“I chose the wrong one. By the time I was back in Los Angeles, I could barely get any work. Luckily, I still had a few contacts in town.”

One of those contacts had been Tom, and what had started as a few meetings had ended as more than a few dates.

“I don’t think you should beat yourself up for it.” John shrugged. “So you picked the wrong thing. Doesn’t mean you can’t pick it up again. There may be a better time for it anyhow.”

Anna shook her head. She didn’t like recalling all those missed opportunities. “It was a long time ago.”

John looked contemplative, and Anna had seen that look before. “The rewrites going that poorly?”

#

JOHN LIKED THAT ANNA gave him time to think, time to respond. She wasn’t just rushing in with her own opinions.

The truth was he was late with the rewrites he owed Tom. He had decided to come clean and tell Anna everything when it was the right moment, but he didn’t want to upset their truce. They worked together so well, and he might want more, but he knew how to behave like a professional.

“Every time I think I have something to say, I wonder if I got it wrong.” John didn’t voice his insecurities often. Being in the movie business wasn’t the kind of profession that rewarded self-understanding. Not unless it was the kind used for onscreen tragedy. “I like shooting lasers in space as much as the next guy, but there are other stories to tell. The thing is, I might not be the right guy to tell them.”

“If you have something to say, you should say it,” Anna insisted. “You wouldn’t have made it this far without an instinct pulling at you, telling you to keep going. You aren’t making the mistake of telling someone else’s story for them. The point is to tell your story your way.”

“Is that what keeps you going?”

“I never wanted to do anything else. That part was always easy.”

“I guess I have to make my choice, place my bet.”

“Exactly,” Anna said. “At a certain point, you just have to roll the dice.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe you should take your own advice. So you didn’t get what you wanted. You’re still here. You still have something to say.”

Anna and John stood side by side next to the small stove. Hollywood felt so far away from here—the studio, Tom Melton, his rewrites were a world away from two film geeks making a pot of fake blood in this tiny kitchen.

Anna smiled as she stirred. “Maybe you’re right.”