TC: Okay, I’ll bring the tofu to you. See you in 30.
Me: You can’t ditch out on your new director’s birthday party.
TC: No one will notice.
I was far from an expert in the business, and even I knew that wasn’t true. Just like I knew for a fact that it would be a bad career move to slight his director before filming even started.
Me: If you’re bored, I’m sure there are plenty of pretty starlets who would love to chat.
My finger hovered over the send button, but I couldn’t press it.
It’s unprofessional. That’s all.
I revised the message.
Me: If you’re bored, talk to your new castmates. Consider it role research.
TC: I’m not bored.
Me: Great, then enjoy your night, boss.
Undeterred, he didn’t take the subtle hint.
TC: I prefer Sir.
I’m never going to live that joke down.
TC: And I will enjoy my night once I get there. You want anything other than sponge—I mean, tofu?
Me: No!
TC: Okay, just the tofu then.
Me: No! I mean, no, you can’t come here.
I expected an immediate response, but as I stared down at my phone, nothing came through.
Good. He gave up.
I tried to refocus on my work, but all the words blended together until nothing made sense.
Why am I disappointed that he gave up?
Or maybe he didn’t give up, and he’s on his way here with pilfered tofu.
I glanced down at my oversized sleep shirt and ratty shorts that were far from flattering.
Professionally speaking.
I didn’t care if I looked good or not.
And I kept telling myself that as I scrambled up and sprinted through my apartment.
Ringing cut off my mad dash, and my socked feet slid across the floor as I abruptly stopped in the hallway before backtracking to answer it. I assumed it was Tripp with more threats to leave. Ones I would try to talk him down from. That didn’t stop a weird mix of anticipation and dismay from bubbling through my veins.
I grabbed my phone.
And then all those millions of effervescent bubbles turned to heavy lead balls of dread.
