Falling into You

by Abrams, Lauren

  Eva’s dressed in a red suit and her hair is tied up in an elegant chignon. Her face lights up when she sees me; she knew my trepidations about this silly meeting and probably figured I wouldn’t show up.

  “Hallie,” she says, crossing the hall to wrap me in an embrace.

  I hug her back, grateful for the familiar face. She looks intense and professional, a far from the woman in blue jeans and a ratty sweatshirt who sat for long hours with us on our porch, talking about characterization and prose and the need for more action and less talking.

  That was three years ago, I realize with a start.

  “How are you holding up?” she whispers.

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell her, and it’s true. I will be fine, just as soon as I can get out of this hellhole of a city and back home.

  “Look, I’m going to play hardball a bit in there. They’re practically salivating here. They’re dying for this script, because they know it’s going to be the next blockbuster and they would be fools to let us walk out of the door. FFG wants the rights to the first book and they want to take the screenplay as is, although they’ll probably add another writer to make it more commercial. That’s how these things are done.”

  I nod. I know all of this.

  She continues, “They want the rights to the rest of the trilogy, too, but they’ve been fuzzy on the details so far. Lightgate is offering a guarantee that they’ll make all three movies. We can meet with them tomorrow, if we’re not getting what we want here. There are other offers on the table, too. You would know all of this if you even tried to look at any of the contracts I sent over.”

  I frown at her. “We’re talking millions and millions of dollars, Hal. Maybe more than that, if we play our cards right. It’s wise to make sure we’ve considered all of the options.”

  “I know, Eva.”

  “Did you at least manage to get a decent meal last night? We do have some of the best restaurants in the world, you know.”

  I had ordered room service and stayed holed up in my room, but I don’t tell her that. “I had some pasta. It was good.”

  She sighs and loops her arm through mine as we join the other people piling into the room. “Hang in there. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

  Almost an hour later, my head is spinning with the talk of international rights and back-end profits and three-film guarantees. Rapid-fire speech is coming from all of the faces around the long table and I can’t keep any of them straight. They’re talking about the dazzling dialogue and the potential for merchandising and action figures and all of that business. I haven’t said a word.

  “It’s like this generation’s epic tale,” a man offers finally. “The timeless story of man fighting against evil, of one poor guy just trying to make it in a world torn apart. And we’re going to make sure that millions of eyes all around the planet can’t look away.”

  Eva holds firm. “We need three things from you to make this deal or we’re walking out that door and going straight to the next meeting—a three-film guarantee, a piece of the back-end, and a check. A very, very large check.”

  There’s more conversation and then finally a man pushes a piece of paper at Eva.

  “We’ll give you a minute to speak with your client,” Jeff says. “Clear the room, guys.”

  They file out of the room, and Eva glances at the paper, stretches her arms contentedly, and offers it to me.

  “It’s actually better than I thought. They’re willing to guarantee that all of the movies will get made, and there’s a lot of money for you if they don’t. Since you’re the cowriter, they’re going to give you the first stab at revising the screenplay for the first one and for writing the next two. They apparently want a feminine touch. They want you.”

  I glance up at her. “Cowriter? I never agreed to that. This was his baby, not mine.”

  She puts a hand on my shoulder. “This screenplay is yours, Hallie, and we both know that. The book is his, I’ll give you that. But what hooked them in was the screenplay and your voice is all over it. I added your name to the last revision and I didn’t tell you, because I knew you were going to get all high and mighty about it and say no. But it’s done. So there’s no arguing about it now.”

  “Then I don’t want any of this.” I stand up to leave. We’ve fought about this before, and she knows how I feel about it. I’m not taking any more. “This is for him. Not for me.”

  “This is for you, too,” she says in a low voice. I’m walking out the door when her next words stop me in my tracks.

  “It’s got box-office gold all over it. You can go hide wherever you want, but if we don’t do this now, they’ll still be beating down your door—next month, next year, in ten years. It’s a story, Hallie. All of it and you’re stuck with it, whether you want to be or not. At least if we get it settled now, there will be some peace in it. You can finish all of this business and start to move on with your life. And I know you do want that.”

  She’s right. And I’m exhausted. I sit back down.

  “They also want a guarantee that you’ll do the press junket, when they announce the movie and when it comes out.”

  She had already warned me that would be part of the deal.

  “There’s up-front money for the production rights and there’s a nice little piece of the back-end profits on the films, increasing with each one. And here’s the number.”

  She slides the piece of paper across the table and I can’t do anything but laugh. “This is the budget for the movie?” It’s a ridiculous sum.

  “No, Hallie. That’s what they’re going to give you for the rights to the trilogy and the first scripts. It doesn’t include what they’ll pay for the next scripts or the back-end, which will be significantly more than that, if you ask me. Lightgate’s willing to give us more up-front, but they’re not budging on the back end, so I think we should just take it.”

  There are so many zeroes in the number that I can’t even begin to fathom what I could ever do with a tiny fraction of the sum. Millions and millions of dollars.

  I sigh. “Take it. I just want to get out of here.”

  She jumps up and does a little victory dance, pulling me to my feet. “Fabulous!”

  She practically lifts me from the ground, and I groan and settle down. There’s a plate full of pastries lined up on the counter behind the table, with a fancy silver urn that I’m praying contains coffee.

  As Eva goes to rally the troops and announce our decision, I busy myself with the condiment packages so that I’m not thrown into the round of hugs. There’s clapping and cheering all around and I’m trying to figure out how many seconds or minutes it will be until I can leave.

