I’m not a big movie person, but I watch his. He makes the kind you see at the Oscars. Jamie called them pretentious when I brought them up. They are pretentious, but that’s part of why I like them. They’re very particular. Three of his movies have been nominated for Best Picture over the past ten years. He’s got another one in the works. It’s about a dysfunctional father-daughter relationship.

I’ve been secretly hoping it was about me since I read about it. I had this stupid idea that he was going to use it as a way to reach out and rekindle a relationship.

That was before I knew about Jamie. The whole daydream is embarrassing now.

Dad looks down at his phone again as I make my way from the living room to the kitchen. The chair skids against the tile as I drag it out and sit down.

Maybe Jamie wouldn’t sit down at all? I bet she’d do the opposite of what he asked. I stand back up and head toward the refrigerator. Grams is over here bustling about, gathering ingredients.

“How was your retreat?” Dad asks.

“Um, great. I worked on finding introspection,” I say as I make an educated guess regarding what cabinet might hold the glasses, choose wrong, and get the plates. I find the glasses on my second try.

Dad puts down his phone and gives me his full attention as I move toward the water dispenser. “Your hair looks great,” he says.

I press the water button. “Thanks.”

“You know that gray-blond look is very in now in Hollywood. I’m telling you, you’re going to book some jobs next week. Switch your outfit out for some jeans and a white shirt, and you’re golden. I’m assuming you’ve spoken to Anya since you’ve been back?”

Who the underworld is Anya? Cold water overflows onto my hand.

I step back from the dispenser and shake out my fingers. “Uh-huh,” I mumble as I start my return journey with an overflowing glass of water.

“I booked you a gig for Saturday, James,” Dad boasts proudly.

I freeze mid-step as that registers. “Wait—a what, when?” The stupid water sloshes over my hand and splats to the floor.

He meets my eyes and grins in the same smug way Jamie does. “This Saturday! I know you think your old man is too busy for you, but I’m always watching.”

What?

“Always watching what?” What does Jamie do? For some reason I’ve just been assuming acting! Did he book her an acting gig? I walk the eight extra feet to the table and sit down. Is Jamie in a band?

Dad chuckles at my expression.

“What kind of gig?!” I ask more forcefully.

He crosses his legs. “A twenty-minute set at a private barbecue Timothée Chalamet is holding this weekend for one of his friends.”