I try to hide a smile. I swear I do. But I know, I just know there’s a hidden message behind this five out of five.
“Dad, this is a boring gift. Why don’t people send you a jar of chocolates or something? Or a jar of pizza?”
He makes a good point. “A jar of pizza would be a good idea.”
But I like the chili flakes more. I text her when Zach goes to bed.
Finn: So, what’s a five out of five, Jules?
Jules: You know.
Finn: Do I?
Jules: Yes.
Finn: Say it.
Jules: You.
That damn You.
That might be the best gift ever from her.
A part of me doesn’t know what to do with this note, or with her, or with all these feelings that aren’t going away.
But another part does.
31
IT HAPPENS
Jules
“So, it’s a go?” I ask Bridger, barely able to contain my excitement after he delivers the news.
My boss leans back in his desk chair, the picture of a cool, confident executive. “We got Captain Dude. Thanks to you.”
I’m glowing. I can’t even sit down. I just pace in front of his desk because I’m bursting. “That’s amazing. Totally amazing.”
“You deserve the credit.”
I shake my head, too overjoyed to accept his praise. I want to tell Zach. I want to tell Finn. Sure, there are no guarantees a project will get made, but securing the rights is the first step, and we have them.
“You started reading the books and you tipped me off. The author will be in town for a reading next weekend. We can meet him and talk about the project.”
Bridger stands, comes around the desk, and stops near me. I can sense this is important to him so I stop pacing and meet his eyes, letting my smile disappear. This feels serious.
“When you first started working for me, you were a diligent, hard worker. That was all I knew. But over time, you’ve proved your knowledge and acumen. I couldn’t have built Opening Number without you. The work you’ve done on all our shows is tremendous, from The Rendezvous to Happy Enough. And now to find a project like this,” he says, shaking his head in amazement. “Just promise me this—if anyone ever tries to court you, give me a chance to make you an offer and keep you.”
I’m floored. But what would he do if he knew I slept with the head of a network we pitch shows to?
“And I’d like to give you a raise and a promotion,” he says.
I should jump for joy. But my shoulders fall. I can’t take this if he doesn’t know.
But there’s nothing to know, another voice argues.
And yet, there is.
“Bridger,” I begin, then I go to the door and shut it. I have to be careful. I’m not involved with Finn, and I don’t want to presume I ever will be. But I don’t want to cause a scandal either. I think that’s the message Solange was trying to impart. Be careful.
She’s not wrong. But sometimes being careful doesn’t mean walking away. Sometimes it means walking into the fire.
This won’t be comfortable in the least, but I need to say it. To ask it. It’s the right thing to do.
He tilts his head, then tugs on the cuffs of his emerald-green shirt. “What is it, Jules?” he asks, taking a seat then gesturing to the one across from him.
Then, I do another hard thing. “Would it bother you if I was involved with someone in the industry? Hypothetically.”
He sinks back in the chair, seeming relieved. “You scared me there.”
“But I’m serious.”
With a weighty sigh, he nods a few times. “Jules, I fell in love with my business partner’s daughter. It happens.”
Yes. Yes, it does.
Maybe there’s a way for it to happen to me too. Because the thing I want most in the world right now is to tell Finn about a kids’ book his son loves.
I head into Shira’s office the next day with a newfound confidence. This is the first time I’ve walked in here when I haven’t felt like a shaken bottle of soda, ready to spill.
I do plan to spill.
But I feel steadier.
Less out of control.
“How’s it going today, Jules?” she asks as she takes a seat.
I flop down onto the sofa across from her then dive right into things. “Remember that time I slept with my father’s best friend?”
“I sure do. I’m guessing you’re going to tell me something else about that?”
I draw a deep breath. “Yes. Like…everything.”
I take her through the restaurant encounter, then the bookstore run-in, dinner at the diner, then Paris, from the café to the Luxembourg Gardens, to all our meals, and to the moment on the streets of Montmartre. “And I told him about my OCD. And about my sister.”
Shira looks impressed but cautious. “And how did that go?”
I flash back to that morning in Paris. To the way I felt during, then after, then days later. For years, I’ve felt hidden. But I chose to be that way. “I love masks,” I say, beginning in a roundabout way. “I love dressing up. Putting on a costume. But I think I loved it because I didn’t want to be…me. Or maybe I wanted to deny parts of me.”
She nods, absorbing that, and her expression says keep going.
“And then I didn’t feel such a need to deny it anymore.”
“Why do you think that is? Did you feel accepted?”
I take a deep breath, letting the air fill me completely. “I felt understood. It was better than a mask.”
“That’s progress. Sometimes we need to be open about our challenges. It helps us face them,” she says with a proud smile. But it morphs quickly into a questioning look. “Is there something happening with him?”
I shake my head, wishing I could give a different answer. “No. Because I have to do something else first.”
“What’s that?”
I swallow what feels like a stone, but I say it anyway. “I have to deal with something my father said to me years ago.”
Then, I tell Shira, and immediately she hands me a box of tissues.
When I’ve gone through them, she says, “And what do you think you’re supposed to do now?”
The answer is finally easy.
Face it.
32
DO YOU REMEMBER
Jules
A fleet of hummingbirds flaps in my chest as I walk past the brownstones lining the narrow street in my father’s Brooklyn neighborhood.
My stomach dips as I reach the stoop, with its iron railing and stairs lined with potted plants, thanks to Liz. The imposing stone facade and immaculate white-shuttered windows are thanks to my father’s career shift, which has afforded him a place like this in Brooklyn, much bigger than our childhood house.
This brownstone is not home to me. But it’s where I need to be right now.
I walk up the steps, hesitantly raising my hand to lift the brass knocker. A few seconds after it falls, Liz swings open the door. She’s perfectly put together in pastel blue leggings and a workout top, a swingy ponytail complementing her toned look.