Good Nights Read online

  Good Nights

  Love Again Series, Volume Two

  By Heather Grace Stewart

  Copyright 2018 by Heather Grace Stewart, Graceful Publications

  Edited by Jennifer Bogart

  Cover design copyright 2018 by Render Compose

  ISBN: 978-1-988248-03-5

  ISBN: 978-1-988248-02-8

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher. Thank you for respecting this author’s hard work.

  Also by Heather Grace Stewart

  http://author.to/hgstewart

  The Ticket: Love Again Series, Volume One

  (Also available in Audiobook)

  The Friends I’ve Never Met

  Strangely, Incredibly Good

  Remarkably Great

  Caged: New and Selected Poems

  Dedication

  for Bill and Kayla

  for the thousands of good days and nights! xo

  Thanks

  Thanks to my dear family and friends. Your encouragement goes a long way in keeping me at my writing keyboard, even the seemingly small gestures like a little text emoticon with hearts or high-fives. Thanks to Natalie Marie, Dave Cenker and Ravendra Patel for being my first enthusiastic readers and commenters on Wattpad; to Jennifer Bogart, my friend and eagle-eyed editor, Morning Rain Publishing, and Lucy Rhodes at Render Compose for her brilliant cover design, and Mark Dawson and James Blatch of Self-Publishing Formula for your sheer brilliance and continued support.

  Above all, thanks to my loyal readers of 20 years, and to my new ones. I couldn’t do any of this without you.

  One

  Hannah

 

  I choke on my toasted sesame bagel as I read the text from my husband. Bending forward in my brown leather chair, I cough the bagel up into my other hand. A large chunk of undigested bread and cream cheese lands in my palm. Gross. Just how my insides feel right now. Gutted.

  “Sorry, please continue,” I say to my eight colleagues at the table, but it comes out raspy and uneven. I wipe my hand on a napkin. “Good ideas, people. Let’s keep going. We need the excitement to build more than ever for this episode. What would Faith say in this situation? How is Ben going to react?”

  The room grows noisy again as my writers begin throwing around ideas. I force myself to blink, then reread Doug’s text. It had to be a joke. This didn’t happen. Your husband of ten years doesn’t just text you that he wants a divorce. Does he?

  My right hand starts to tremble, so I place my cellphone on my knee under the table so no one will notice. Of course, my best friend, Jillian, does. She is astute even before her first cup of coffee.

  “Psst,” Jillian gently leans into me as she whispers, “what the hell is going on?”

  I inhale to calm myself and rotate the phone so Jillian can see the text. Within seconds, Jill’s intense brown eyes grow large. Her face reddens and contorts into anger.

  Jill grabs the phone and quickly texts:

 

  I take the phone back and delete the text before it can be sent. Instead, I type:

 

  This feels so out of left field. Sure, we’d drifted apart in the last five years, but I thought we were rekindling our love. We’d talked about going to the South of France just last week. Or, at least, I had talked about it. We were sitting in the living room sipping red wine. That was rare for us, because, we both admitted, we’d been married to our jobs for far too long. The public knew us as Hannah Storm, successful television series creator, and Doug Evan, Broadway actor and producer. We wore whitened smiles for them, and when they shoved microphones in our faces on the red carpet, we told them we were brilliantly happy; couldn’t be happier. In short, we lied. The alternative was too painful.

  One night last year, Doug flew into a jealous rage, throwing magazines and papers across the bedroom. He’d had too much to drink, but jealous temper tantrums had always been part of his personality. That time, he was ranting that he’d spent the last six months flying from Vancouver to New York every week to be on Broadway, and despite good reviews, he hadn’t been nominated for a Tony.

  Meanwhile, my show, written and produced in Vancouver, had been up for an Emmy. Doug smashed our framed photos on the floor and started yelling all kinds of obscenities at me, saying we’d gotten lost in how others saw us and forgotten who we’d once been. He said he didn’t think I even deserved the Emmy.

  The next morning, he apologized for the outburst, and I somehow found it within myself to forgive him, but it was hard for me to forget. I lived in fear of him after that, but I had to hide my nervousness from my Mom, who was never fooled, and the public. It was not an easy mask to wear. That afternoon, we tried to remember the old Hannah and Doug. He seemed to want to make amends. We went to the movies and had lunch in a quiet café.

  When I mentioned France, he’d quietly kept scrolling on his phone, not even looking up. I suppose I should have realized what that meant, but I thought perhaps he was just tired. He’s been distant all year, and it seems he’s spent more time in New York and LA than here with me. I always assumed he was preoccupied with advancing his career.

  Over the last few months, my show has gained a large online following, but it’s floundering in the all-important ratings. Doug hasn’t said anything to lift my spirits. Not one surprise to say he misses spending time with me. Now, he’s ending “Us,” by text message.

  I read his next message, blinking back the tears.

 

  Always a starter marriage? I feel the walls closing in on me, like inside a car wash, the pressure building in my head. We grew apart, but not once did I feel this was a trial marriage. I thought he was my one and only.

