Page 17 of Absolute Certainty
“I’ll think about it once I actually finish. The next few weeks will likely get chaotic while my sister’s visiting and with theTonys, so I don’t know when I’ll be able to resume without constantly having to pause to do something else. I planned on reading the entire thing yesterday, but at the last minute, Miles realized he could take guests for this fundraiser at Clyde’s company, so he asked us to join. But really, Jay, this story is great so far. Like really fucking amazing. I think if you change that ending, there’s something special here. Will you try resubmitting?”
“Do you think I should?”
Sahar sat up straighter, crossing one leg over the other. “Of course, I do. I think you have a real shot here. Never underestimate a happy ending in 2024. People need it.”
He took a breath. “Maybe. But I don’t know how much I have left in me.”
The small puncture she’d felt earlier grew exponentially more painful. “If you need me to metaphorically hold your hand and cheer you on every step of the way, I’ll do it. Ask Willa. It’s my expertise.”
“I might take you up on it.”
“You should. In fact, you better. I fear I’m now too attached to these characters not to know what they’re doing every step of the way.”
Jay’s mouth curved upward. “Sounds like a plan,” he said, adjusting his position in the chair again.
4
JAY
Sahar’s warmth and the steady smile on her face made it easy to believe that the world wasn’t a gushing cesspool of literal shit. Beside her, it was surprisingly effortless to believe that he wasn’t failing.
“For a second there, I had hope after the strikes last year,” Sahar noted. “I’m still shocked things are getting scrapped, but it shouldn’t be surprising in this industry. I really hope people like you don’t give up, Jay. We need original stories now more than ever.”
Jay swallowed the rigid lump lodged in his throat. One hundred and forty-eight days of the Writers Guild of America strike and one hundred and eighteen days of SAG-AFTRA, but AI still hadn’t burned to the ground.
People were being replaced left and right by soulless robots, and it made him violently angry every time he thought about it.
“Yeah,” he managed to say.
A weary expression crossed her face. “Have you seen improvement from any of your peers?”
He shook his head. “No. At least not from the people who’d already been struggling. Some colleagues werethankfully able to bounce back, and I know that there’s progress happening behind the scenes we won’t be seeing for a while, but it’s still so jarring how disposable real people are these days.”
“I follow a few journalists who’ve been writing about our show, and I keep seeing that smaller outlets are closing down because they can’t compete with the changes in the algorithm and AI articles.”
Worrying at his bottom lip, Jay said, “And it’s those very journalists who are always so supportive of indie filmmaking, too.”
Sahar closed her eyes for a beat and then squared herself. “Okay, listen, the biggest fuck you to AI is going to be getting the best story out there. Henry and Katherine are going to be on my TV screen soon, and the world is going to love them as much as I do. I believe in you, Jay. I believe in this story. These rewrites could be good for you,” she paused for a beat. “Us, really, because as I said, I’m selfish andwantto see it myself. I want to be insufferable about it all over social media, and tell everyone I know.”
She beamed, and he wanted to bottle the look on her face like a jar of fireflies for the nights when all he could see was darkness.
Jay let out a small laugh, one he didn’t realize was bubbling inside him. Sahar was like the sun. He understood at that moment that this was why he always appreciated seeing her at the coffee shop. It was how she’d quite literally kept him tethered to the light during that one horrific day when he almost quit.
“Have you always been this optimistic?” he asked.
She smiled softly. “My mum claims I was the happiest baby.” Thinking over the next words she was going to say, Sahar tilted her head and shrugged. “But it often works against me. I try to force things to work, come off as too much, and things slowlybackfire.” Her voice broke a little by the end. He wondered if someone had said that to her.
No part of Sahar was too much; in fact, he could tell that she was holding parts of herself back. Like all the joy and vibrancy she showed in his presence were a mere fraction of the real her.
He was positive that if he continued to watch her shine as she’d just allowed moments ago, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.
“You could never be too much for me. You’re like sunshine. People need you,” he returned, astounding himself with the overt declaration.
Sahar laughed. It was sarcastic, but a sound he’d happily still get drunk on. “You know people loathe summer, right? That’s not a compliment.”
“I didn’t say summer. I said sunshine. There’s a difference. Also, plenty of people love summer.”
She scrunched her face in thought. “Okay, you saved it there a bit, but still, people get tired of sunshine. It overstays its welcome.”
