She married Geoffrey the first time in 1986 and the second time in 2008, specifically November fifth. They were optimistic about Obama. By the time I started working for her, they’d separated—again—but I guess whenever they’re in the same city they forget why.

We say our good-byes, after making plans to meet up when she has free time later in the week.

I curl up on the couch to read.

The first line is begging for a punch-up. I know I told her I wouldn’t make notes, but . . .

I cross out “A stew of regrets” in her opening monologue and change it to, “Regrets, I’ve had a stew” so she can sing it as a satire of Sinatra’s “My Way,” which I’ve retitled “My Waves.” Mary’s got a killer singing voice few people know about, so why not highlight it? Before I can stop myself, I’ve altered the lyrics of the song so they correspond to Mary’s experiences.

* * *

Regrets, I’ve had a stew,

And most of them were underwater.

I did what I had to do, even if two films were slaughtered.

And though, I enraged some nerds, and studio heads along the byway.

But so what? I punched the doc

And did it myyyyy waves

* * *

Before I look up, it’s one a.m., I’m on my third pass-through, and I have no intention of stopping.

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 23

MILES

Zoey and I are still kissing. We’ve never stopped kissing. My hand keeps brushing against her dimple until I can’t take it anymore and I move my lips there to kiss the perfect little well it makes in her cheek. My fingers move into her not-quite-brown, not-quite-blond hair.

Wait. It’s not Zoey at all. Her hair is now fully blond. Actually, it’s up in an elaborate triangular-shaped hairdo that throws my entire frame into permanent shadow.

Now I’m not kissing Bree either, but a faceless bridesmaid in a poufy pink dress at Charles and Dylan’s wedding. Except that Charles and Dylan don’t have any bridesmaids. Only groomsmen.

“Flight attendants. Please prepare for landing.”