Chapter Sixteen

With less than twenty-four hours before we need to present our pitch to the dean, Maeve offered up her place for planning so we wouldn't disturb Charlie. I'm heading there now. This is the kind of high-pressure, we gotta make some magic environment I actually thrive in creatively, but I'm still trying to steady my racing heart as I stare down a wrought iron gate armed with nothing but a code Maeve texted me along with her address: 1341⒈／⒉.

The main house on the lot is nice—old Spanish style with a burnt-redbrick roof, a pouf of drought-resistant foliage outside, well-maintained sidewalks typical of a suburban offshoot in Mid-Wilshire. Overpriced, a little midcentury historical in the architecture, and very, very hip. The kind of place a creative would move to upon receiving their first big check, before being away from people and having space mattered. A long driveway leads to the back of the lot, and even though I figure that's what the ⒈／⒉ means, I fidget outside the main house.

Maeve leads me down the driveway. "Thanks for doing this."

The back house is in the same style as the front and is maybe showing a little less wear from the streets. I'll admit, it's a lot quieter back here, with some more foliage and a little patio set up in the backyard. The converted garage that Maeve calls home may even have been a two-car once judging by the size.

She puts her keys in the lock, but it takes some jiggling to get them to click and the door to open.

"Sorry if it's a mess," she says. "I tried to spruce it up, but my landlord gave me a fixer-upper for the great location."

The back house is pretty cute inside for what is indeed clearly a "fixer-upper." The whole place feels worn—old appliances are scrunched into the kitchen competing over minimal counter space, there's wall-to-wall faded maroon carpet everywhere, and the windows all have old-school white blinds. But there are lovely touches everywhere: a vintage cookie jar in the shape of a strawberry on the kitchen counter, monstera plants perking up the corners of rooms, vintage movie posters framed on the wall. Two doors lead off the main kitchen/living room, which is more than some folks can say they've got in LA.

"It's sweet," I say. There's even a swath of airy floral fabric and a sewing machine on the coffee table. "Is this yours?"

Maeve sighs. "It was, but I fucked up. Never try to make curtains when you can't sew."

I look over the raw materials. I used to unwind after hard shifts at the dental office by sewing with my maternal grandma. But I doubt Maeve wants advice on curtain-making now. "Who's your landlord, by the way? Does he live in the main house, or is he some ghoul?"

"He lives here with his wife," she says. "They're an artist couple who posted on Craigslist."

And I don't want to, but the words Oh god escape my lips. I'm an asshole.

But Maeve just laughs. "I reaped what I sowed. I make decent money, but I wanted something close to work that was cheap enough that I'd have extra to spend. They're my best bet for now."

I look her up and down. "I must use my money differently than you do."

We make eye contact, and she laughs. "No, I don't mean designer clothing."

I put my hands up, palms forward. "Some professors do."

"The ones who are paid half a million dollars for no explicit reason, maybe." She glances at a shelf nearby, covered in neatly arranged vinyls, CDs, VHSes. "Some collecting, weekend vacations around California, camping supplies, ski season passes, that kind of thing."

All great activities, but I can't help but wonder how they connect with her saying she doesn't make friends easily. Maybe she's a really good solo traveler, but that idea pangs in my chest for some reason. It's too early to offer it yet, but maybe I can treat her to a bougie ski trip someday. "Sounds fun."

"Do you want something to drink?" she asks.

I hold up the water bottle I bring everywhere I go. "I'm good."

"Let me grab my laptop. Hold on."

With that, she makes an unceremonious exit through one of the two doors. Leaving me to stew in the apartment she lives in. Where she's brought her one date a year back to, the place she came home to after watching Needlepoint. Maeve has been acting more flirtatious, but we haven't talked about what happened in her office. If we're going to co-teach again, would it be bad form if everyone knew we were together? We only have a month or so with this batch of students and a vast majority of them won't take our course in the spring. Maybe we don't have to be explicit about it. Let rumors fly, or just not tell USC people?

