Page 52 of The Spirit of Love
“Definitely not.”
“Definitely? Really? Who gets to know that sort of thing for sure?” I say, surprised. Although I shouldn’t be. Jude did make awhole movie about a character who believes in the darkest version of nothing. I wonder if that’s when Jude and his mom fell out of touch, when his movie came out and she hated it.
“I’m not unique,” he says. “Lots of people don’t believe there’s anything after this. Lots of people take comfort in exploring that darkness. Don’t you ever, Fenny?”
“I’m no stranger to darkness, but I still choose to believe—”
“In what?” He interrupts me so cuttingly that I don’t want to say it out loud. Not to him. Not anymore.
But I know what I believe inside. I’ve known it since I was ten years old and woke up in a hospital bed after seeing the beauty beyond this world. It gave me faith that we’re here for a reason. To love each other, to be kind, to connect. That if we live accordingly, no matter what our public lives amount to, it’s worth it on a soul level.
And thenIfeel like the fraud, because even though Iknowall this, I still find myself wanting the public validation of landing the role of director. I still find myself blaming Jude because I’m not getting what my ego thinks it needs.
“Sometimes,” Jude says, filling in the space I didn’t, “it just feels good to wonder: What’s the fucking point?”
“I mean, just taking a stab in the dark here,” I say, irritation creeping into my voice, “perhaps love and kindness are the point?”
“Love and kindness?” he repeats, squinting like I’ve suggested contracting head lice is the point.
“It does seem to be what we’re here to do. It’s not exactly a novel idea.”
“No, in fact, it’s a very tired idea.”
I narrow my eyes. “Love is a tired idea?”
“In movies and TV, yes,” Jude says. “That’s all I mean. There’s no potential for surprise. I was just talking to Buster about this today.”
“Buster?” I ask.
“Yeah, we’re exploring new ideas for his character to confront in the first episode.”
I stiffen. “Because I’m responsible for rewriting that episode, it seems like you should be talking to me. All you’ve told me to do so far with the scripts is ‘have a fling.’ ”
“I sent you fifty pages of script notes last night.”
Right. Shit. “Which I am working my way through,” I stammer, caught.
“And I’m talking to you now,” he says. “I’m saying there’s no salvation for Buster’s character. No love or meaning.”
“This is all wrong,” I say, beginning to panic. I didn’t want to get into the details of the show with him tonight. But there’s so much he doesn’t understand aboutZombie Hospitalthat the subject is nearly impossible to avoid. “If there’s one character who needs salvation on this show it’s Buster’s. Eleven million viewersneedthat kid to believe in something—”
He shrugs like we’re debating whether to take the escalator or the stairs. “Unless they don’t.”
“People believe in love, Jude.”
He studies my face. “People like you?”
He makes it sound like a bad thing. I feel stung and embarrassed, and so I sting back. “Isthiswhy people think you’re talented?” I demand, feathered hands on hips. “Because you believe in nightmares while everyone else believes in dreams?”
“I really don’t know why people think I’m talented,” Jude says, looking away.
“You’re not a genius. You’re a shell.”
“Didn’t take you long to crack the code,” he says evenly, holding my gaze.
I want to give him a piece of my mind. About how, in the rare moments whenZombie Hospitalhas a chance to make our audience feel something, I want to make them feel connected, not alone. But if I told Jude any of that, then he’d know what he stole from me, and that’s a secret I’m not willing to give him.
This shawl feels like it’s choking me. I tug at the neck, trying to find the snaps. What am I doing playing dress-up with the enemy?
