Ariana said flatly, 'They need more pillars,' and I laughed. Across the way, the Myerses sat in the warm glow of a dated chandelier, talking over glasses of wine. Bernie raised a hand in greeting, and we waved back. It had been months since Ariana and I had gone for an evening stroll, and I realized how much I missed it. Out in the open, breathing crisp air--for once not on top of each other, smothered by our disappointments or pinned down by a hidden lens. And later we were going to pick up an order of pho from our favorite Vietnamese place and we were going to sit on the couch and eat and talk, the coming evening as familiar and safe as an old sweatshirt.
I reached for her hand.
It seemed a little unnatural, but we both held on. 'Your theory . . .' she prompted.
'I think the assault on us, our house, was to show me what they were capable of. How else would I believe that they could know all this? I mean, about some water heater that blew up in Pittsburgh and a hidden security tape?'
'And it also ensured you'd do what they wanted.'
'That, too. It was a setup so I'd be forced to be their errand boy. I mean, if someone just contacted me randomly, said, 'Take this package to an apartment in a shady part of town'?'
'But why do they need you?' Ari asked. 'Why didn't they just send him the DVD anonymously, say, in a Netflix envelope?'
'Clearly they didn't need me.'
'So then the question is . . . ?' Her hand spun in the air.
'Why did they choose me?'
One of her eyebrows lifted. 'You're special.' She said it flatly, but I knew it was a question. A challenge.
'No, not special,' I said. 'But maybe at the end of this . . .' I paused, not wanting to admit it, but she nodded me on. 'Maybe I'll get a DVD that absolves me.'
'Of what?'
'I don't know. But maybe I'll get something that does for me what that recording did for Doug Beeman. Jars me out of my--'
I caught myself.
'Like footage that shows Keith Conner banging his own damn chin?' she said. 'Maybe they got that to the studio and that's why the studio's pushing for a quick confidential agreement?'
'The thought certainly occurred to me. And maybe they have something else that could help us, too.'
'Like what?'
'I don't know.' I realized that I sounded excited, and I made an effort to tone down my demeanor.
'Look, whatever this is, someone wants to fit you into their agenda,' she said.
'Or someone wants to make use of me to help other people.'
Her hand stiffened in mine. We walked a few more steps, and then I let go. 'What?' I said. 'How do you know that's not it?'
Ariana said, 'Because it's what you want to believe.'
My laugh had a bitter edge. 'What I want is to get back at the assholes who invaded our lives. But right now playing along on the surface is the only way I can get more information. And the more we know, the closer we'll be to finding out what the hell is going on.'
'Don't you teach about hubris?'
'I teach that a character has to impact the plot. He has to determine his own destiny. He can't merely react to external forces.'
'So it's all about out-tricking the tricksters?' She gave me that same skeptical stare. 'Tonight wasn't something more to you?'
The old frustration pricked my cheeks. 'Of course it was. It's the first meaningful thing I've done in I don't know how long.'
'It's not meaningful. For Doug Beeman it is, but for you it's fake. You didn't do anything but add water and stir.'
'I sure as hell impacted his life.'
'But you didn't earn it,' she said.
'So what? No matter how I got manipulated there and no matter how fucking scary it was going in, freeing him from his guilt--how is that not a good thing? And if the studio caught a signal that they should back off me, that's positive, too. Why are you being so cynical?'
'Because, Patrick, one of us has to be. I mean, the way you're throwing yourself into this. You've been blocked at the keyboard for what? Half a year? And losing your interest for months before that. And now you're approaching this . . . adventure like it's your chance to write again.'
I said swiftly, angrily, 'You can't compare writing to this.'
'You think this is better than writing?'
'No,' I said, 'I mean the opposite.'
'You didn't see your face when you said it.'
I kept my mouth shut. Despite how horrible the past week had been, was some small part of me relieved that these guys had given me something to do? Beeman's focus on me had been as absolute as that of the men behind the DVDs. When was the last time I'd been at the center of anyone's attention?
The elementary-school teacher from the cul-de-sac sauntered by with her down vest and twin rottweilers, and we had to pause to smile and exchange pleasantries. A young couple across the street were in their family room, hanging a hefty painting. The husband bending under the frame, his pregnant wife, one hand pressed to the small of her back, directing him with her other. A little more to the left. Left. Now right.
I used to have that life. And it was enough for me, until my script sold, until Keith Conner and Don Miller strolled into the picture and hit me smack in the blind spot. I couldn't find my way back, and every time I thought I glimpsed the route, I got derailed. What I had was more than anyone could ask for, but I couldn't figure out how to inhabit it again.
The high from Beeman's place deserted me, leaving me drained. The redemption I'd witnessed literally before my eyes had been so intense that everything else seemed bleached by the afterglow. I visualized the crappy shared office at Northridge, the unpaid legal bills and Ari crying on the arm of the couch, the braying neighbors, my unfinished scripts, the staff room with the broken coffeemaker, how-are-you chat with Bill the checkout grocer. It all seemed to pale in comparison with the dreams I'd grown up dreaming, lying on my back on the Little League grass, the New England air biting my cheeks, letting me know, minute to minute, that I was alive. Aliens and cowboys. Astronauts and outfielders. Hell, maybe I'd be a screenwriter one day, get my movie poster on the side of a bus.
I thought about what Ari had told me about the world closing in on her in a hurry, about how her life didn't have a lot of what she hoped it would. The term 'soul mates' got thrown around at our wedding, and here we'd found ourselves, for better or for worse, aligned in perspective even when we weren't. My visit to Doug Beeman had cut through all that stagnation, right to the pulsing heart of what mattered. I didn't want to have to defend how it had made me feel.
The rotties were straining on their leashes, so we said goodbye to our neighbor, who gave us a wink and a smile. 'Happy Valentine's Day, you two.'
We'd both forgotten. As she and the dogs padded away, our frozen grins faded and we regarded each other, wary under the strain of where we'd left off. Our breath was visible, mingling.
'I guess . . .' It was going to be hard to say. 'I guess I can't remember the last time I felt significant.'
'If it's meaning you're looking for, don't you think you'd do better to find that in your own life?' Her tone wasn't judgmental or harsh; it was the hurt in it that made me drop my gaze.
'I didn't choose this,' I said.
'Neither of us did. And we're not gonna get out of it if we don't keep our heads clear and our eyes open.'
Worms lay helpless and limp, pale squiggles on the wet pavement. We circled back toward home, leaning into the incline, our heads down. By the time we passed Don and Martinique's, we were a full stride apart.
The bags, lettered in Vietnamese, sat on my passenger seat, emitting the rich scent of ginger and cardamom. The heat of the food fogged the windshield, and I had to crack a window to let in the night air. Though Ariana and I had been polite back at the house, our squabble had taken some of the shine off our newfound rapport, and I'd