  But what about Doug? Is there someone else, or has he simply fallen out of love? I close my eyes, and the room starts to spin. Ten years. A husband, a cat, and a sarcastic parrot. The beautiful house we built in Burnaby. We’d even talked about starting a family once our careers slowed down. I feel like I am standing at the top of a canyon, and everything I’d worked for this last decade is falling away from me, spiraling down into deep, dark crevices out of my reach. Everything is gone.

  I open my eyes again and find everyone at the table staring at me, looking perplexed. I inhale deeply, put down the phone, then exhale, and attempt to put into words what I am feeling. I’d always been honest with this crew.

  “My marriage is over. I don’t want to talk about it. I need to put my energy elsewhere. We’re going to write the best finale we can and pray we’re picked up for a fifth season. I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me. But...” I push back my chair and stand up, “give me a half-hour to process this, guys, okay?”

  I feel Jill reach out and touch my arm. Trying to console me, I assume, but I pick up my pace. I just want to be alone. As I make my way down the corridor to my office, I hear my phone ping. I’d been late for dinner the last few nights, in part because of how ridiculous Vancouver traffic gets in the middle of December, but mostly because I’d been trying to get this finale right. Doug was planning to fly in from New Yo
rk and arrive back home in Burnaby at seven, so I’d asked Siri to remind me to make it home this time. I woke up my phone and read the notification:

  REMINDERS: Birthday dinner with Doug tonight, 8 p.m. Don’t be late!

  Happy birthday to me.

  Oh, no.

  It’s too late. I get it, now. Jill had been trying to keep me away from my office.

  Red and yellow streamers hanging from the doorframe attack my reddened face, getting tangled in my long hair. I try to brush them aside, but several rip. Before I can pull them out of my tresses, the TV cast, crew, directors, and producers begin singing “Happy Birthday” to me. Thirty “Happy 30th” balloons, in a rainbow of colors, fill the room, and our executive producer, Stan, is holding a big, round chocolate cake with “Flirty & Thirty, Hannah!” scrawled across the top in pink. Behind him, at the top of a pile of paperwork on my desk, I can see a large, manila envelope addressed to Hannah Storm. Doug’s envelope. Doug’s divorce papers.

  I want to run and hide. This has to be the most awkward moment ever in the history of my existence, except maybe for that one time I raced up on stage to get an Emmy award with the bottom of my glamorous, shimmery black skirt accidentally tucked into the top. Even with all that tucking going on, I still managed to trip up the stairs.

  “Happy birrrthdaaay, dear Hannah!” the group encircles me, urging me to blow out the candles. Jill comes up beside me with an odd expression on her face—one that only I can decipher. She pulls half of a red streamer off my shoulder. Then, as everyone else continues singing, she whispers in my left ear, “Your husband wants a divorce, and all we got you was a cake with thirty fucking candles on it.”

  Thank God for old friends like Jill, for making me chuckle when I believe all I can ever do again is cry. I sigh and close my eyes. I don’t know what to wish for.. At thirty, I’m practically ancient by Hollywood’s standards, and I have to start all over again. My marriage is over, and there are whispers that my TV show is, too.

  I blow out the candles and wish for a miracle.

  Two

  Hannah

  Six months later.

  The woman with fake boobs on Fox News looks at the camera like she has information that will shake the very core of my existence. I’m in pink flannel PJs and have a gigantic bowl of Naughty Monkey caramel corn on my lap. If this news is earth shattering, bring it. I’m prepared. I can hunker down like this for days.

  “Hannah Storm tweeted today about her devastating divorce from Doug Evan. She wore the most divine fire-engine red Gucci heels to her lunch date in downtown Vancouver, so we can confirm she’s over him and onto her next conquest, who may be the director of a new movie she’s writing.”

  “Hannah’s heels. Hannah’s heels. It’s all about Hannah. All about Hannah,” our mini-macaw Jughead chortles.

  That damn bird. I have cherished him, his green feathers, bright red shoulders, and bold personality for ten years, but in the six months since I’ve been living alone, he’s started to sound exactly like my ex. So, did Doug offer to take Jughead with him to New York, where he moved for good shortly after our split? Of course, he didn’t. He took the cat. The cat, which I always adored and considered mine!

  I get up from the couch, full of nervous energy after that so-called newscast. Since when did red heels make headlines? I also love how my career made the tail end of the story, while my love life made the top. That glass ceiling won’t be shattering any time soon.

  I open the red wine on the kitchen counter and pour myself a half glass, then walk over to the window and look outside. Burnaby mountain on the majestic Coastal Mountain range is lit up by its own lights tonight with a round, orange moon and puffy pink clouds above it. It’s an awe-inspiring sight, and you’d think it would motivate me to write. I was supposed to be writing tonight. Last night, too. No luck.

  When my show, Never Flip a Fried Egg Naked, was canceled and our Vancouver offices closed in April, I thought I could shake the disappointment off and keep writing. Television shows are made and canceled as quickly as people upgrade their cell phones. Ours lasted four years–that’s television gold. The network execs told me they felt it was best to say farewell when everyone still loved the characters and the show. It’s common practice. So why should I take it personally?

