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Shira nods crisply, then says, “Fair enough.”
We focus on mindfulness techniques and cognitive behavior skills for the rest of our session. The future is fixable. With her help, I can move forward.
I don’t know why she wants me to face the past though. No amount of writing can change what happened to my sister late one summer night.
Or what I told her before she left the house.
Or what my father said to me months later.
* * *
On Wednesday, Bridger raps on my door and I look up from my laptop to greet him, adjusting my black glasses. “How were your meetings in Los Angeles?”
“Terrific,” he says offhand like he’d rather discuss something else. “Do you have a second?”
Nerves fly down my spine.
He’s firing me.
He’s reprimanding me.
“Of course,” I say, masking my worries with a smile.
“I was hoping you could join me this afternoon when I meet with some new execs at Streamer.”
Oh, thank god.
I handle production coordination for a couple of our shows, but none are carried on Streamer. “Sure. But I’m curious why?”
And I’m hopeful. He’s dropped breadcrumbs. But I’ve tried not to eat them or let them fill me up. I don’t want to hope and then lose out.
“Because I’d like to add a show to your list. It’ll come with a small pay raise. Would you want to handle production coordination forThe Rendezvous?”
“I would very much like that,” I say, and I don’t try to contain my glee. I can’t. This is theitshow. I’ve been dying to work on it but figured I’m too junior.
“Fantastic,” he says, then gives a sheepish smile. “That’s why I had you read the scripts. I was hoping to make the move, but I just needed to be sure there was an open producer assignment and there is.”
“I’ve been researching Paris and the neighborhoods where the show takes place. I feel like I could lead a tour through Montmartre,” I say, touting myself. My dad would be proud.
“Great. I knew you’d be ready to hit the ground running. Or the cobblestones, I should say.” He tugs up the cuff of his ruby-red shirt. “We’ll meet the execs for lunch at noon.”
“I’m there,” I say.
* * *
We take a Lyft to McCoy’s, a popular deal-making steakhouse in midtown. Along the way, we chat about the show, the shoot, and the fast-paced schedule, then Bridger segues to lunch. “Oh, and about McCoy’s. Just wanted to reassure you they have more than steaks,” Bridger says when we reach the restaurant with the emerald-green awning. “Harlow says the pasta and salads are amazing.”
It’s kind of him to think about the way I eat. It’s one of the things I appreciate about my boss. But I don’t want him to worry about me. “Sides are the best,” I say as we slide out of the car.
“Harlow says the same.” On the way to the door, his phone buzzes. “One second,” he tells me, stopping to slide a thumb across the screen. Then glances at me. “I wasn’t sure if he was going to make it or not, but your father is here.”
That’s odd. “He works with Streamer?” I ask, but then again, his client list is one of the many things my dad doesn’t share with me.
“He does some work for one of the execs,” Bridger explains as we head into the oak-paneled eatery. The lights are low, and he scans the booths before the hostess can say hello.
“There they are.” Bridger points to a far corner where he must have spotted the Streamer execs. He’s very focused, always on alert and fast on the draw.
We make our way across the restaurant. My work with Shira has helped me deal with anxietyabout the unexpected, but no amount of therapy could prepare me for when my gaze lands on the people we’re meeting.
