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“Eden—”
“I have to go.”
And then I do, leaving him there in the dark.
Chapter 38
Tip #38: Investors are like wild animals —they spook easily.
HUNTER
The investors call an emergency meeting for Monday. I have a sinking feeling as I sit down and log-on to the call that I’m not going to enjoy this meeting.
Ashton Hartley is loud and obnoxious as usual. I’m not sure why or how he’s managed to appoint himself as the head spokesperson, but here he is, leading the charge while heavily mouth breathing into his microphone.
“We want to pull out,” he says. “This can’t be good for our returns.”
“You’ve already signed the contract,” I state harshly. “Pulling your investments now will not only be a poor decision, but you’ll also pay penalties. It was all in the fine print, Hartley.”
“Your name is going to be box office poison,” he counters. “Nobody’s going to see this movie now that you’re public enemy number one.”
“I’m already in talks with my PR team. I’d like to remind you all thatIwas the one wronged here. Someone broke onto my private property and took those pictures. What I choose to do in the privacy of my own home is nobody’s fucking business.”
“Perhaps, but what about the physical assault?” Hartley has the gall to wag his fucking finger. “The video’s got over three million views, Stride. Nobody wants to align themselves with someone pending assault charges.”
My patience was already paper thin. I don’t think I’m going to last much longer.
“Those charges were dropped. Halloway came at me first, I was defending myself.”
I can tell that I have half of my investors convinced, but Hartley’s too loud for his own good. In my experience, all it takes is one loud idiot in the room to sway a decision one way or another.
“The film’s script is amazing,” I argue. “The cast is stellar. If we go forward with my proposed marketing plan, this movie is guaranteed to sell out theaters. Give it another two weeks and the rest of the world will have forgotten everything.”
“That’s not how this works, Stride,” Hartley goes on. “I can’t speak for everyone else, but I know a losing pony when I see one. Send the paperwork to my lawyers. I’d rather deal with the financial penalties than lose every single dime.”
There’s a quick murmur of agreement from a couple of the other investors.
“You’re making a horrible mistake,” I tell him. “If you pull out now, you’ll regret it.”
“It’s nothing personal. It’s just business.”
He hangs up, his video feed disappearing from view. All I can do is watch in dismay as the rest of the film’s investors pull out of the call as well. Before I know it, I’m the only one sitting in the virtual room, staring at my own face.
I look like shit. The dark circles beneath my eyes are proof that I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in ages. The more I stare at my hair, the more I realize how many strands have turned gray. My complexion is blotchy, my cheeks hollow.
I’m sorry. I have to go.
I turn my computer off and lean back in my office chair, staring at Eden’s empty desk in the corner. There’s nothing to listen to except the low hum of the office’s ventilation and a few voices coming from down the hall. We wrapped filming about a week ago, all the footage we need stored safely in the cloud.
I’d normally be ecstatic about moving into the post-production phase. There’s nothing I enjoy more than getting into the nitty gritty details, picking out my favorite takes and stitching everything together with proper color grading, background music, and foley. It’s a period of time where I get to hunker down with a couple of trusted editors, cutting and weaving frames and scenes together to make one coherent story.
But my head isn’t in it. I feel like no matter where I go, I’m surrounded by a thick, impassible fog that won’t give me the chance to catch my breath.
It doesn’t help that I find reminders of Eden everywhere.
Some of her things are still in her desk or left at my place. Her MCAT workbooks, a few of her elastic hair ties, a couple of her colorful gel pens.
Reminders of her are everywhere she’snot, too.