  I am taking it personally. Just a smidge. Why? Because the show that is taking the place of mine is geared to a much younger market, with amoeba brains.

  My show was about men and women searching for meaning in their thirty-something suburban lives. It was funny and real, with a clever feminist vibe. The show replacing mine, Rate My Wedding, is a contest where couples compete for the most talked-about wedding and a prize of one million dollars. Their wedding days are actually rated by the viewers.

  The night before I learned my show was being cancelled, I had flown in to LA to meet with the exec producer, Arnie, and the network CEO, George, for what I thought was going to be a celebration lunch announcing that I’d be writing a fifth season. When George handed me the entire plate of bruschetta and blinked his puny pair of pity-eyes at me, I knew I wasn’t going to have an appetite for the rest of the meal. This sucked the life out of me, because I heard the place served a scrumptious blueberry crumble.

  “Hannah. Hani.” George began.

  I wasn’t hungry, but still, I stuffed a whole bruschetta in my mouth. I despised when he called me Hani and then prattled on for an hour. This was going to take a while.

  “Never Flip A Fried Egg hasn’t been renewed. With the main camera-man recently being accused of sexual harassment by cast members…”

  Seriously, they were going to go with that? That was their excuse? That had barely made page eighteen news, with so many bigger celebrities in hotter water. It was a serious allegation, and he’d been let go, but puh-lease. This was just Arnie and George, trying to cover up for ageism.

  “I heard you’re replacing it with a show that features episodes like eighteen-year-old women dancing around in their skimpy underwear at their Stagettes. You’re not worried about the kind of tabloid attention that’s going to attract?”

  “That’s a different kind of attention,” Arnie said, looking up from his filet mignon for a minute before carefully cutting a small piece of fat off the steak. His knife incised it like a surgeon. Slow, exact. I couldn’t help envisioning my heart on that plate. He was cutting me and all I’d ever accomplished out of the picture, because he found it was unnecessary. Tonight, I’d be dog food out in the back alley.

  I took a sip of water. “So, this isn’t about my show being about feminists. Or that, you know, it has depth.”

  “Write a movie, Hani. Or maybe even a book,” George said, ignoring my question as he often did. “We know you have that in you. Come back to TV when the climate’s a little better, sweetheart.” With that, he threw his linen napkin on his chair, got up, kissed me on the forehead, and left. Arnie wasn’t even paying attention to us. He was still operating on his steak.

  The memory of George treating me like a daughter instead of a celebrated industry peer never left me. I simply filed it away for better days—ammunition and inspiration. I may not know much, but if my failed marriage has taught me anything, it’s that you have to decide what’s important and what’s not worth wasting energy on, and through it all, find the funny.

  I set out to find my funny-bone again, with little luck. Writing my first screenplay has proved far more difficult than I imagined, and it’s not just the mental clutter and self-doubt, or that every Thursday at eight I find myself screaming to my TV set, “Stupid freaking pointless show!” as a gorgeous blonde bride selects her flowers on Rate My Wedding.

  My usual writing process simply isn’t working in this old space. Jillian was right; I should sell it and get a place of my own. There are too many memories here, and besides, I’m going to need the money if I can’t finish and sell this screenplay. At this sta
ge of the game, it’s not looking too promising.

  Of course, Fox News says I’ve already got a director on board, for the screenplay I haven’t even finished, and I’m probably sleeping with him, so what do I know?

  If I’m not careful, my blood pressure is going to go off the charts. I sip my wine and settle back down on the couch. I need to finish this screenplay, but to do that, I need to be funny again. I need to laugh again!

  What kind of journalists can’t even do proper digging to find out my lunch date was with a real estate agent? He had three apartments for me to look at in LA. I’ve been trying to decide if LA is the place for me to be, since I’m going to be trying to pitch and sell a movie there. Vancouver may be all everyone’s buzzing about on the production side of the industry lately, but LA remains where most of the meetings take place. It doesn’t appeal to me as my home base, though. Compared to my life in B.C., it feels congested, plastic, and competitive. I simply met with an agent to consider my options.

  When the agent showed me the properties, none of them felt right, so I didn’t even bother booking an appointment to look at them. Since it’s an international agency, I did ask him to put our Burnaby house up for sale. I need a much bigger change of scenery than moving to Hell-A, and to do that, I need money for airfare and rent.

  Maybe I’ll end up in downtown Vancouver, eventually, to be close to Mom and Jill, but there’s a vast world out there, and new experiences make for better writers. I know it, my BFF has said it, and now I just need to gather the courage to leave this house and never look back.

  “Get a grip, Hannah. Get a grip.”

  I swear Doug trained that freaking bird to say that. He wasn’t only mean and abusive, he was vindictive. I don’t know why I shoved the knowledge of who he truly is under the carpet for so many years.

  It’s time to throw caution to the wind. It’s time for a new chapter. It’s been time since Doug texted me that he wanted a divorce; I just wasn’t emotionally ready to leap yet.