The two days went by in a haze.
Dave and I kept going onto the set. Fortunately, nothing happened, and I progressed with my story.
I kept asking Linda, indirectly, trying to get sothing that could help figure out the birthday secret.
But seeing an ongoing series of fate, I failed miserably.
She was too careful with her words. Always smiling, always dodging smoothly. Acting up like she was busy washing the plate, which she washed and wiped two tis.
Like she knew exactly what I wanted but refused to hand it over. It was frustrating.
And Dave... he was the sa. Silent. Locked in his own world. At work, he stayed professional. Josh always stayed with him like a shadow.
If anything started to get ssy, he would take care of it without anyone doubting about Dave’s health.
Josh and Grandpa Albert have already taken care of the excuses they have to give in every imaginable situation. So, overall they took care of everything which set at ease to so extent.
I kept myself till the van so I did not have to et the ’hotel-girl’....Becka. I refrain myself from speaking her na as I did not have any intention to ruin my mood or day.
And coming back to Dave.
Sotis I had to catch him staring off into nothing, like he was there but not really there. Like part of him was missing.
It made wonder if that part had been left behind on that eighth birthday.
I kept replaying it in my head, over and over. Walter. Vivian. Sothing happened that day. Sothing that broke him.
But what?
Every ti I thought I was close to piecing it together, the answers just slipped through my fingers like smoke.
By the end of the second day, I was tired. Not just body tired, but bone tired. Soul tired. The kind of tired where even breathing felt like an effort.
And still, I had nothing.
No clues.
No truth.
No Dave. Speaking to .
[The truth was I did not have the guts to speak to him about such a sensitive topic.]
Just , circling the sa thoughts again and again, waiting for a door that refused to open.
No more questions about birthdays. No more pushing, Linda. No more trying to break Dave’s walls. Not now.
Because tomorrow wasn’t about him. Tomorrow was about .
My eting with the Silver Fox.
I tried to make so preparations, like writing down possible answers to the questions they might ask .
You know, those formal things people always say in interviews or etings. Except the problem was...I wasn’t formal.
Not even close.
I couldn’t sit straight, smile politely, and talk about myself like so perfect person who had everything figured out.
Because I didn’t.
Half the ti, I barely knew what I was doing. The other half, I was just winging it and hoping I didn’t trip on my own shoelaces.
Still, I tried.
I wrote so notes on a crumpled piece of paper, made a list of things I could maybe talk about, things like my writing, my story ideas, and what inspired .
And then, after reading it once, I thought to myself that...
Why am I making notes like I’m about to deliver a TED Talk nobody asked for?
So, I crumpled it all up and threw it in the trash.
It sounded fake. Too neat. Too rehearsed. Like soone else’s voice, not mine.
And if the Silver Fox really wanted to et , then maybe they didn’t want the polished version. Maybe they wanted . The ssy, confused, sarcastic, too-honest .
At least according to my logic, that would want a creative person who is not bound by so traditional learned and rehearsed lines.
That thought should have been comforting, but instead it made my stomach twist. Because what if I wasn’t good enough? What if they regretted reaching out?
I tossed and turned on my bed, hugging my pillow like it could sohow keep from falling apart.
The clock ticked louder than usual, every second reminding how close tomorrow was.
Sleep? Forget it. My brain refused to shut up. It kept running in circles, switching between "you can do this" and "you’re going to embarrass yourself so badly you’ll want to crawl into a hole and never co out."
By midnight, I gave up pretending. I sat up, switched on my lamp, and stared at my laptop screen.
I thought maybe if I read through my story again, it would calm down. Remind why I was even here. Why did they notice in the first place?
But instead, every line looked wrong. Too plain. Too childish. Too... .
I groaned, dragging both hands down my face.
Tomorrow was going to be a disaster, wasn’t it?
Still, I whispered to myself, almost like a prayer: Just get through it. Just one eting. You can do this.
I didn’t know if I believed it.
But it was all I had.
***
The morning was a ss. I had slept late, and when I opened my eyes, Linda was already standing there, looking annoyed.
"You’re still not up? Breakfast in ten minutes," she said and left for the kitchen.
I panicked.
Ten minutes?
That was nothing. I jumped out of bed, rushed to the bathroom, brushed my teeth like a maniac, splashed water on my face, and tried to make myself look alive.
Then I pulled out the formal clothes I had ironed before, the ones I didn’t even like wearing, and were too tight for my too curvaceous body.
It’s not like I was showing off. Maybe a little, but it’s self-love.
I quickly changed into it, already uncomfortable and tigethening at so areas but it was worth it. I actually looked liked so high-elite woman who was ready to do so billion dollar deal.
By the ti I ca out, Linda had already put the breakfast on the table. I grabbed a toast, shoved it in my mouth, and tried putting on my shoes at the sa ti.
"Thanks, Linda," I mumbled, half-running to the door.
I was just about to leave when I heard his gruffy voice.
"Where are you going?"
I froze.
It was Dave.
I turned to look and he stood there, standing in the hallway, arms crossed, eyes on . Not angry, but sharp enough to make nervous.
Holy Jesus! How could I forget about him? Now, what excuse will I make?
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