  “So, where’s this Benjamin Ellison III? I need to meet the man who’s going to make me a fortune.”

  It’s a musical voice, low and laughing and teasing and I know it better than I know my own. Of course, he was here. Of course, he had to be here.

  The celebrations stop abruptly.

  “He’s not…”

  “He…”

  “The cowriter…”

  “She’s…”

  Everyone tries to speak at once and Chris’s voice silences them.

  “Cowriter?”

  “She’s his…his…” Eva’s searching for something to say and she’s going to pick the wrong word, the one I don’t want to hear.

  “His wife,” I say instead, turning around. “Benjamin Ellison III’s wife.”

  CHRIS

  Jesus goddamn motherfucking Christ.

  She’s standing there and her eyes are huge in her face. I start to move towards her, muscle memory taking over, but the ice in them and her words stop me.

  I should have made the connection. How many times did I have to listen to her stories about the amazing Ben Ellison, who was like a combination of Jesus Christ and the Dalai Lama all rolled up into one? The amazing Ben Ellison, whom she had apparently married, and who had taken the literary world by storm with his book series the yea
r before.

  I had blown through the entire series of books in a week while I had a short break from shooting in Thailand. I had been less than three pages in to the first book when I called Jeff. I wanted the script more than I’d wanted anything in a very, very long time. Probably since Hallie.

  “I don’t care what it costs,” I told him. “Get it for me. I want all of them.”

  “It’s not coming fucking cheap,” Jeff retorted. “Those fucking books are everywhere.” Jeff wasn’t cheap either, so I had full confidence in the fact that the whole goddamn trilogy was going to be mine. I expected a rant or a rave about the asshole agent or a competing studio, but he had merely called back the next day as a brown envelope was delivered to the door of my hotel suite.

  “There’s a screenplay and it’s fucking good.”

  He didn’t say anything else. And he was right. It was fucking good. The screenplay was even more nuanced, layered, than the book had been. Usually, scripts made from books were crap, filled with rambling speeches and all of the lame parts and none of the good ones. This was pitch perfect. I had gotten back on the phone after making it about halfway through.

  “If it’s not locked down tomorrow, I’m ditching this set and coming to New York and I won’t leave until we have it.”

  Jeff had hemmed and hawed about impossible literati and contact numbers, but he got the meeting. I had been thinking about it for the whole last week of shooting. I wanted to see the writer in the flesh, to look into his eyes to tell him that I could make this movie, that I understood this character down to his very bones.

  Of course, I hadn’t realized that I knew Ben. I look around for him, but he isn’t here. He sent his wife instead.

  My mouth is open to say something to Hallie. It takes a minute before I realize that the ice in her eyes has melted into a desperate plea and it’s meant for me. I know what she wants, but the effort of trying to make myself sound cordial almost kills me.

  “Chris Jensen,” I say, not taking my eyes from her. She relaxes slightly.

  “Hallie Caldwell Ellison.”

  The sound of the last name cuts deeper than a blade.

  Someone starts to talk and there’s tension coating the room. “Chris is planning to play the lead.”

  She chuckles and it sounds nothing like her laughter. It’s a harsh sound and her cadence is all wrong, clipped and serious and dark. “Of course he is.”

  I need to get out of here. “I, um, I…” I sound nothing like myself. I look at her, the way I used to, for fortification. There’s nothing like that in her face, even though she’s staring right through me. “I just came in case we needed a closer, you know to deal the deal, but I just heard the news, so I guess that’s it…”

  People are saying things to me and I don’t hear any of it. I’m staring blatantly at Hallie, who is talking to a woman in a red suit.

  I had imagined her at 25, at 40, at 60, at 100, but in all of those musings, she had been laughing and happy in my arms.

  This Hallie was neither laughing nor happy.

  Her eyes, still a shocking shade of blue, were closed to the world now, and they dominated her face now, which was thin and drawn and pale. She had lost weight, I thought to myself, that she couldn’t afford to lose in the first place. It gave her an ethereal appearance, like she could just disappear into thin air, and her cheekbones stand out in sharp relief against her too-pale skin. She’s gotten more beautiful, I suppose, but everything that made her Hallie was gone. The thought fills me with an incredible sense of loss.

  I had been able to pretend, for all of these years, that she hadn’t grown up, that she was still out there somewhere, that maybe when I’d gotten my shit together, that I could find her. But this woman bears only a slight resemblance to the girl I remember.

  My Hallie.

  She doesn’t belong to you, I remind myself. And the fault for that was entirely mine.

  The woman in the red suit is talking again and she and Hallie are standing and shaking hands with various people around the table.

  “Now that the preliminary is signed, we’ll work on the full contract. Chris generally rules over these things with an iron fist, so we’ll probably have to go another couple of rounds. But the deal’s done. Finito,” Jeff says to the woman in the red suit, looking joyful.

  “We’re very happy to hear that,” the woman says, turning to me. “Mr. Jensen.” She shakes my hand briskly. “A pleasure.”

  Hallie’s standing next to her, hands at her sides.

  “Mrs. Ellison.”

  “Mr. Jensen.”

  I reach for her and she hesitates for a moment before offering me her hand.

  My fingers brush against hers, and it’s lightning. Still. After all of these years. I glance at her face to see whether she feels it but she’s already out the door.

  Jesus goddamn motherfucking Christ.

  About the Author

  Lauren Abrams lives in St. Louis, Missouri with her husband and a small menagerie of four-legged children. She spends most of her days trying to convince her high school students that reading is fun, although she’s still not sure quite what to say about The Scarlet Letter. This is her first novel, although she’s planning on writing many more.