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I waited a beat and put the phone back to my ear. “Thank you,” I said. “But it’s okay, really.”
“Of course, it’s okay,” said Greta in a severe, stern tone. “There are other film festivals that would kill to have your film in their program. Plus, you’re going to make an even better film. So, of course, it’s okay. This isn’t the end. Far from it.”
I listened to Greta’s pep talk—which was quite effective, I admit—and I stared at the picture of Sasha I’d blown up on my screen.
“Do you already have an idea for your next project?” Greta asked.
I nodded.
“Are you nodding yes?”
I laughed. “Yes, I’m nodding. Yes, I have a subject for my next project.”
“Can I guess what it is?”
“Guess away.” I stared at the picture on my screen.
“Sasha Snow,” said Greta.
I nodded.
“You’re nodding again, aren’t you?”
I laughed. “You know me so well, Greta.”
“Of course I do. We’re soul sisters.”
Again, I didn’t understand why, but I consciously touched the picture on the screen and repeated, “Yes, we’re soul sisters.”
“What’s the angle?” Greta asked.
I snapped out of my reverie and stood from my computer. I had to get my mind on something else, but once I’d got a notion in my head, I tended to get a sort of tunnel vision. “The angle?”
“Yeah, what’s the story? Billionaire recluse: the rise of an energy mogul.”
I went to the window just to have a quick peek out the curtains. There was something frightening about daylight, but it was also a kind of excited state of fright. I’d allow myself a quick peek through the curtains every now and again. It was my hit—my danger rush.
“Well, it’s going to be difficult,” I said. “You said it yourself: she’s a recluse.”
“Not much information on her,” said Greta. “I’ve been doing some research, too.”
“You have?”
“What can I say? Your enthusiasm is contagious.”
I took another hit of sunlight. “Soul sisters.”
“Soul sisters.”
“And what have you found out?” I asked.
“Not much. She lives in Iceland but is originally from New York—like us. Some reference to her university career. There’s a paper she published about moss and another about conductors; a bit too technical for me.”
“I need access.” Again, I glanced at her picture on the screen. “I need to interview her.”
“Hey! I’ve got an idea!”
I had to pull the phone from my ear. When Greta got excited, she’d lose all sense of volume.
“You should send her your documentary.”
“My documentary? Why would she want to see my documentary?”
“Uh, first of all,” said Greta, using her pedantic snarky voice, “because it’s great. Second of all, because you have something in common.”
“We do?”
“Bonita, of course, you do. The sun.”
“I don’t follow.”
Greta sighed. “Your lives are inextricably tied to one common thing, but in completely opposite ways. She harnesses the power of the sun and has made a fortune from it.”
“And to me, the power of the sun weakens me.”
“You’re the yin to her yang. Or she’s the yang to your yin. I don’t know who’s the yin and who’s the yang, but you get what I’m trying to say.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I get you. I appreciate the thought. But I don’t see how I could get her my film or that she would even watch it. I’m sure she’s very busy: being a reclusive billionaire and all.”
“There’s a way. There’s always a way.” During the long pause that followed, I could just about hear my soul sister thinking. Finally, in a hushed, almost conspiratorial voice, she said, “You should talk to Noah.”
“Noah? About Sasha Snow? Why? What can Noah do about getting me an interview with her?”
“Just, talk to Noah. That’s all I’m saying.”
As if on cue, Noah knocked on my door. I always knew when it was Noah who knocked. It was soft yet sure and beckoning. Suddenly, I got that feeling I’d get when I’d take a hit of sun. “Greta, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.”
4
Noah
I could tell when she opened the door that she hadn’t received the news she’d wanted. Seeing Bonita sad made me sad. I wanted to go back to Guillermo and have him kick me in the gut a few more times just to feel something less painful.
“Can I come in?” I asked.
She motioned for me to enter, turned her back to me and walked past the bed toward the curtains. She moved with the lithe body of a ballerina: tall and slender, a stoic demeanor held in such a fragile frame. The black yoga pants left little to my imagination, but I imagined, nonetheless. I imagined those strong, firm thighs wrapped around my waist, my hand in her hair pulling her head back. I’d plant my mouth on her chin and taste her skin from her neck down to her heaving breasts.
That was not the first time I’d been alone with Bonita in her room. It was not the first time I’d imagined myself, not as her brother’s friend, but as her lover. But at that moment, perhaps from the earlier kickboxing session releasing endorphins and stimulating blood flow coupled with the intimate conversation we’d shared earlier, I felt a strong urge to act on those thoughts.
