Hours later, entangled on the bed in a knot of naked limbs, Marisa spoke.
"Can you really believe it? Clint Eastwood wants me to write the script."
"Help me and him write the script," I corrected her. "And only if they actually end up making a movie out of it."
"Still," she said. "Clint Eastwood."
"And Stephen King still wants you to edit a book for him."
"I don't know if I want to do that now," she said.
"Why?"
"Well, I mean, what can I really do? Jesus, Tyler, he's Stephen King."
"You'll break his heart if you refuse now," I said.
She was silent for a moment.
"Whatcha thinkin'?"
"Just wondering is all."
"About what?" I asked.
"If any of them would've even given me a second look if I'd . . . well . . . you know."
"No," I said, genuinely confused, "I don't know. What d'ya mea