"Okay, so," Maeve says when she returns, dropping onto the couch next to me. "Here's the thing." She sighs. "I still get stage fright. I'm fine when I teach, but it's still there when I have to advocate for myself with anyone. When it comes to"—she shrugs, almost sarcastically—"all bosses ever, I clam up. I know what to say, but I've been up half the night trying to nail the delivery." She rubs her arm. "And I was hoping since you have so much experience with public speaking that you'd be able to help…"

I've collaborated with Maeve, I've faced her sharp tongue when I took her on, and I've kissed the fuck out of her. But Maeve wants my help? My heart flutters. Maeve could still reject me when she gets to know me better. At least I can cushion the blow by knowing I've shown her some kindness.

"Yeah, I can help." I make eye contact with her.

She's leaning forward—just a tad.

"Are there particular aspects of public speaking that are the hardest for you? Like, is starting out terrible but then you get into a flow? Or do you struggle when you start to get audience feedback?"

Maeve plays with a little gold bracelet hanging off her right wrist. "Both. I always have a hard time starting, and flow is more complicated. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes I can handle a boss's blank expression, but sometimes I can't."

"And this is just an informal pitch with the dean, right?"

"Yeah. No visual aids."

I exhale, looking around her apartment as if there's a clue hidden somewhere. "We want to showcase your poise and professionalism, right?"

She nods.

"So let me help you with the lead-in and then I'll be there to back you up if you don't get into the flow state. But it's such a short pitch; I'm sure you'll be great."

I reach over, taking Maeve's hand to stop her picking at her bracelet. My lips turn up as I see her twitch in surprise.

"Yeah," she says as I drop her hand back into her lap. "That's—I struggle with intros. I never know how much context to give before jumping into the meat of a pitch. I always end up rambling and forgetting my transitions."

It's a feeling I know all too well. Something that I conquered years ago. I lean in to her. We're not quite within kissing distance, but we're close enough that the thought enters my mind. "All you have to say is: ‘I know the department is looking for a replacement course, and I asked Valeria if she'd be willing to teach with me again. She said yes, and I think it'd be a great addition to the spring roster.'?"

Maeve takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling. She's undone a button since I saw her in class, giving me quite the view of her pearly skin. "Should I say my name?"

I chuckle. "Maeve, they know you. I never intro with execs I've seen more than once. Walk through the world expecting people to remember you."

We make eye contact, and looking into her darkened eyes, listening to the sound of her slow breath, I consider bridging the gap, but instead I pull away.

There'll be another moment.

It's a strangely-cold-for-LA October day when Maeve and I walk into Dean Ashlee Gomez's spacious, classical office. Someone's blessing me today, because I actually recognize her from a photo I saw when I was researching USC's faculty a couple of weeks ago, so it feels less like I'm meeting with a complete stranger. I pull my sleeve, trying to resist complimenting Maeve on her periwinkle circular yoke sweater. I should've done it when I first saw her five minutes ago. Now she's shaking, and she has her hands stuffed into her pants pockets.

"Hi, Ashlee," she says. "Have you met Valeria yet?"

Ashlee holds out her hand toward me. "I talked only to your manager; it's so wonderful to formally meet you."

I flash my best professional smile. "Likewise."

After facing off with Trish, impressing Ashlee feels like a piece of cake.

Assuming Maeve gets into a flow. She's still got her hands deep in her pockets, and her smile is stiff. It looks like it's about to switch to a worried frown.

Once we take our seats, I lean in to Maeve. "I'm right here." I know I can't sneak a hand squeeze this close to the dean, but hopefully Maeve can psychically feel it.

Ashlee takes her seat, and her gaze falls on Maeve. She sets her clasped hands onto the thick wood of her desk.

"What's up, ladies?" she asks.

I look to Maeve and take a deep breath. She copies me and looks to Ashlee. "I know the department is searching for a new course now that Geoff is going to leave, and I"—she glances at me, and I notice that she still looks terrified—"asked Valeria if she'd be willing to teach with me again." Back to Ashlee.

