Chapter Fifteen

There's no way this is going to go well, but here I am, running my hand along the same red Gucci belt I nearly fucked Maeve in, as if this thing is good luck. I'm not sure what I'm doing. I didn't have to dress up for this meeting. But I'm here, sitting in the lobby of Trish's company in my reading glasses, as if that's not weird. Like Trish even cares whether I look professional. Maybe I should have slept last night. Maybe not buying a mediocre latte at the café here (the coffee is the one thing I miss about Slater Management and Steven) right after checking in would've been smart too.

I flip through the HBO script one last time. Charlie was right. It's exceptionally well written. I think I've read it five times in the last twenty-four hours, and four of those times were during the hours I should've been sleeping. It would truly be an incredible project to work on. I could even imagine it in that sleep-deprived haze—how it'd feel to learn the lines and bring that character to life, working with the intimacy coordinator to make the queer sex scenes realistic and affirming, drinking wine in the French Riviera on off days. If Maeve wasn't in the picture, I would've been tempted.

But Maeve is here. Maeve, who's become more of a sure thing in a few weeks than Hollywood has in over a year. I'm not gambling on that fantasy. So, here we go. With Luna's advice hanging over me, I'm starting to get a migraine.

Clarissa steps in from down the hall, smiling at me shyly as she approaches. "Hi, Valeria."

I get up and hug her. Clarissa is the second assistant Trish has had since she signed me, and so far so good. She's a bit less of a jokester than her predecessor, Hope, but I always respect someone who answers emails promptly and uses emojis. She was brand-new during the August emails debacle, and I honestly wish I could do more to show her I'm not usually that much of an ass. She leads me back down the hall, asking how my day is, complimenting my blouse, and then giving me a couple seconds of respectful silence. My kind of human.

Trish is at her desk when I enter. "I didn't know you wore glasses."

I push the glasses up onto the bridge of my nose and take a seat. Clarissa closes the door behind us. "Yeah, forgot my contacts."

Trish holds my gaze a moment longer than she needs to. "Well, I'll remember to put you forward for hot-librarian roles."

My fingertips practically go numb clenching my hands as I wait for the other shoe to drop, for her to realize exactly what I'm up to and give me a professional lashing.

I think for a moment about bullshitting Trish, buttering her up with small talk, but stop myself. I'm too smart for that and so is Trish. "So about the HBO pilot…"

Trish takes a deep breath. "I don't like the sound of that."

This is my one chance. If I don't explain myself, I'll never get Trish's blessing. I can't risk burning the bridge with Trish, even if I don't plan to come back.

So this better work. "I…" I swallow. "You said that if I wanted to transition into academia, I could. Maeve and I have been connecting more, and even she thinks I'd make a great professor. Since Oakley didn't get into Sundance, I want to keep going down this new path. I'll finish the Goodbye, Richard! movies and see out all my current obligations, but I don't want to do anything new."

And I cannot say just how painful it is to have Trish stare at me like I've just told her I believe the earth is flat and I'm voting Republican in the next election. Every ounce of confidence I had has completely slipped away. And Trish can tell. Her arms are crossed over her chest.

"Val, I don't think we heard the same things last we talked about your career. This HBO show isn't just a quality-acting role. Did they not tell you? You'd be directing several episodes. It's Emmy bait, a real next step in your directing career. It's about a fully formed character whose sexuality is second to her work. Exactly what you said you wanted when you first signed with me. And you want to turn that down?"

I pause, letting that sink in. Emmy bait. Directing. When I was having my breakdown, this was the kind of gig I thought I would never be able to get. That I'd need Oakley to win awards at festivals to get. It's a dream opportunity.

Possibly, anyway. What happens if I take this role? I leave Charlie to watch over my house, drown in French women for the next couple of months? Come back, do press, maybe get nominated for an Emmy, do more press, get more questions about being gay? Maeve will fade away. She has just as many obligations as I do, and long distance never works.

"Yes," I say. "I want to turn it down. I just need a way to make sure Leonard Ballard isn't upset. I don't want him to drop the funding for the new Goodbye, Richard!"

Trish shifts in her seat. "You need a good reason. Clearly it's not that you're taking on some other, better offer." She looks up at me, her gaze burning. "Why are you doing this?"

A tingling sensation creeps up my neck. "Academia is where I want to be now."

"Even when you were crying to me after that interview, it was about directing. You would never—" And then she realizes. "Is this about a girl?"

"Trish, I—I'm not trying to be ungrateful about this directing gig. I just can't leave town right now. I'll get back on track as soon as I have more time to try to—"

"Who is she?" Trish asks, cutting right through my impassioned plea.

God,I can't even lie. Trish knows Maeve and would know the moment things became serious. This was such a terrible idea. I look at the door, wondering if I could run to the bathroom and pretend I was having an IBS episode in order to leave the building.

"Maeve Arko."

Trish's earlier stare was nothing compared to the look she's giving me now.

"Who?"

