I nod. Pooja is right—the autism community deserves better representation, and I can help make it happen. Deep down, I’ve always known I can’t go back to making mindless action flicks. I’ve said it before—if I am going to work again, it needs to be for a project I believe in.
And my gut is telling me this is the one.
I take a deep breath and then level my gaze at her.
“All right. I’m in.”
She squeals, wrapping her arms around me. Then she leaps off the sofa, heading toward the kitchen, where she pulls a bottle of prosecco out of the fridge.
I shake my head in disbelief. “Where did you get that?”
“I snuck it into the fridge while you were bidding farewell to Lover Boy.” She grins. “Now what do you say we celebrate with sushi and a movie? I’ll even let you watchThat Thing You Do, if you promise not to sing.”
The next morning, Pooja and I make a thirty-minute drive out to an adorable breakfast spot she found online called Homestead. The interior can be best described as farmhouse glam. The chandeliers hanging from the ceiling artfully juxtapose the brick walls, and antique wooden chairs complement freshly lacquered tables. The décor is an eclectic mix of framed animal photos and fine art landscapes.
From across the table, Pooja takes a long sip of her latte.
“Damn, that’s better than I expected,” she says.
“Food can’t be good outside of LA?” I tease.
She grins. “Of course it can. There’s also New York.”
I toss a napkin at her and her smile widens.
“Okay, let’s switch gears. I need to put on my producer hat for a few minutes.”
I mime lifting a hat off the table and hand it to her. She pretends to put it on her head and adjust the brim, then presses her elbows into the table.
“Now that you’re on board, Kegan thinks we should be able to start sending out packages to film studios by next week,” Pooja says. “He also continues to point out that he doesn’t approve of my choice of screenwriter, but he’s on set in London, and with the time difference, I’ve mostly been able to dodge his calls.”
Pooja has never been a fan of her boss and it’s not like I blameher. Even though it’s his name on the company letterhead, she’s the one who’s usually working her butt off, scouring for new talent and discovering untapped writers. Her instincts are always spot-on too, which makes it even more ridiculous that he questions her choices.
“Anyone in mind to direct?” I ask.
“I’m hoping for Lina Romano,” she says. “I’ve already had a few calls with her, and she seems interested. She did that movie a few years ago about a horseback rider with cerebral palsy, so she has experience with inclusive filmmaking.”
“Oh, wow, I would love to work with her,” I say.
Pooja reaches forward to give my hand a squeeze. “This is going to be great for you. Both professionally and personally. I can feel it.”
“I hope so.”
We sit in contented, amiable silence for a few minutes, and then I feel her eyes on me.
“What?”
She shrugs, smiling. “You’re different. You seem lighter.”
“I feel different.” It’s true. I’ve noticed a change in myself over the past month. “Getting away from the noise was just what my mental health needed.”
“Hmm.” Pooja tilts her head and studies me but doesn’t say anything.
“Is there something you’d like to share with the class, Ms. Ghosh?”
She leans back against her chair. “So, that’s how you want to play it?”
“Play what?”
