Julian
BARRY SANDERSON DIRECTS Hollywood blockbusters and consistently makes any list of mega power brokers. Why the hell is he in my office with a messenger bag hanging from his shoulder? Never mind. The fact is, he’s here, and I need to make the most of his appearance.
Carter and I both jump up to greet him.
“Sanderson, this is a surprise,” I say. “What can I do for you?”
He gives me a knowing look, his face ruddy from too much sun exposure. “You’re smooth, Mr. Hart. You didn’t blink when I showed up, but really you’re wondering why I’m wearing sunglasses indoors and delivering the script myself, aren’t you?”
Hell yes, I am. “I’ll be honest. The shades are throwing me off.”
Carter turns his head in my direction and tilts his head.
What? Is it a crime for me to joke around? I ignore Carter’s questioning gaze.
“Heh.” Sanderson removes the sunglasses and lets them hang on a gold chain around his neck. The inner fashion police in me wants to give him a ticket for that infraction. “This script is my baby, and I’ve been burned before, so I’m not taking any chances with this one.”
“Fair enough,” I say.
Carter reaches out, and Sanderson shakes his hand.
“I’m honored that you’re interested in me for the role,” Carter says. “I can’t wait to read it.”
Sanderson taps his stomach with his hands. “You’re perfect for the role. I’ve seen your work, and you’ve got the acting chops I need to make this franchise a hit. Let me ask you this. About what percentage of your action scenes have involved stunt doubles?”
I motion for Sanderson to take a seat, and both he and Carter lower themselves into the chairs facing my desk as they chat. A beep from my speakerphone pulls me away from the conversation. “Yes, Marie?”
“Your mother’s on line two, Mr. Hart.”
My Spidey senses are on full alert because she rarely calls me at work. “Keep chatting, gentlemen. I’m going to take this quick call.”
I stand and face the window looking out to the Avenue of the Stars. “Mom, everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine, Julian. Is this . . . is this a bad time?”
The hesitation in her voice chills me. “Hang on. I need to find a quiet spot. I’ll call you back in two minutes.” Carter and Sanderson are deep in conversation, and I don’t want to interrupt them. “I need to step out for a minute.”
Carter looks up and peers at me. “Everything okay?”
I don’t know, but there’s no sense in setting off any unnecessary alarms. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be back in a few.” I stride down the hall and slip into one of the agency’s small conference rooms. I’m back on the phone with my mother within seconds. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She sighs. “There’s no emergency, okay, but you said you weren’t coming home soon and I wanted you to know.”
Now my heart feels like an invisible fist is squeezing it. “Know what?”
“Julian, your father’s showing signs of early dementia. Short-term memory loss. Disorientation. Trouble finding words.”
The invisible hand won’t let go. My father doesn’t just remind me of Superman. No, he is Superman. A humble man with a modest background who climbed his way to the top and took others with him when he got there. He did it despite the naysayers, despite the people who put up roadblocks in his path, in large part because he used his sharp intellect to build his company from the ground up. I can’t reconcile the image of him that’s always been in my head with the person my mother’s describing.
“It might be exhaustion,” I offer. “You know what happens when you start looking up symptoms on the internet.”
She tsks at that suggestion. “Sweetheart, we’ve seen a doctor about this. A neurologist. We’ll be visiting a second one next week.”
I can’t disregard a doctor’s diagnosis no matter how much I want to. “What does Nicole say?”
She takes a deep breath. “Nicole is in risk-management mode. To her, it’s all about putting people in place to protect the future of the business. That’s what she feels she can do for him.”
“That’s what I could have been doing for him, too. Is that what you’re thinking?”
There’s no hesitation in her response. “I wasn’t thinking that at all. His life is not yours, and your life is not his.”
I run a hand down my face. I wish it were that easy to disregard his disappointment in my choices. “Try telling him that.”
“I have.”
She doesn’t need to say more. I know her telling him so made no difference. This explains the tenor of my recent conversations with him. His preoccupation with the state of my career stemmed from his concerns about his. “When was he going to tell me?”
A few beats of silence follow my question. Then she says, “Never, is my guess.”
“I should talk to him.”
“Give him some time, Julian. I don’t think he’s accepted it himself. And it’s not like he’s going to forget who you are tomorrow. The doctor told us his decline could take years. It happens gradually, but now we can prepare for it.”