I hunch into myself like a fucking child. "Maeve. We've really connected over the past couple of weeks. It turns out she's not an asshole. She's—" I take a deep breath, forcing myself to look Trish in the eye. If Maeve is worth fighting for, it's time to start fighting. "Things feel different with her. This gig will only last a semester, and my best chance to really explore this is here. I have to stick around LA for a little while longer. I know it's stupid, but—"

Trish replies before I can even finish my speech.

"You're taking her to the Oscars."

It hits me in stages. One, Trish is okay with this. I get to stay with Maeve with Trish's approval.

But then I get it.

What Trish is saying implies that Maeve is my girlfriend. And she definitely is not. My heartbeat picks up again.

"Trish, we're coworkers. I can't ask that of her now!"

"Look, you asked me how you'd turn down this role without angering Ballard. This is how. Could you imagine Ballard saying he's mad at this lesbian star for finding the love of her life and pursuing her own happiness over a Hollywood gig? You get the public on your side, and the execs can't openly argue with you. Plus, you get some articles written about you, making his other baby, Goodbye, Richard! the sequel, a gold mine."

"And the professionalism issue?"

"It's not illegal for professors to date each other. It might even be good publicity for her, help her make her own moves."

This is not good.

"What if she doesn't even want to date me?"

Trish smirks. "I don't think that will be a problem."

Why am I freaking out? This is what I wanted. I get to see Maeve tomorrow and I'm not going to be leaving her in a matter of months. I have a chance to see where this goes. If I do have to get her on board with the Oscars, it's in five months. That's five months I get to date her, pull out all the stops and get her to fall for me the way I feel I could fall for her. This is a win. I have to get it together.

"Fine, deal," I say, although the thought of seeing Maeve tomorrow now fills me with more terror than joy.

I know I taught today. I know I lectured on Mamma Mia! and the jukebox musical. I know Maeve gave particularly strong background information on seventeenth- and eighteenth-century vaudeville. It is moderately embarrassing how hard I have to work to hide my swoon when she goes into her professor zone.

I love women who can deconstruct big, pretentious words and make them accessible. I used to think I just liked intelligent women whose speech was peppered with SAT words. But being with Emily was like being in a continuous game I didn't sign up for, dodging snickers and snarky comments when I didn't understand academic language and procedures the way she did. It was a lot of Sorry, I should know that. But Maeve doesn't hoard language and knowledge. She's an incredible teacher. It gets me breathless.

That feeling gets worse when Maeve and I make eye contact after class. It's like I'm having a sapphic awakening all over again. And this time, she's not running away from me. I have to wonder whether she did any processing after what happened in her office. I'd ask, but part of me is satisfied already. Maeve's still here, still looking at me like that.

She walks toward me, and it feels like we're tied together by an invisible rope that tightens with every step she takes. This wanting, Jesus.

"Hey, can I talk to you about something?" Maeve asks.

Her words are like a kick in the gut. I'm suddenly terrified. Maybe she isn't dragging me back to her office to make out.

"Val, stay with me. It's just about work," Maeve says, catching the look in my eye. "Can we walk and talk? I need to work off some of the adrenaline from class today."

I take a deep breath as inconspicuously as I can. Okay, we're still in the neutral zone. "ABBA can really get a gal going, I know."

Maeve shakes her head, a tiny smile on her face. "Do you ever get nervous about getting up in front of people?"

Oh, the answer to that. "Not really."

When we walk out of class this time, there's a different feeling in the air. Less the searing electricity that forces us to glue our hands to our sides to avoid touching each other in public. But something's still there. An ease, maybe? Like Maeve doesn't care if we bump hands or shoulders as we weave through the crowds of students and make our way to the faculty parking lot.

"So, I doubt you've been keeping up with faculty gossip," Maeve begins, "but one of the other adjuncts dropped their course after getting a writers' room gig."

That is so intensely a USC problem. "Tragedy."

Maeve snorts with laugher. "Truly. But that means there's an open slot for a new class. The dean is scrambling to fill it, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity for me to try to pitch something. They've never even come close to hearing me out before, and this feels like the one time I have some leverage, you know?"

"Of course. You definitely should."

I suddenly realize why she's telling me this. And I swear to god Maeve is flustered, rubbing the back of her neck. "And I was hoping if you aren't already booked with projects, maybe you'd want to teach another course with me. Me filling in on the adjunct's course is just a temporary solution. But come May, if he doesn't get kicked out of his writers' room, an application will open for his job. You'd have a real chance, especially if you have two successful courses under your belt…"

The idea hits me with a jolt to the heart. I'd intended to keep seeing Maeve after the semester ended, but if we were still teaching together—god. Excitement shoots up my spine. More evenings tucked away in her office grading papers, the opportunity to start doing viewings with her, just the two of us, to discuss our syllabus movies, being able to see her in her professor attire for an additional eight hours a week? I never imagined a world where I'd get to keep teaching now; it feels like an invitation to step into a dream future early.

"I'd love to," I say. "When are you pitching this?"

She sighs. "Tomorrow."

I push my hair out of my face, smirking. "Well, then, bud, I guess we gotta get planning."