Good, good.

"She said yes, and I think it'd be a great addition to the spring roster."

Ashlee, all big smiles before Maeve started talking, merely nods now. My chest tightens, and I hope Maeve doesn't notice as she moves into the rest of her speech.

"The numbers don't lie," Maeve says. "The course we're teaching together had a long wait list at registration, including students outside the department. It's already getting positive reviews from early course evals. Students who aren't in the class come to my office hours asking if they can sit in. An additional opportunity to take a class like this would be a fantastic surprise for the students who're already interested. And student excitement is what we're here for, right? More happy undergrads, more prospective students, more acclaim." She glances at me, and thank God above, her pupils have returned to a normal size. "Valeria and I already have ideas for mixing up the material so there could be repeat students—"

"Geoff's class was a professional course, though," Ashlee says.

Even I wince as Maeve stops short.

"And while your course is popular and fantastically run, it wouldn't incorporate the professional element students who now can't take Geoff's course are looking for."

If there's one thing our course doesn't do, it's give practical information for filmmakers. My veins have gone ice-cold, and I'm thrown right back into audition rooms with casting directors asking for an entirely different direction than I had prepared for. Taking a horror movie role and asking for a romantic lead.

And speaking of horror, Maeve is practically catatonic. The only part of her that's moving is her leg, which is bobbing like she's a kid high on sugar. It's noticeable. The flow is gone.

So I do what I promised I'd do.

"That should be easy," I say, my voice a little higher than normal, even, airy. Like this is no big deal, even as my heart hammers. "Movie musicals continue to be churned out and wait in development hell all the time. I'm currently testing for a musical adaptation. We could revise the syllabus to include more hands-on discussion of the industry. I also know a bunch of directors and producers who work in that space who can come do Q and A's. I'd be happy to share my resources for the same fee as last time." Which was pro bono.

Ashlee purses her lips.

"Okay," she says, and that one word launches my heart into space. "I like that." She straightens out, her hands dropping into her lap. "I really appreciate you jumping in to help out, Maeve. You're such a valuable member of the faculty."

For the first time since walking into the room, Maeve smiles. "Thank you."

"Of course. Send me the updated course description tonight, and I'll get you your schedule before the semester ends."

Like that, it's done. And god am I working off a high. Blood is pumping through my body, and my skin is so warm I could take off my sweater. I haven't felt this way since Mason and I exchanged that knowing glance after I auditioned for Aurora in Goodbye, Richard!

As we exit the building, I throw a smile at Maeve. "How're you feeling?"

The world goes fuzzy as I focus on her.

Maeve smirks. Maeve smirks and fucking leans in, gets so close her breath is in my ear. "Far too excited to celebrate in public. Your car here?"

Fuck. Every word zings into my brain like I'm a cartoon character. "Isn't that a little high school?"

"I can't wait."

It takes all my willpower not to grab Maeve's hand as we walk to the dank corner of the faculty parking lot where my Porsche sits.

"I can't thank you enough, by the way," Maeve says as I fumble for my car keys.

"Any time, colleague," I say, giving her a little salute.

She leans in, running a hand along the cherry red paint of my car. "You know what, despite how male midlife crisis your car is, I like it." She slides between me and the car door, inches from me. My heart lodges in my throat, and I can feel my heartbeat knocking off my teeth.

"I like you."

I've wanted to hear Maeve say these words for so long. It lights my body on fire. Sitting in that classroom, seeing her apartment, giving her tips about public speaking, I almost convinced myself that she was just another cool person in my life. But no. She isn't that, and she never was. She's heaven incarnate in a world where I'm not sure God exists.

I don't even care if she freaks out after I tell her about Trish's Oscars stipulation. I need her right now.

