Page 10 of It's a Love Story

“Wow, did you borrow my dad’s joke book?” He smiles and sits up straighter. He has the posture of someone who’s just won. “So, the movie.”

“Yes, that. What you said about the quiet. I agree. And I wonder, if the thing with Jack Quinlan for some reason didn’t work out, how else could it be commercial?”

“I don’t think it needs to be. I feel like this movie could be made really cheaply. It’s so personal, it doesn’t need to be big and sweeping. Like it could be one camera.”

“I’m not letting you turn my movie intoThe Blair Witch Project.”

He laughs. “That’s big budget compared to what I’m thinking. The film I made with Wallflower Pictures—”

I interrupt him. “The one that won all the awards and sold exactly no tickets? That one?”

Dan leans in. “Yes, that one. We made it so cheap.”

“That’s impressive, but you’re thinking of how to make this smaller, when Nathan wants to make it bigger. Clearwater doesn’t make small films. We need to increase the wow factor without sacrificing the quiet of it all.”

“Yes,” he says.

“Did you just agree with me?” I smile at him behind my napkin.

“Which is why a pop star with a big song for the soundtrack is the right fix,” he says. “It doesn’t mess up the story.” And just then, Jack Quinlan’s “Purple” comes on the radio. I want to say this was a coincidence or a sign, but that song comes on the radio three times an hour.

“What?” Dan asks.

“What, what?”

“I think you think you have a poker face, when I can seriously see every thought as it crosses your mind. You just had a sarcastic thought.”

“Did not.” My hand moves up to my face to hide whatever my next thought is going to be.

“Did too.”

“Just, this song. It’s on constantly.”

“And?”

“It’s just so weird that he’s such a huge star. Like he’s on TMZ every day and I’m still trying to get my first movie made.”

He widens his eyes like he knows I’ve just overshared. I think he’s going to pounce with some snarky comment about what a loser I am, but he says, “Well, I’m thirty-two and slowly dying of chemical inhalation in my apartment, so.”

I don’t say anything. I cannot fathom why I shared that with this man. It was an inside-the-house, under-a-blanket thought. The kind I’d only share with Clem.

“Your buddy Jack is actually performing next weekend at a music festival in Long Island. In my hometown. My brother’s the electrician at the venue. It’s supposed to be a big secret that he’s showing up, but it seems like everyone knows. What kind of timeline is he on to write the song?”

“We’ve been pretty loose about the whole thing. Which is why I was sort of hoping you could help me with a backup plan?”

He gives me a long look, and I don’t blink. “Nope. I think your plan’s all we’ve got.”

My plan is entirely made up,I don’t say. I am sweating. It’s hot and the sun is bright behind Dan’s head. I am drunk on bacon grease and cheese. “I think we should go.”

We don’t talk on the way back to the car. I am not accustomed to not talking. I should be asking him what his plans are for the weekend; he should be asking where I live, if I have siblings or pets. But he’s just walking next to me, taking in the sun on the water, stopping quietly to look at what people are selling. And I feel sort of ignored, like there’s an arrogance to this quiet, like he’s above the awkward silence. I also wonder if I’m one of those people who is afraid of the quiet.

“What?” he asks. He’s caught me looking at him.

“What’s with the string bracelets?” I ask.

He grabs his wrist. “Louis makes them. They’re not very good.”

“No,” I say. “They’re just pieces of string. Shouldn’t there be some braiding or something?”

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