I drop my forehead onto the smooth mahogany table and squeeze my eyes shut. “This is . . . a lot to take in. I don’t know what to say. So that’s why he’s been hounding me about building something of my own, telling me I need to focus on nurturing my legacy.”
“Yes. I didn’t want to tell you at Carter’s wedding, but you mentioned that you wouldn’t be making it to Atlanta anytime soon, and when he told me that you two had words when he saw you in LA, I realized you didn’t have the right context to understand his frustration.” She pauses for a moment. “It’s coming from a place of love, sweetie. The doctor says the diagnosis will make your father think about his own mortality, and although he’s not going anywhere anytime soon, I suspect he’s trying to assure himself that everyone will be okay when he’s gone. Just continue what you’re doing. Go out there and be the best damn agent you can be. Show your father you chose correctly.”
My head might explode from the disparate thoughts crashing into it. Will my father be okay? How much time before we notice a difference in his behavior? When he couldn’t remember names or places recently, were those early signs of dementia or merely a consequence of his exhaustion? I’ll need to go home to see him, but will Quinn think I’m slacking if I take yet another day off for personal reasons, especially after taking a mini-vacation for Carter’s wedding? Jesus. What a fucking day it’s been. A laugh gets stuck at the base of my throat. And on top of all this, Barry Sanderson’s in my office.
My mother’s voice permeates the mental fog. “Sweetheart, breathe. Dementia is an unfortunate sign of aging, but it’s not even close to being the worst thing that could happen to your father. I just wanted you to know.”
I take a fortifying breath and sit up. “Okay, okay. I’m fine now. I’ll be home soon. In the meantime, if you need anything from me—anything at all—you call me, all right?”
“Of course, Son.”
Her voice is soft and warm, full of the affection she’s always given me. It’s the balm I need right now. “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too, baby.”
In a daze, I plod back to the office, where Carter and Sanderson are still conversing animatedly. They both stop talking the moment I reappear.
“Everything okay?” Carter asks, wrinkling his brow as he studies me.
I’m reminded of one of the few mantras that’s never let me down: The workplace is for business, and your personal life has no place there. Lock that shit away and get it together. I relax my features and enter autopilot mode. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s cool.”
Carter’s face clears. “Great. Barry and I were just talking about grabbing some dinner. Says he’d be happy to talk big picture and walk us through his concept. What do you say?”
That pulls my hazy head out of my ass. I can’t very well tell him I’d rather meet Ash at Muddy’s, not in front of Sanderson at least.
Sanderson watches us and rises to his feet. “Do you think you could point me to the restroom? My bladder isn’t as reliable as it used to be.”
I walk him to the door and ask Marie to show him the way.
When there’s sufficient distance between Sanderson and us, I turn to Carter. “I thought you wanted to go to your sister’s open mic night?”
Carter does a double take. “Well, yeah, but Ashley will understand. It’s an open mic night, one of many probably. We can catch the next one. This”—he points to the hall—“is a chance we can’t pass up. I already texted Tori and told her we’ll need to postpone our celebration.” He squishes his brows together and tilts his head. “What’s going on, J? Why aren’t you as excited about this as I am?”
I don’t know what to say, and that rarely happens to me. He doesn’t know how much courage it took for Ashley to sign up for open mic night, but I do. He doesn’t know that she’s my lover and that I want to be there to support her. Still, after years of carving out separate spaces for my work and personal lives, I’d be a dick agent if I backed out on him tonight, in the midst of talks to secure him a career-defining role, simply because I’m dating his sister. He’d be well within his rights to discard me in favor of an agent who’d make his career the highest priority. Quinn would love that development. No, as much as I’d like to go, I can’t risk my career over an open mic night. I blow out a breath and slap him on the back. “I’m excited, man. It’s just so much happening at lightning speed. Let me send your sister a text to let her know.”
Carter nods. “Cool. I’m going to use the restroom.” He strolls out the door. A few seconds later, he pokes his head back into my office. “This isn’t a dream, right?”
“It’s very real, my friend.”
Shit. I want to be happy about Carter’s news, but I’m torn up about Ashley. And I won’t even be able to adequately explain why I bailed on her without running afoul of the NDA. Dammit. So this is what happens when you let your personal and professional lives collide. I make a mental note as I pick up my phone: Don’t ever do this shit again.