I stop tapping the pen. “I would prefer just to view the latest cut and go straight into the postmortem.”
A flash of irritation shows in Justin’s eyes, but he doesn’t argue and the lights are quickly turned off and the latest version of our documentary begins to play. I lean forward in my chair, elbows on the table, chin in my hands, carefully dissecting it frame by frame almost as if I can slow it down to edit speed and view it piece by piece. It still doesn’t feel right. Not even after the latest cut. It’s close, but not quite there. Damn, this should be finished by now. We need finished projects to start pulling in dollars.
The documentary ends and the room is silent. It’s not right. I try to digest what I’m feeling into words that won’t offend. I run my fingers over the top of my head and fill them with a tight scrunching of black curls.
“I don’t like the title,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “And it’s not right, how we’ve cut this. It just feels out of sequence, almost like we’re manipulating the images and injecting opinion rather than just showing the story.” I close my notepad. “It needs to go back to editing and we really need to think of a new title. Ghosts of Stockton Boulevard just doesn’t do it for me.”
Silence. I hate it when everyone holds back speaking their mind. Or worse, when they do it without including me. We’re a team, an equal voting team. Someone just say I’m wrong and get it over with. I shift my eyes to fix on Justin.
“I think it’s an excellent piece of finished work, as is,” he says. “What don’t you like about the title?”
“We’re making a film about sex trafficking in urban California and we’re calling these women ghosts. It’s demeaning, like they are somehow invisible and valueless. I don’t want them to be ghosts. I want them to be seen.”
He pauses to consider my comment. He leans forward into the desk, toward me.
“Then we’ll come up with something new,” Justin agrees. “And the latest cut?”
“Let’s go back to editing this afternoon. I’ll have an outline of changes I want to make by then.”
The meeting quickly ends after that. I’m relieved that it didn’t turn into a three-hour argument session. Maybe I’m getting better at leading the team. That was almost too easy.
I stare up at Allie, my assistant, as she begins to clean up the room.
“Am I wrong? Just tell me if I’m wrong, Allie. I trust you the most here.”
Allie smiles, pauses in her task, and looks flattered over my confession. “You’re not wrong, Kaley. You’ve got a vision. Follow your gut. At the end of the day it’s your name and reputation that walks out the door with every documentary.”
“Follow my gut, huh? My gut says that it’s not right.”
“Then it’s not right and we go back to editing.”
I nod. It was what I was going to do anyway, but it’s nice to have a little support. I lean back into my chair, shaking my head. “You’ve known Justin a long time. Why does he dislike me so much? I’m just trying to produce quality work and keep the company out of bankruptcy.”
“Ah, maybe because you’re drop-dead gorgeous. Justin thinks he’s God’s gift to women, and you’re not interested. That could have something do with his attitude.”
I blush. “Is that all you ever think of? The relationship thing?”
Allie laughs. “Pretty much. Once you’re married that only leaves meddling in other women’s love lives.”
I gather my things from the table. “Well, stop meddling in mine. I’m spoken for.”
Allie’s face snaps up. “Really? Glad to hear it. When did you start seeing someone?”
My insides go cold as all the heat in my body rises to my cheeks. Shit, what had made me say that? I’m not dating anyone.
“Just recently.”
“Maybe all the twelve-hour days you’ve been putting yourself through will stop. You work too hard. You’ve got to remember to take a little downtime or you’ll burn out quickly.”
I rush from the conference room since I’ve never been comfortable with lying, and disappear into my office. I dump my things on my desk and flip on my computer.
As I wait for the programs to load, I start listening to the messages in my phone. Without thinking, I click open the link to my Fembot blog. I start to scribble names and numbers on my desk calendar, calls that I need to return before lunch. Bank. Dad. The distributor I hope to wow with the documentary pitch. Zoe I’ll call during lunch. Best friend chatter over tofu is exactly what I need today. Maybe she can make sense of what’s up with me.
I start to rummage through the mail that Veronica left on my desk. Ding. I freeze. I stare at the computer. The chat box for my blog is obediently waiting to be opened. I click it full screen.
Love-struck Trainer: Are you free for lunch?
Oh no, what’s up with that? Is he playing with me, pursuing me, or some kind of weird stalker? Does he somehow know who I am? OK, stop being paranoid, Kaley. It’s not possible for him to know who you are. No one knows this blog is mine. I was certain that I was very careful there was nothing to link this blog to me.
I hold my fingers above the keys, searching for something safe to respond.
Response: I’m sorry. I don’t date anonymous virtual fans and I have a boyfriend.
I sit back and wait.
Love-struck Trainer: When do you find time to blog?
Response: While he sleeps.
Love-struck Trainer: He doesn’t sound very fun. Sure you don’t want to go out with me?
I start to laugh. He’s quick. I’ll give him that. And because he disappeared on me Saturday, it’s my turn to return the favor. I exit the chat and log off.
I grab my purse and head to the door. For some reason, I feel an added spring to my step.
“I’ll be back in an hour, Veronica,” I call out before I push through the double doors.
I’m almost to my car and something stops me. A feeling, a sudden intensity to the air, and an increased liveliness in my flesh. It feels like I’m being watched or maybe just looked at. I scan the parking lot. I shield my eyes with my hand, and look across the sun-drenched road.
Nothing. I take the keys from my purse and click to unlock the door. A sudden prick. I look up over the roof of my car and my heart drops to my knees.
Bobby.
OK, what do I do now? I’m staring at Bobby. He’s staring at me. I’m smiling. He’s smiling. Do I run across the road before he disappears again or do I wait to see if he comes to me?
God, he looks good. Wherever he’s been, whatever he’s been doing it’s definitely agreeing with him. Crap, I hope it’s not a deliriously happy relationship that has him looking so hot.
I decide to wait, play it cool, and just drink in the details of him. He’s still one hundred percent my Bobby: tall, roguishly relaxed; lean, nicely muscled surfer-like frame; long chestnut waves; penetrating green eyes; casual California dress with a hint of European style; and a not quite fully formed smile on delicious lips. But I see on him the subtle changes of our two years apart as welclass="underline" an air of greater confidence and command; a look of purpose about him; and he definitely looks happy.
The last time I saw him he was not happy—well, not happy with me. But today there is just enough smile in those eyes to hold me completely captivated.
Crap, he’s not going to do it. He’s not going to come to me. Fine. I slam shut my door and click it locked. I move toward the street and hope I don’t look like I’m hurrying, but that’s how it feels, like my leg speed is increasing with each step.
I wait for a break in the traffic and then trot across the center of the asphalt. Then I’m standing close to him as if I’ve never been anyplace else. Suddenly, everything inside me feels in perfect order. I struggle for something light and not too betraying to say.
“Bobby Rowan. What are you doing in this part of town?”
Those wonderfully muscled shoulders do a lazy shrug. “I wanted to see this.” His molded chin does a little lift toward my building. “You did everything you set out to do, didn’t you? So how does it feel to be officially an independent filmmaker?”