John strode toward the double doors, pulling his laptop bag over his shoulder. At the bar, Anna hadn’t given him the impression that she cared what kind of car he drove. Dressed in an expensive gown at the premiere, though, her exterior reflected the truth of what she was—a wealthy man’s ex-wife. A man who could make or destroy careers on a whim. The two of them were still on amicable terms, it appeared. An afternoon in a bar, as fun as it was, couldn’t erase the fact that she ran in totally different, much higher, circles than John did. It couldn’t erase their behavior at the party. John’s stomach turned at the way he’d pretended not to have heard of The Castro, but she had made him so angry.

John’s phone pinged with a text.

Clara: Give ‘em hell, champ.

John: Thanks coach!

He opened the door into the cool air-conditioned interior of the agency.

Clara: Don’t sell your soul for a movie deal. Heard it doesn’t work out.

John knew Clara was worried for him. She had also avoided the conversation about the job offer all weekend, but John knew the decision turned over and over in her mind. He didn’t want her to be in the same place she was a year from now. He didn’t want to be in the same place he was a year from now. She needed a push—they weren’t going to wait forever for Clara’s answer.

He sent her the fateful message: Are you going to take the job?

John halted at the carpeted entrance in front of the receptionist’s desk.

Should he worry about pitching to Anna’s ex-husband? He shook his head. No, you couldn’t get anywhere in this business without tripping over someone’s ex-husband or ex-wife.

Clara: Look at the time, gotta go.

Clara: BUY GROCERIES.

John gave the receptionist his name. The young woman stood and gestured for him to come with her. He followed her as she moved through the spacious, elegant offices. The agency staff resembled players from central casting—all attractive, all well-dressed, and all ready to climb the ladder to the top as soon as the first rung was shown to them. Everyone came to Southern California searching for something, and he wasn’t any different, just his clothes were.

John glanced at his old T-shirt, torn jeans, and scuffed boots. His ensemble said, “I’ve had a tough couple of months,” but he couldn’t say it was a lie. If a writer showed up too well-dressed at one of these meetings, he probably wouldn’t appear authentic. When he’d sold his first script, he’d worn an ill-fitting suit to the signing, and he’d never felt more foolish.

The receptionist stopped in front of an impressive set of double doors, etched and carved with elegant, intricate designs.