The silence that followed was potent.
“Sebastian,” he said finally in Italian. “This is wonderful. Send it to me immediately. I will go to my computer now.”
There were signs of life in the background, diners maybe, but it was obvious he was not at home by his computer already.
I laughed. “It’s not finished yet. I stayed up all night writing, but I need some more time with it. I finished the treatment, though, which I will send to you. Andrea, I have not felt such excitement about a project in…well, a very long time.”
“What prompted this?” he asked, sounding as eager as I felt. “You have said the well is dry for years. I had almost given up on ever seeing a new Sebastian Lombardi screenplay.”
I hesitated as I shut the door to the hotel and took the stairs to the lobby so I wouldn’t lose the phone connection.
“I ran into Savannah yesterday,” I confessed. “She was with Tate and Jace Galantine.”
Andrea made a noise like an irritated bear. “Well, this is not the first time you have seen them. Though I do not know why you bother with that woman.”
That woman.
The name Andrea saw fit to give Savannah these days.
“I was also doing an interview with Isla Goodspeed, and she told me that there has been gossip about Adam’s sexuality again.”
“Ah, yes. I had heard something of the sort.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” I demanded, slamming my car door behind me as I got into the driver’s seat. “Cazzo, Andrea, you didn’t think that was something I should know?”
“No, I did not. Why would I tell you gossip about an ex-lover who wounded you badly ten years ago? One you have not hadcontact with in that time, hmm? Tell me why I should have told you. So you could protect him? Comfort him? That is not your job anymore nor has it been for many years.”
His words slid between each one of my ribs like slim, sharp blades. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe through the pain.
The pain of his honesty.
Because, of course, he was right.
I was nothing to Adam Meyers anymore, if I ever had been.
What was I going to do about his plight?
“Yes, well, anyway,” I said, pausing to clear my throat and input the directions to Linnea’s house in the GPS. “It was a perfect storm. Seeing Savannah, Adam, and then Linnea later that day.”
“The girl from Maui,” Andrea remembered. “The one you write those ridiculous postcards to.”
“They aren’t ridiculous,” I said automatically because this wasn’t the first time he had teased me about them. “Writing by hand is a lost art form. Anyway, I could not sleep because this idea was flourishing like a weed in my mind, and I had to get it all out.”
“I want to read everything you have,” he demanded, as I knew he would. “Send it immediately.”
“I’m on my way to pick up Linnea, but I will send it when I park,” I promised. “It’s rough, Andrea. I told you, I haven’t finished.”
“Honestly, Sebastian, I do not care if it’s one line written on the back of a receipt. I have been waiting a decade to make a film with you again.”
“You’ve directed me three times sinceBlood Oath. IncludingBlack On, which we just wrapped,” I reminded him. “TheLA Timescalls me your muse the way Leonardo is for Martin Scorsese.”
Andrea made a noise of derision in the back of his throat. He did not like to be compared to any other director. “Send me the pages. And,fratellione, be careful, yes? The past always seems prettier through the pink lens of nostalgia.”
He hung up before I could respond, which was just as well because I had no response to that.
Probably, he was right.
Still, I knew myself well enough to know there was a large likelihood I would ignore his advice anyway.
