Something's Gotta Give - Original Verison

Jade's Point of View

One part of me was anxious for Michael to come back from work so that I could ask him about the photos, but the other half of me was dreading it. What if it turned out he was a creepy stalker this whole time and was going to kill me now that I’d found out? I decided to call Jack, who picked up after the third ring.

“Hey,” he said kind of glumly.

I didn’t have time to ask him what was wrong, though I assumed it probably had something to do with Skye, or he’d pigged out on chicken fries again and was dying. “Hey, I just need you to know that if I go missing, it’s because Michael killed me.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jack asked, his tone immediately changing.

I explained to him everything that had happened on the trip so far, and finished up with finding the photos in his dresser drawer. “I swear to God, Jack, it’s so weird. This chick looks exactly like me, except she’s not me.”

“Maybe you should just like, leave and come home and not say anything about it and find a new editor, because that sounds super bizarre,” Jack suggested. “I really don’t want you to become the material for a murder suit, plus I’m really bored at home and I miss having someone to harass.”

“You can’t bug Skye or Alex or something?” I asked, half-ignoring his suggestion to come home.

“No,” he said after a moment of hesitation. “No one’s really seen much him since you fought, and Skye’s probably hanging out with Matt.” He said Matt’s name with such disgust that I was tempted to ask what happened, but stopped myself. It was probably a sore subject. “Anyway, what happened with you guys?”

I sighed. “We got in a fight about me hitting Alex. I’m the first person to admit that that wasn’t cool, and it wasn’t fair, but I was overwhelmingly pissed about having to find out about Jay and Isabel like that. But like I said, it wasn’t cool, and I’m planning on apologizing to both of them when I come home.”

“If you come home,” Jack said, some playfulness finally edging into his voice. He was probably smirking on the other end of the line.

“It’s not funny, you fucking turd!” I protested. I heard a key turning in the lock and glanced over my shoulder at the door. “Michael’s back, I need to go.”

“Okay, all joking aside, if you don’t call me in like fifteen minutes, I’m gonna start power-calling until you answer and I can make sure you’re okay,” he said.

“I’ll call,” I agreed and hung up, continuing to sit at the breakfast bar while I waited for Michael to come in.

“Hey,” he greeted when he entered. He hung his keys up on his key ring and set his briefcase down by the front door. “What’d you end up doing today? Get any more writing done?”

I wasn’t entirely sure how to start this conversation; I didn’t want him to think I’d been snooping (which, okay, I kind of was a little bit), but I also had to make sure that he wasn’t some kind of freak stalker. I shook my head. “No, but can we talk for a minute?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said and sat down on the other side of the breakfast bar. “What’s up?”

I took a deep breath before I started. “Okay, so I wasn’t snooping or anything, but I wanted to say thank you for staying up super late with me last night to edit, and I decided to do some of your laundry.”

“Okay…” he trailed off. “Please don’t tell me you put something that was dry clean only in the wash though.” Of course that would be his first reaction.

“No,” I shook my head. “I was careful. Anyway, I was putting some of it away, and I found these.” I reached over to the seat next to me and pulled out the photos, setting them on the table. I still hadn’t looked through any of the others, just the top one. “Like I said, I wasn’t snooping, I just happened to glance at this and I was kind of freaked out because that girl looks exactly like me. And I just wanted to make sure you weren’t stalking me and planning on killing me or anything. If that’s what you’re gonna do, just make it fast and maybe let me say goodbye to Jack and pass on some final words of wisdom or something, like don’t try to eat three hundred chicken fries.” I was well aware that I was babbling now, but I almost couldn’t make myself shut up.

“Three hundred chicken fries, Jesus.” He shook his head and then looked at me blankly, glancing between me and the photographs. “Let me ask you something now. Did you just look at this top one or did you look through the others as well?”

“Just the top one,” I answered. “I was kind of completely weirded out and I couldn’t make myself look at any more.”

He nodded and started spreading them out. “Okay, because if you had looked at the rest, you would’ve realized that most of these are my wedding photos.”

“Wedding photos?” I was completely confused. “You’re married?”

“I was,” Michael said. He showed me the first photograph. “This is Cass, she was my wife.” I didn’t say anything and waited for him to elaborate. “She died about two years ago. She had stage four stomach cancer and she didn’t want treatment; she wanted to go on her own terms, but the pain was too much for her and she killed herself.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” I said quietly. That definitely hadn’t been the answer I’d been expecting.

“How could you? I never talk about it,” Michael explained. “We met when we were twenty, and I was going to NYU and I ended up at this gallery opening one night and just happened to make a comment to one of my friends. She heard and had to butt into the conversation, which was so typical of Cass. She basically told me that my opinion was stupid and I didn’t know anything about art, so I’d said, fine, if I’m stupid then educate me; show me some real art. It turned out that she had a piece of hers at this gallery and that she was a painter. She showed me her work and for someone who ‘knows nothing about art,’ even I could tell it was really good.”

“So basically you met because she was abrasive and opinionated,” I said, laughing a little.

