, like it had to be tuned. We were together, but also somehow not.

What was I not supposed to do? The voice had faded away before he could say.

I was scared, but not because of the presence: I didn't feel any sense of danger from that. No, it was more the urgency of the warning. It seemed like it was directed at me, that it was really important I hear it.

”Don't do what?” I said to the room, to the presence.

It didn't answer.

”Please,” I said. ”Tell me.”

There was still no answer.

Suddenly I felt like an idiot. Of course I hadn't heard anything real. I probably wasn't fully awake or something. If there had been music and a voice, it was just a radio. It had even sounded like that. Why in the world would I a.s.sume it was a ghost trying to communicate with me from across the dimensions?

I used the bathroom and went back to bed, cuddling up to Kevin, who never did wake up. I didn't care that the room was stuffy, and his body was sweaty. I'd already decided I wasn't going to tell him what I thought I'd experienced. I felt stupid enough about it already.

But I didn't drift off to sleep, not until even deeper in the night. I couldn't shake the feeling that the voice and its warning had been real, that it had been meant for me, and that I was somehow about to make the biggest mistake of my life.

CHAPTER SIX.

Everybody makes a big deal about the first time you have s.e.x, and it is a big deal, mostly because you don't really know what to expect. But don't people kinda sorta know what to expect, at least these days? I mean, it's not like we live in Victorian times where people haven't ever seen another person naked. Most teenagers have seen plenty of s.e.x online. Even if ”p.o.r.n” isn't exactly the same thing as ”s.e.x,” people still have a general idea of what goes where with who.

The following Monday, Lewis called and invited me over to Mr. Brander's house for the very first A Cup of Joe development meeting. It was scheduled for the next day.

Unlike s.e.x for a virgin, I had absolutely no idea what to expect.

I'm not a complete idiot: I a.s.sumed that ”developing” a project meant figuring out how to turn the screenplay into an actual movie. It's not like they're the same thing. So I a.s.sumed we'd talk about a director, and the budget, and locations, and casting, and probably also what was wrong with the script itself, what needed revising. But exactly what did all that involve? And who would be involved? Just Mr. Brander, Lewis, and me?

When I was still on the phone with him, I thought about asking Lewis what to expect, but I figured that would paint me as even more of a total newbie, so I decided not to.

Basically, for the second time in my life, I was a fumbling, awkward, blus.h.i.+ng virgin. And I had no choice but to drop trou, clench my teeth, and get the d.a.m.n thing over.

Once again, I was determined to be at Mr. Brander's house early, and once again, thanks to the horrible traffic, I just barely made it (and, of course, at one point I was almost killed).

Still embarra.s.sed by my car, I parked along the street and let Lewis buzz me in on foot.

He met me at the front door.

”Lewis,” I said.

”Russel,” he said.

There was something different about him this time, but I couldn't figure out what it was. It wasn't his shoes or his clothing, which I'm pretty sure were exactly the same as before.

”What's up?” I said.

He was looking away. ”This way.”

I could hear voices behind him in the front room. Rather than being decorated with movie posters and photos and awards like Mr. Brander's office, this room was filled with antiques: fixtures with crystal beads and pots made of hammered bra.s.s, even a big carved wood fireplace mantle. The curtains dripped with ta.s.sels, and the couches were mostly of the ”divan” type. The area smelled like dried flowers, something vaguely sweet and a little like hay.

I stepped into the grand arch of the entryway. Mr. Brander wasn't there, but there were four people - three men and a woman, all seated. For a second, no one noticed me, so I took the opportunity to scan their shoes. They all looked nice - various shades of leather - but even after going shopping with Otto, I still didn't know anything about shoes, so I decided then and there that I needed to stop checking them out.

By now, people were noticing me, and noticing Lewis standing next to me, like I was someone important, like he was about to introduce me. Weirdly, once again, I wasn't that nervous.

”This is Russel,” Lewis said to the gathering. ”The screenwriter of A Cup of Joe?”

Everyone smiled and talked at once, complimenting me and telling me how much they liked the script. I knew they were probably just being polite, that it was mostly a lot of hot air, completely insincere, but I confess: I definitely liked insincere hot air better than the cold indifference of Fiona Lang.

Then someone said, ”I especially liked the flashbacks.”

Someone else, ”Oh! Yeah, that wasn't what I was expecting,” and everyone else agreed with him.

Maybe they're not just being polite, I thought.

Lewis went around the room introducing them: Evan, the casting director, tall and slouchy, with a nervous edge; Andrea, the line producer, in a baseball cap and ponytail, somehow a little too enthusiastic; Bryce, the co-producer, an aging surfer-dude type with a bristly grey goatee and premature wrinkles; and finally, Justin, the a.s.sociate producer, a surprisingly buff Asian guy of indeterminate age, the calmest of us all.

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