“That’s great.” I do my best to sound thrilled, but honestly, it doesn't seem like a big deal. Studios have bought options for my comics before, but things never move to the next stage. Still, selling the option should yield a nice sum of money, which I could use to renovate the house.
“No, Julian, you don’t understand. This isn't great. It's stupendous. Levine has secured funding for a six-episode series. They want you to co-write the screenplay. They’ve sent me a preliminary contract. They plan to begin filming early next year. This isn’t just an option. Revenant is getting made, my friend.”
I shake my head in disbelief. Shaun was right; I should have been sitting down. “No way.”
“This is the big one. Can you be in LA for the pitch meeting on Friday?”
My head is still spinning. “Fly to California? It can't be done remotely?”
“The producer wants to meet with you personally.”
I run my hand over my face. Holy shit. This is real. I’ve had comics made into games, but this is a show. This is big. “Yeah, yeah. Sure thing. Send me the details—I'll be there.”
I hang up, then I realize where I am. The greenhouse. I thought I had nothing going on for the next four months. I thought I had all that time to do the renovations. But if Revenant is getting made into a show. . .
It doesn't matter. I refuse to let Hannah down. I'm just going to have to make it work.
Damien showsup unannounced with a box of pizza shortly after seven. “I sent you a text,” he says. “You didn't respond.” He looks around at the now bare room. “I see why.”
“Yeah, sorry. My phone is upstairs.” I survey the space through his eyes. “When you suggested holding the wedding here, I didn’t really think it would work. But now that I’ve cleared out the junk, it’s actually bigger than I thought.”
We take the pizza into the kitchen. I open the refrigerator, hand Damien a beer, and take one for myself. “What's going on with you? Tell me what your doctor said.”
He waves off my concern. “It's not a big deal.”
“Don't give me that, Damien. I'm not a fool. You haven't taken a day of vacation since your father died.”
“I thought I had a heart attack. I didn’t. Still, Dr. Zambrano recommended time off. I’m following his advice.”
“How many meetings did you attend today?”
“Just two. I didn’t come here to talk about that. I had lunch with Sophia today.”
I go still. A flash of jealousy surges through me, almost immediately followed by remorse. Am I going to sulk if Damien pursues Sophia? No way. I refuse to be that guy. Damien can go out with whomever he wants.
Damien takes a look at my face. “It wasn't a date, you idiot. We discussed the community health center.”
I tell myself that the emotion I’m feeling isn’t relief. “I'd forgotten about your insane plan. How did that go?”
“As expected.” He looks at me. “We tried to call her, do you remember? And then her phone was out of service?”
“Yeah?”
“Her phone was disconnected because she didn't have enough money to pay the bill.” His expression is troubled. “I had my team investigate. After she got fired ten years ago, Sophia spent a month living out of her car.”
Shock slaps me. I put down the slice of pizza I was eating. She was homeless? While I lived in my comfortable, heated New York apartment, Sophia lived out of her car. Yes, I had problems. But I had shelter. I had a place to live, a roof over my head.
“I thought she was avoiding us because she regretted the threesome,” he continues. “Instead, I find out she was struggling. At the fundraiser, Sophia said I had no idea what life is like for the little people.” His expression is bleak. “She’s right.”
I’m not paying attention to him. I’m still reeling. Sophia mattered to me. That night meant something, but you'd never know that from the way I acted. Yes, I didn’t know that she got fired, and I certainly didn’t know she was forced to live in her car, but that’s no excuse. What does it say about me that I didn’t bother to find out?
Nothing good.
Damien sticks around after dinner and helps with the greenhouse. We start to pull up the tiles, which is a lot harder than it sounds. We make it through less than a tenth of the area when he has to leave. “I have to attend yet another conference call,” he says wearily. I open my mouth to say something, and he holds up his hand to forestall me. “I'm working on it.”
He lets his family walk all over him. Then again, who am I to point out his flaws when I have so many of my own?
I wake up on Tuesday morning, determined to make serious progress on the greenhouse before flying to Los Angeles. But the problem with working with your hands is that it doesn't always still your mind. I could sink into the drawing if I were working on a comic. I could think about what my characters were saying and doing and tune out the world.