Chapter2
Ethan
“No, Mom, I didn’t quit. I’m taking a sabbatical,” I say into the speakerphone. I’m currently packing up my desk in my corner office at HCI Entertainment Law. After fifteen years representing Hollywood’s elite, I’m about to have six glorious months off. I’m going to write a book, and sleep without being woken up at two a.m. by some coked-up actor needing to be bailed out of jail. It’s going to be heaven.
“A sabbatical? Who takes a sabbatical?” my mom asks. “You’re in the prime of your career. You can’t just walk away.”
“Yes, I can. I’ve been wanting to write a novel since I was a kid. I would have thought you’d be happy for me to pursue one of my dreams.”
“But all that money we spent on law school …” she moans. My mom is one of the hardest working people I’ve ever known. Not that shehadto work. My dad certainly made enough money as a talent agent with one of the biggest agencies in LA, but it wasn’t in my mom’s nature to sit around and watch kids finger paint. She took a grand total of three weeks off work after giving birth to me and my sister before going back to being the most respected and feared casting agent in Hollywood.
“Again, not quitting, Mom. Just taking a break.” I walk over to the wall of windows and stare out at the Century City skyline through the smog. “I’d say in the fifteen years I’ve been practicing law, I’ve definitely gotten your money’s worth out of my law degree.”
“You’re too young to retire,” she says. “I only retired last year andI’mtoo young.” She lowers her voice as though not wanting to be overheard. “Your dad and I were not meant to be home alone together, day in and day out. He’s driving me crazy.”
“Most people would say that sixty-eight is the perfect age to stop working,” I tell her, hoping to put an end to her complaints. “Maybe you and Dad should travel, you know, see the world, do the things you’ve never made time for.”
“The last time Isaac and I went on vacation, he forgot his sunscreen and instead of buying a new tube, he decided to fry. There’s a reason he got that patch of skin cancer on his nose.” She stops talking long enough to juice her celery for her morning cleanse. “How will you pay your bills while you’re off pretending not to be a lawyer?”
“I’ve put a lot aside, Mom. Plus, I’ll still make my base salary while I’m away.”
“Away? You’re not writing your book in LA? Where in the world are you going?”
“I’m heading up to Alaska,” I tell her, feeling slightly sheepish at hearing the words out loud. “I’m thinking of basing my psychological thriller there.”
“So, you’re really serious?” Before I can answer, she demands, “You know who writes books? People who went to school to write books.”
“I’m a good writer, Mom.”
“If you say so.”
“Thanks a lot.” I make a mental note to tell Harper about this conversation when I get to Alaska. Somehow, laughing with my best friend about this kind of stuff makes it so much more bearable. As her parents never understood her career path either, Harper gets it.
“I still don’t understand why you can’t just work on your little book during your free time. It’s not like you’ve got a family to look after.”
And we’re onto her second favorite topic. The “you need a wife and kids right away” bullet point presentation … which will bring us to the end of this conversation. I’ve been hoping she’d pick up the pattern and stop, but so far, no luck.
“Sorry, Mom, I’ve got to run. I have a meeting in a couple of minutes on the other side of the building.”
“Okay.” But her tone says that: a) it is not okay, and b) she doesn’t believe me about the meeting.
“Love you. I’ll call you on Sunday.”
“Love you, too.”
I hang up and turn back to my desk as a jolt of excitement shoots through me. After today, I won’t be sitting here for a very long time. If ever again. I don’t want to give my parents simultaneous heart attacks, but the truth is, I’ve wanted out of this line of work for a very long time. I lost my passion for representing spoiled, entitled rich people years ago.
I knew the exact moment it was over for me, too. It was mid-December, four years ago. I was about to get on a flight to Cancun to spend the holidays with my family when I got a call from a particularly problematic client. He was an actor-turned-MMA fighter—what could go wrong, huh?
Heinrich had just been caught in a hotel room with not one, butthreeteenage girls. My gut reaction was to tell him to rot in prison and die, but as his attorney, I did what I had to do. I left the airport and bailed him out of jail. Then I babysat him while Prisha Choudree—Harper’s and my other close friend, not to mention the top PR person in town—tried to work her magic and mitigate the damage.
A knock at my door interrupts my thoughts. Speak of the devil, Prisha strides in. She slides her hands into the pockets of her wide-leg slacks and glances at the boxes on my desk. “So, you’re really doing this.”
“Yes, and I couldn’t be happier.”
“You do remember what it’s like in Alaska, right? The dusty roads, the mosquitos, the starving bears just waiting for their chance to eat you alive.”
Chuckling, I tell her, “I remember the quiet rustle of the leaves in the wind, the sounds of ocean waves lapping against the shore, air so clean, you can see for miles.” Pointing behind me, I say, “No smog.”