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“Your faith in me is inspiring,” I remark dryly. “Also, as the junior producer of the show, I feel like you should probably not be writing off the higher-ups.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m fine with working in your basement if I have to.”
“You know I live in an apartment, right?”
“Shh. I’m being supportive.”
My phone starts to vibrate in my back pocket, and I reach a hand behind me to fish it out. Ava gives me a go on motion as she gestures vaguely behind her, which I guess is a signal that she has things to do in that general direction. I watch her lithe form saunter off as I put the phone to my ear, hearing my brother Jack’s voice shouting on the other end.
“Oh, come on!” His voice is at least ten decibels louder than is appropriate for a call, and I tug the phone away quickly to prevent hearing damage. “Oh, fuck off with that shit. Offside!”
“Jack,” I try, met with more shouting. I clear my throat. “Jack.”
“Oh, hey. What took you so long to answer?”
“It didn’t take—” I purse my lips, deciding against reasoning with him. “Did you need something?”
“Wow. Your big brother calls you on the darkest day of your life to offer encouragement and unyielding support, and he’s met with cold indifference. Our parents would be ashamed.”
“I cannot deal with the dead-parent jokes today, Jack,” I huff. Jack and I have very different methods of coping about being orphans. “Also, I don’t think calling it the ‘darkest day of my life’ while trying to be supportive is helpful for morale.”
“Maybe.”
I hear the distinct sound of crunching.
“Are you watching replays of your games again?”
“Whabotit?” He manages through what I suspect is a handful of Cool Ranch Doritos. I hear him swallow. “Have you talked to them yet?”
“Not yet,” I mutter. “I’m heading up to their office now.”
“Remind them that you’re an orphan.”
“Not all of us use the orphan card for everything.”
“You totally should,” he says seriously. “It’s really handy. Chicks dig it too. I’m basically Batman with a hockey stick.” He snickers. “Hockey stick in my p—”
“Please don’t finish that sentence,” I groan. Sometimes I wonder how it is that he’s five years older than me. Emotionally, there’s a good chance he’s still sixteen, not thirty-three. “Did you take your meds today?”
“What my Adderall and I do in the privacy of my own home is no one else’s business,” he answers primly.
“Take your fucking meds,” I sigh. “I don’t want to find you in your closet ‘cleaning’ it again.”
“Hey, it got clean.”
“Only because you had everything you took out of it lined up in your bedroom while you ‘reminisced.’ ”
“I took my damn meds,” he grumbles. “Worry about your own shit. What’s your plan?”
“I’m just going to remind them of all the good this show has done for the network,” I tell him, for his benefit or mine, I’m not sure. “Just because the last few months have been slow doesn’t mean that the ratings won’t pick back up. We can brainstorm some ideas to boost the viewer numbers.”
“Too bad I have this busted arm,” he laments. “I could come by and swing my hockey stick around.” He is quiet for a beat before saying, “My actual one, mind you.”
“Oh, because that would solve everything.”
“Um, yeah? This is Boston, my dude. The Druids just won the Stanley Cup. Pretty sure you could make beer-battered cheese fries and people would watch if I was there.”
“Your humility is inspiring,” I deadpan.
