Page 56 of The Spirit of Love
“I’m sorry?” I say.
“We’ll have to add a chair.”
Through a cloud of steam as she drains her pasta, Summer blows me a kiss. I have no choice but to follow Amy and Jude’s linked arms out into the giant open dining room facing the ocean. At least the sun has set enough so I can’t see Two Harbors anymore. Just a thirty-person seated dinner table, with only two empty chairs left.
“Jude, right here, next to me,” Amy says. She turns to a member of the catering staff. “Could we squeeze in one more place setting?” She gestures at the far end of the table, the nether regions where some men from the finance department are talking about golf.
“Right here,” Jude says, moving his own placemat to the left and gesturing for me to sit down. “I’ll take the extra chair.”
“No really—” I say.
“I insist.” Jude smiles.
“What a man,” Amy beams and then clinks her fork against her champagne flute.
I sit down next to Jude, who is given an extra chair squeezed in so tightly next to mine that there’s no way to sit without our arms touching.
“Cool kids have to stick together, right?” he says.
“Listen up!” Amy clinks her fork again. “I promise this year I won’t go on and on,” she says, like she says every year before going on and on. “I know we all want to dig into Chef Summer’s phenomenal first course. But as we embark on this, our seventh!Season! Of our flagship! Series! I want to thank you all for your exquisite work,andI want to give a big welcome to our drop-dead brilliant new director, the incomparable JDS. We are so lucky to have him, a once-in-a-generation talent and a true fan of the show—”
I look at Jude, who has his eyes closed and his face tipped down as if to avoid being seen, and I hope for his sake—not even my own anymore—that Amy wraps up her JDS worship hour soon. The man can’t handle it.
“Cheers, everyone! To zombies!” Amy says, so at least it’s time to drink.
“To zombies!” the rest of the party calls out.
“And to writers,” Jude says quietly, turning to me, clinking my glass. We lock eyes, and we take sips. If I don’t do this now, I fear I’ll never do it.
“Look, I’m sorry about Tuesday,” I say as a waiter sets down salads in front of us, a temporary ceasefire made of endive and hazelnuts and Summer’s anchovy vinaigrette.
“Tuesday?” Jude says. He takes a bite, and his eyes pop as he chews. Everyone does this when they first taste Summer’s food.
I can’t bring myself to eat yet. I push a hazelnut around on my plate. “When we were in the costume department? Our argument about the show and, I guess, existence? That thing I said about your nightmares wasn’t cool.”
He turns his whole body toward me, like we’re not at a party, like we’re entirely alone. And what I thought was going to feel contentious feels different. Apologizing to Jude feels unexpectedly safe.
“I didn’t mind,” Jude says, his voice warmer than I’ve heardit before. So he almost sounds like Sam. “I heard what you were saying, and I think you’re probably right. You were defending your point of view and the show you care about. You’re more in tune withZombie Hospitalthan anyone else.”
“Oh, fuck off,” I say, and my words are sharp but my tone is just as warm as Jude’s. I think I’m testing him, trying to discern whether he’s patronizing me. I don’t think so, but my guard refuses to go all the way down just yet.
“No, really.” Jude moves his chair a little closer, like he’s about to tell me a secret. “People say you’re the heart and soul of the show—”
“See, now you’re doing the thing you hate to me.” I take a bite of salad, sending telepathic chef’s kisses Summer’s way.
“But with you,” Jude says, “at least it’s true. I heard Aurora saying as much to Rich when I came in tonight.”
I wave him off and take another bite of salad. “She just wants me to plan her stupid birthday party.”
Jude tilts his head. “No, she was describing a scene you helped her figure out. How you sat down with her, rewrote the lines until they were in her voice, until—I think she said—until delivering them made her feel, for the first time, like an actor.”
What he’s describing with Aurora did happen. It was when we were trying to crack how she’d play one of her earliest scenes as an undercover zombie priestess. But the rounds of telephone it took this compliment to reach me is suspicious.
A server whisks away our salad plates, replacing them a moment later with the transcendent zucchini Parm I’d tasted in the kitchen earlier.
“The actors respect you,” Jude continues. “The writers likewriting with you. The producers trust your knowledge of the series more than anyone else. Youarethe series bible. You’re at the top of your game, and I’m out of my depth.” He takes a bite of the zucchini Parm and shakes his head in disbelief. “Is there crack in this food or what?”
“I know. Summer is an alien from outer space in the kitchen.”
