“He got one thing wrong though,” Phoebe said, turning back to Ted. “He overestimated how much you would care.”

“Come on,” Ted said.

“How many times did you work with him again?”

“I never took his money, on any of my films.” He backed away from her, his eyes wide.

“How independent of you.”

“Everyone knows I never took a dime from him!”

“You’re so proud of that fact, aren’t you? You wanted everyone to think of it as this professional rivalry. And they did. They looked at you both and thought just a little friendly competition, two gentlemen bringing out the best in each other.”

“Did you want me to tell everyone? Did you want that getting out all over town? It would have ruined your career.”

A howl escaped Phoebe’s throat, but when she heard it out loud, she realized she was laughing. “My career was ruined! Not yours though. You’re Teflon. I would have liked to think it was difficult for you, being around him, but I’ve seen the pictures.”

“Come on.”

“Hugging at the Vanity Fair party—”

“I haven’t been in years!”

“Sharing a table with him at Chateau fucking Marmont!”

“He came to me! There was a photographer so he sat down and put on a good show. You know I hate that place, that phony bullshit. You know I hate him. What do you want me to do? I can’t go back in time. If I could, I would, but I can’t.”

“If only this were one of your movies.”

Ted bent low. He looked like he couldn’t take any more. Good, she thought. She wanted him to hurt.

And then she saw it. On the shelf behind his desk. He’d been blocking it with his body, but now she saw it, the photograph she’d taken of him that day on the Russian River. They were just about to go into production on the second film, and she’d forced him to go away with her. One week in a cabin up north. They’d done nothing but swim, float, and make love. She’d thought they’d always be that happy together. The picture had seemed to prove it. And he’d kept it, all these years.

Ted looked up, still crouched forward. “Mols,” he whispered.

Phoebe held her breath. Goose. There was the face she’d expected to see on Umma and Apa’s doorstep. There was the boy who’d loved her, whom she had loved. Maybe that love still meant something. Maybe if she’d gone to him earlier, asked for his help...

“There’s a reporter,” Phoebe said. “With On Set. She’s been sniffing around, talking to people. She’s connecting the dots.”

“This whole Jerry thing is going to blow over. People are getting tired of all these #metoo stories. We’re at the saturation point.”