You seem so distant.
You will have to talk about it eventually.
Agree to disagree, my friend.
“Christ, I’m being morose,” I said to myself as I got dressed.
Even before she and Wesley Cole, our former costar, admitted their feelings for each other—finally—she’d been prying more and more into my personal life. I was relieved that I hadn’t told her about my “not actually a moment” with Frankie. I hadn’t mentioned it at first because of the ribbing that would have followed when I told them I had expected to give an autograph and instead had almost gotten a misdemeanor.
It wasn’t that I avoided her questions; it was that I didn’t have an answer. I wasn’t sure what was wrong. I felt unmoored and listless. I wanted to be there for George but didn’t know how. I wasn’t sure that I was a person he could rely on. I didn’t know what my life would look like from month to month. I was used to being the good-time friend or even the reliable paycheck to my family back in England. I never felt like I’d be the friend you called when you needed help moving or a ride from the airport. Not that people in my circle needed help with those things.
I wanted to be, though.
My phone vibrated in my hand, causing me to almost drop it. It was BobCratchit. I answered the video call after collecting myself. “Hey, Bob,” I said, waving to the man on screen. “How are you?”
Bob Caddick was George’s agent and nearly as old as George himself. They’d been in the business together since the beginning. At this point, George was his only client, and they both should have retired a couple of decades ago. His name wasn’t actually Cratchit, but Emma, Charlie, and I got in the habit of calling him that after … honestly, I couldn’t remember. When we were young, we interchanged him with the famous Charles Dickens character, and it sort of stuck.
“Still kicking. How are you?” he said. If George Sedar was a retired author and Englishman old—think hunched back, bushy eyebrows, and a weathered smile—then Bob Cratchit was LA old. He’d been tanned, tucked, and injected so much that he had a perpetual sneer that made it hard to tell if he was smiling or grimacing in pain.
“Just wrapping a film,” I said. If Cratchit was calling me, then he either needed a favor or to tell me something about George. Neither option filled me with effervescent joy.
He wasn’t a bad guy, but he had been in this business his entire life and didn’t care for small talk.
“Great,” he said distractedly. His dyed eyebrows didn’t move on his tanned forehead, but I got the impression he was trying to convey concern. “I’m calling about George.”
“What’s going on?” I asked; my palm grew slippery where it gripped the phone.
Bob reached over his head with his left hand to scratch his right eyebrow. “I’m hoping that’s what you’ll tell me. The thing is, uh, George hasn’t been responding to me. Not returning my calls or emails.”
“We both know he’s never been keen on either of those things.” I tried to keep things light but heard the tightness in my throat. “He still uses a typewriter for crying out loud.”
“Yes, true. That’s why I don’t want you to worry. However, the thing is. I’ve gotten quite a few calls from his publisher. Now, this is NDA information, but apparently, George has asked for an extension on his current manuscript four times now. They absolutely cannot push this release back any more.”
“Bloody hell,” I swore softly. “I didn’t know that.” Thedrip-drip-drippingof the shower blared loudly. I stuck a finger in my free ear and closed my eyes to focus as worry hunched my shoulders.
“We aren’t trying to publicize. This book is supposed to be the final book in the series. Ever. The expectations are massive. As you can imagine.”
“Right,” I said. The anxiety about George’s health had already been at the forefront of my mind. If George wasn’t responding to his oldest friend …
“TheTerraformativebooks had always been massively successful, but after the show’s fans aged up a little, there was a lull in sales. The last two books brought the focus back to George. Add in that the reunion special and Millennial sentimentality sweeping the nation. The publisher wants to strike while the iron is hot,” Bob explained.
“Anything to squeeze every penny from our aging generation,” I mumbled.
“Business. You know how it is. But the fact of the matter is that they need this book written before the end of this year.”
“That’s barely eight months.”
“I know. That’s why we need to know where he’s at. I’m fairly certain he started writing it, at least. Last we talked, he mentioned having a good amount of words written. But he was also a little confused. I’ve noticed he’s been mixing some things up. Have you—”
“Hey listen. I have to go,” I cut him off. “But, uh, I have a break in my schedule. I’ll head up there now and check things out. I’m sure it’s all fine. Just being George. He’s probably so deep in the writing cave that he can’t be bothered. I’ll give you a status report as soon as I have one.”
“Thanks, Harrison. I really appreciate it. I would go up there myself, but it’s quite a journey for me these days.”
“I understand.”
“George thinks of you as a son. Always has. If anybody can help him, it’s you.”
And I saw George as the father I wished I’d had. The father in sitcoms and movies that had long talks about life and taught his sullen teen to drive.
I swallowed, jaw clenched. “I’m sure he’s fine,” I rasped, desperate to believe my own words.
There was a long pause. Bob held my gaze with his sharp eyes. His mouth was pursed, stubborn wrinkles bracketing his mouth. Eventually, he nodded. “I’m sure you’re right. You’re a good kid, Harrison. I appreciate you.”
I nodded with my lips pressed in a tight line. Once we ended the call, I replayed the last few times I’d visited George. He hadn’t even been writing that I knew of. It made my chest tighten with the worries I’d been keeping at bay.
I’d go up there and reassure myself, but mostly Bob.
It was probably just some sort of mix-up. Everything was fine.