We drop into the back seat. Once those doors shut behind us, our hands are into each other's hair, digging into goose bumps–covered flesh. Breath hot, chests heaving, mouths on fire kissing. It's like my brain just deleted everything that happened in the last week and a half. We're back in her office, and separating was never an option. I feel myself kissing the lipstick off her. The sharp, floral scent of her perfume envelopes us. It's harder to breathe, but god, I don't want to breathe if it doesn't taste like her and make my head spin. It's tight in here, these Porsche seats aren't that comfortable, and parts of my body are starting to ache, but somehow even that feels good, feels right with Maeve in my arms.

But then she pulls us horizontal. Pulls us horizontal, her on top, her hand slipping right into the hot space between my pants and panties, rolling her thumb exactly the right way, and I'm moaning and I need this, but god I can't believe I'm saying this. If Maeve and I can be more than body-melting hot sex in the back of my car, I need to try. I can't fuck this up like I fucked up my chances with any of my costars, with Luna, with anyone who might have wanted me beyond my body. Even if I might strain a muscle bringing this to a halt.

"Maeve, stop," I say.

She pulls herself off me, rocketing back so we're both sitting up. I'm dizzy for a moment from the rush.

"Are you okay?" she asks. "I'm sorry, we hadn't…and I should've asked."

"No, no, I want to have sex with you, but not like—I mean it when I say I like you. I don't just want to have sex with you. I want— I want to take you on a date. Before we have sex. Maybe sex can be part of the date, but there's a date in there. And maybe instead of hooking up we go on dates that include sex."

Maeve eyes me for maybe three seconds, and that crushing fear of rejection is back.

"Okay," she finally says.

My heart sinks, despite her words. "Okay what?"

She smiles. "Okay, let's go on a date. Maybe even more than one date."

That whole thing about fireworks? I don't know exactly what happened when we kissed. But they're definitely going off now. I pull her mouth right back to mine, barely able to move my lips against hers I'm smiling so hard. And when I feel her smiling right back into the kiss—fuck. I'm so lost to her.

"I like spending time with you," I say.

"I like spending time with you too," she says. She looks up at me, biting back a grin. "Something feels right with you. Like I could never get enough of the way you think. And now we get to spend another semester together."

I nuzzle into her flower-scented neck, and I can feel that her heartbeat is still thumping from our kiss. "Concurrent with the dating?"

"For sure."

"But what about…the future. With me, here. Can we be public?"

I run my fingers up her neck. Her hairs stand on end.

"I think it depends. If we did go public—like, your public persona was seen dating me—I probably couldn't write a recommendation for you if you ever wanted one in the future."

I'm not ready to make a move like that.

"Let's stay quiet for now," I say. And I'll cross that bridge as we get closer to the Oscars.

She smiles. "Great."

"But we're still on for that date?" I ask, desperation dripping from my voice. I kiss her to make up for it.

She kisses my neck, tickling me. "Yes." Anxiety is still swirling inside me, but now it's mixed with elation, and the whole thing feels like the buzz you get from a good cheap cocktail. Maeve laughs, adding another spritz of sweet syrup to the mix.

"Teaching college film theory and dating. What are the next seven months going to be like?"

The next seven months.

But as the moments pass, as she lingers, kissing my skin, the dread quietly builds. More about my meeting with Trish floats to the surface.

I potentially have to get Maeve—grounded, not-impressed-by-Hollywood Maeve—to agree to go to the Oscars. If Oakley in Flames gets into Tribeca, South by Southwest, Cannes, or Berlin, I'll be at those festivals promoting it. When Maeve wants me to be teaching this class. How can I take this opportunity when I know what could come up?

Sundance, though. Thinking about it still stings. If my film can't get into Sundance, there's no way it'll get into Cannes or Berlin. Hell, I'm not even really sure it could get into slightly smaller festivals like Tribeca or South by Southwest. It's most likely a lost cause. But this class with Maeve, that's real. That's possible.

This class is making Maeve so happy. There's no reason to bring up potential obstacles. Maeve and I are together, and the future is bright. This is my career, my life now. And I'm happy with it. I am.

Now I just have to keep it.