Part 21 (2/2)

Floating in that pool, I wondered if Fiona had even read my screenplays, or if she had just been waiting to see what happened with Mr. Brander. I wasn't sure which was worse: her reading them and not being impressed, or her not even bothering to read them at all and waiting to see how A Cup of Joe turned out - her whole determination of my worth as a writer depending on someone else in Hollywood liking me first.

This city made no sense to me, and it wasn't just the fact that the freeways all had different names. Mr. Brander had said the world desperately needed a story about gay love - not only what was awkward and pathetic and ironic about it, but also what was joyful and wonderful and real.

He was crazy, but when he'd said it, it had felt true.

But no one else thought so. No matter how convincing Mr. Brander had sounded, it had ended up being just another lie. My screenplay wasn't what the world needed. Or at least it wasn't what the world wanted. That was the worst part of this whole experience: finally feeling like I had something to say, something new and different, and then being told, ”Oh, wait, never mind, not really, forget it.”

I hung there in that pool, floating like just another dead leaf.

A shadow stretched out along the bottom. Someone was standing at the edge of the pool, watching me. This time, the legs weren't hairy - it wasn't Kevin. This time, the legs were black and were wearing what looked like Onitsuka Tigers.

Regina.

I lifted my head. I'd needed to take a breath anyway.

”Hey, there,” she said. ”I was hoping I'd run into you.”

”Why?” I'd just lifted my head out of the pool, and there was still water running down my face, so I don't think she could tell what I was feeling, that I was dead inside.

”To say goodbye,” she said. ”Gina and I are leaving.”

”What?” As the water ran out of my eyes, she became clearer in my vision.

”We're leaving. We've given our notice and everything.”

”Where are you going?”

”We're not sure yet. Not staying in California - too expensive. Arizona maybe?”

I was confused. ”You're leaving?”

She nodded. I worked my way to the edge of the pool where I could stand on the bottom, where I didn't have to dog-paddle.

”But what about-?” I said.

”Our careers?” she said, and I nodded. ”I think we're going try something else for a while. Maybe run a bed and breakfast.”

”A bed and breakfast?”

Regina nodded, and I had absolutely no idea what to say to that. Part of me thought she was joking. I was still dead inside, but I was curious too.

”Really,” she said, somehow reading my thoughts. ”We've given this a lot of thought, but we're done.”

”Done? With what?”

”Our careers. Comedy. Screenwriting.”

”But...”

”Yeah, I know. But we're just done. Really.”

Even now, I was somehow a.s.sembling a pep talk in my mind, about how talented she and Gina both were, even though I'd never actually read any of Regina's scripts. They were so close, I'd say. They couldn't give up yet.

The words disappeared from my mouth before I could even speak them, like the water dripping down my face.

They're giving up, I thought.

I didn't know what to say. Everything I could think of sounded judgmental or patronizing: ”That's too bad.” Or, ”Well, at least you tried.” Giving up on a dream wasn't something you saw very often, in the movies or on TV, or even in real life. You saw plenty of people achieving their dreams: giving Oscar acceptance speeches, or winning gold medals at the Olympics, or being elected President of the United States. But not that many people accept Oscars, or win gold medals at the Olympics, or get elected President. So clearly a lot of people do give up their dreams at some point. I guess they mostly do it alone.

It was sinking in at last: Gina and Regina were what happened when someone's dream never came true.

Finally, I said, ”Why now?”

”To tell the truth, it was you,” she said.

”Me?”

”Do you remember that night we all went out to eat after Gina's show?”

I nodded.

”You sent Kevin a text,” Regina said.

”What?” I said. Now I was really confused.

”Well, I should say you thought you sent Kevin a text. You wrote, 'Promise me we'll never be like Gina and Regina.'”

That did sound vaguely familiar. ”But how-?”

”You and I had been texting earlier. I'd said where to meet me in the club. So you meant to send it to Kevin, but you really sent it to me.”

”Oh. I'm sorry.” I knew I should feel embarra.s.sed, but I didn't, not now.

”Don't be,” Regina said. ”I wouldn't have told you if it was a bad thing. It ended up being a really good thing.”

I looked at her.

”The funny thing is,” Regina said, ”Gina and I used to be you and Kevin. We didn't just love each other, we liked each other. We never in a million years thought we'd become one of 'those' couples. But then you sent that text...”

My first response was to think, Kevin and I are nothing like you and Gina! But I thought about the argument he and I had had the night before. We'd been total jerks to each other (even though I'd started it).

Regina and Gina had once been us, and now Kevin and I were basically them. That was ironic. The night before, we'd even sort of sounded like them.

<script>