“Yeah, sounds kind of familiar, right?” he teased. “Anyway, within a year we’d gotten married, and we were married for four years before she got sick. I was angry and hurt when she killed herself. She didn’t leave a note or anything, and she never gave me a chance to say goodbye to her. I just left for work one day and when I came back, she was dead, and there were all kinds of pill bottles in the bed. I guess she really wanted to make sure she got the job done.”

“That’s really terrible,” I frowned. “I’m so sorry. What was she like? Besides opinionated.”

“Oh God, she loved to argue with me about anything and everything,” he sort of laughed. “I could say the sky was blue, and she’d argue about it, going on and on about the specific shade of blue, and how it was flippant to just call it blue. She drove me fucking crazy half the time, but I loved it. We lived in this loft up above her gallery, and she was constantly painting, and she always had paint somewhere on her face. I thought it was cute, but she got annoyed anytime I said that. Cass was kind of a grump sometimes, but she was also really vibrant and free-spirited. She was so pretentious though. Like if you think an Ellis novel is pretentious, you’d reevaluate after a conversation with Cass about art.”

“Do you still have the gallery?” I asked. “I’d love to see some of her work.”

Michael pointed to the wall in the living room. “That’s one of hers.”

I’d seen the painting probably dozens of times at this point, but had never noticed the name on it – Cassandra Wyatt. It was a dark and angry burst of colors; something that made almost zero sense to look at, but made you feel something when you studied it. “It’s beautiful.”

“I always thought so,” Michael agreed. “But thanks. After she died, I couldn’t live in that loft anymore, so I sold the gallery and most of her paintings along with it. Then I took that money and bought the most yuppie apartment I could find.” He looked around at the apartment and shook his head. “She would’ve absolutely despised this place, which is exactly why I picked it. I don’t look around at anything and think of her, and it made losing her a lot easier to deal with. I put all the photographs away, got rid of most of her stuff, and put all of the paintings I didn’t sell in storage except that one.”

“Why’d you pick this one to keep in your place?” I asked.

“Because it’s a depressing painting,” he said simply. “That’s what I was feeling at the time that I bought this place, and looking at it doesn’t really make me miss her. It just reminds me of how angry I was about not getting to say goodbye to her.”

“How come you never told me any of this?” I questioned, frowning again.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “It’s still kind of hard for me to talk about. And I guess I thought it was kind of unprofessional.”

“Michael,” I scoffed. “Are we not friends? This is kind of more than the typical author-editor relationship. I mean, I just called you crying in the middle of the night last week. If anything is unprofessional, it’s that.”

“Good point,” he said. “Of course we’re friends, though. Why else would I fly you out here?”

“Well, for the better part of the afternoon, I was pretty sure it was so you could kill me,” I admitted. “I’m really sorry about Cass and everything that happened, but that doesn’t really explain why we look exactly alike.”

“That I have no explanation for,” Michael said, raising his hands up as if to defend himself. “I’d be freaked out if I were you, too. In fact, when I met you, I honestly thought I’d seen a ghost. When I talked to you on the phone the first time, you sounded just like her, and then when I video-chatted with you on Skype to discuss the book for the first time, I about shit my pants. I thought it was some Twilight Zone kind of thing and I was convinced I was losing my mind.”

“It’s pretty weird,” I told him, for lack of anything more intelligent to say. This conversation was definitely not going the way I’d expected.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But they say that there are like seven people out there in the world that look exactly like you. I just find it weird that I’d encounter two of Cass, or two of you, or however you wanna word it.”

“Yeah, those are pretty slim odds,” I nodded.

We were quiet for a moment, an awkward silence passing between us. After another moment, Michael cleared his throat. “You know, she was kind of the reason I decided to take a chance on Lines.”

“Really?” I asked, surprised. I couldn’t believe I was feeling grateful towards a dead person that I’d never met.

He nodded. “Yeah. I was reading your first draft and it struck me as exactly the kind of book she would have loved. It was dark and weird and kind of pompous, but not in a douchey way, and it was haunting. It was the first novel I ever pushed through to get published.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“That book kind of put me on the map in the literary world, and it got you there too,” he went on. “So it worked out really well for both of us. Now I’ve got a couple people I edit for, but you’re my first, so you’re by far my favorite person to work with.”

“Really?” I asked, flattered.

He nodded. “Well, when you’re answering my calls and writing, anyway.”

I laughed. “Fair enough, I deserve that.”

He started stacking the photos again, glancing at each one briefly before adding them to the pile. “Anyway, are we okay? If you’re like uncomfortable or anything, I can book you a hotel room.”

“No, no, that’s fine,” I insisted. “We’re good. I still think it’s weird, but it makes sense now, so I’m not still convinced you’re going to kill me and make me into a murder suit.”

He rolled his eyes and laughed. “You’ve been talking to your brother, haven’t you?”

I nodded and glanced at my phone, which I’d had on silent for a while now. I had fourteen missed calls from him and another coming in. “Shit! He’s going to think you killed me.”

Michael laughed and walked out of the room to put the photographs back and I picked up the phone.

“Are you okay?!” he shouted into the phone. “Are you dead?!”

“Obviously not,” I laughed. “I mean, I answered the phone didn’t I?”

“Are you okay?” he repeated.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said.

“You’re not just telling me that under duress or anything, right?” he questioned spastically. “Cough if you’re not okay.”

“Jesus, Jack, I’m okay, I promise,” I insisted. I gave him a brief explanation of what Michael had just told me, and promised that I’d fill him in on all the details when I came home on Sunday. I hung up with him a little while later after I assured him that I was okay.

Michael and I decided to just cook dinner at his place, so while we waited for the chicken to cook in the oven, we sat back down at the breakfast bar and talked for a little while.

“Can I ask you something about Lines?” Michael asked.

“Go for it,” I told him.

“This is probably really random, but is Nic Kellerman and Peyton’s relationship based on you and Alex?” he inquired.

I was caught a little off guard. “Why do you ask?”

“Because, he’s a musician, and he’s a dick – not to say that Alex is a dick, but based on what you’ve told me, he can be – and he cheats on Peyton, just like Alex cheated on you,” Michael explained. “The fights they have are pretty passionate and fleshed out, almost like they really happened with you or something, and Nic and Peyton have this total love-hate relationship, until she finally stands up for herself. Call me crazy, but it sounds pretty similar to the two of you.”

I bit the inside of my lip. “I guess I never really put it in that perspective, but now that you mention it, yeah, maybe Nic and Peyton are subconsciously based on me and Alex. I do want to make it clear that Alex isn’t a coke head though.”

He waved me off. “Details. Can I tell you something though?”

“Sure,” I nodded.

“Personally, even though they were a fucked up couple, I was always kind of rooting for them,” Michael admitted. “They probably could have worked if he would have grown up a bit and ditched the drugs, and she let go of some her anger issues.” He shrugged. “Just a thought.”

We finished dinner and spent a quiet night in front of the TV, marathoning one of Gordon Ramsay’s many shows. I tried to concentrate, but found myself unable to. I couldn’t believe that I’d written a whole fucking book about me and Alex and our failed relationship and hadn’t even realized it. No one I knew had even picked up on it, not Alex or Jack, though Alex had asked me once if Nic Kellerman was based off of him. At the time I’d thought no, that was crazy, but it turned out that Lines was an exaggerated version of our little fucked up love story.

Michael went to bed early since he’d gotten almost zero sleep due to staying up almost all night with me editing the previous evening. He told me to come join him whenever I ended up getting tired, but instead I settled myself on the couch with my laptop and plugged my charger into the nearest outlet. I opened up the newest book and wrote all night, my fingers rarely stopped moving across the keyboard. I didn’t pay attention to the time, and only stopped at five in the morning when Michael came out to run on his treadmill.

“What the hell are you still doing up?” he asked, surprised. “I figured you just fell asleep watching TV.”

“I wrote all night,” I said, trying to fight the smile off my face as I glanced over what I’d written.

“Oh, nice,” he commented and hopped on his treadmill, starting it up. “How much did you get done?”

“All of it,” I told him. “It’s done.”

“It’s done?!” he exclaimed, stopping on the treadmill and causing his feet to fall out from under him.

I fought off a laugh. “Are you okay?”

“If you’re being serious that you finished it, then yes, I’m grand,” he replied, shaking his fall off and turning the treadmill off. He picked up his laptop and sat down next to me on the couch. “Did you send it?”

“I’m about to,” I said, opening a new message and attaching the file. I clicked send. “Should be there any second now.”

His computer dinged, alerting him to a new e-mail. He opened it, jiggling his knees so anxiously that I was sure his laptop was going to fall onto the floor. “I seriously can’t believe you finished it.”

“Looks like you’re gonna be busy at work,” I told him. “Meanwhile, I’ll be busy napping here.”

“If what you wrote last night is as great as the rest of it, you deserve to sleep for like three days,” he said, scanning the pages quickly.

“Maybe you should take your own advice,” I said and put a hand on his shoulder. “But I’m about to pass out, so have fun with that.”

“Trust me, I will,” he nodded and then snapped his fingers. “Oh, really quick. Shelley called me at like midnight or something last night, and she wants to meet with you tomorrow at noon. That opportunity she’s had in the works for you came through, I guess.”

“Do you know what it is? Do I get a hint if I bother you enough?” I pestered him.

“No, this will not be like The Phantom of the Opera,” he shook his head. “All I can say is that you’re about to get some really good news. Now go get some sleep.”

I nodded, wondering what my agent had lined up for me. I managed to push that from my mind when I laid down, but instead found myself thinking about Lines again, and Alex, and how I’d written a whole book about us and what the hell that was supposed to mean. I started to feel guilty again about slapping him, so I texted him.

Hey, I’d written. I’m in New York right now, but I come back on Sunday and I’d really like to talk to you when I get back. Would you mind?

I wasn’t expecting a response yet, considering it was five in the morning, but he responded almost immediately.

I guess.

Well, “I guess” was better than nothing.