After a successful meeting with the director of Friday the 13th, I drove to my second appointment of the day. This one carried far more weight because it was with Douglas Day-Stewart and Paul Brickman, the duo rewriting my version of Risky Business. They had just returned from Los Angeles after finalizing the revisions that Columbia Pictures wanted before approving the film.
Technically, my contract gave me the right to object to any changes made to the script. Realistically, though, filmmaking was always a game of compromise if you wanted the project to move forward. Sometimes, I had to give in on certain creative points, and sometimes the studio did. More often than not, it was I making the sacrifices, since the studio held the purse strings. I had no such leverage over them.
When I arrived at Doug's house, where the two were meeting that afternoon, I sensed immediately that something was wrong. The air was thick with tension, and the muffled sound of raised voices leaked through the half-open door of the study.
"I don't understand! That may be realistic, but the film needs a hopeful ending," Doug was saying, his voice sharp and animated.
"But young people need to see the consequences of real life," Paul shot back, taking a step toward him. "I don't want to look back years from now and regret not giving the film the ending it truly deserved."
"Time out," I said, stepping between them before their disagreement turned into something uglier. "Calm down, gentlemen. Let's behave like civilized people."
Both men froze at the sound of my voice. When they noticed me, their posture softened, and the tension in the room seemed to ease, at least on the surface.
"You came at the perfect time, Noah," Doug said, exhaling as if relieved. "Why don't you give your opinion about the ending? Whatever you say, we'll go with."
I turned to Paul, who gave a small nod. "Sounds fair to me," he said. "After all, it's your script we're working on."
"Alright then," I said, looking from one to the other. "What's the issue with the ending?"
Doug leaned back and folded his arms. "Nothing," he said with a scoff. "And that's exactly what bothers me. When I first read your script, it was the ending that stayed with me. Sure, both Josh and Mia go back to their own worlds, but that doesn't mean there can't be some hope for a reunion later."
Josh and Mia were the names I had given the two protagonists. Even if I had remembered the original names of the characters, I would've changed them. If the original writer ever accused me of copying his idea, I needed enough differences to defend myself. Not that such an issue would arise now, thanks to Paul's involvement, but it was always better to be safe than sorry.
Having heard Doug's side, I turned to Paul. "Alright," I said. "What part do you want to change?"
"The hope," he said bluntly. "There is no world where Josh and Mia could stay happy together. Ever. We all know that. So I wanted to show it exactly like that. I want the audience to leave with a slightly bitter feeling that while Josh becomes successful, Mia does not. She will remain a prostitute. Even if she moves on and starts managing other prostitutes, her world would never allow her to cross into a higher social circle, like Josh's."
Both of them had valid points. As a teenager, I would have preferred a happy ending, but the more mature part of me leaned toward Paul's version. His ending was raw and honest, a reflection of how life often turns out. Yet, at the end of the day, this film was meant for teenagers, not adults searching for realism. Besides, Paul had written the original version of the script, and I suspected the studio had already rejected his darker ending the first time around. Just like me, he must have compromised to get the film made.
Columbia had already approved the hopeful ending. Changing it now could lead to trouble, drawn-out meetings, and endless negotiations.
"Most teenagers are dumb," I finally said, breaking the silence. "I know because I'm one of them. And dumb people like me don't want to see the harshness of reality. Columbia has already greenlit the hopeful version of the script, so that's the one we'll go forward with."
Paul looked visibly disappointed, his jaw tightening as he folded his arms. I didn't want to lose him completely, so I decided to throw him a bone.
"However," I added, "that doesn't mean we can't shoot an alternate ending."
Paul's head lifted almost instantly. "Without telling Columbia?"
"Of course," I said, lowering my voice slightly, as if sharing a secret. "They'd throw a fit about wasting resources and all that nonsense. But if the locations and characters are the same, it shouldn't take more than half a day to shoot it. Right?"
"Yes," Paul said quickly, his tone brightening. "I'll make sure we wrap it up fast."
I smiled at his enthusiasm. "Remember that next year. That's when we'll be shooting."
At the reminder, Paul's expression shifted. His brow creased slightly. "Why are you even going to college when things are going so well here? Finish your script with us, then move straight into pre-production. We could start shooting by the end of the year if you stay. No college is going to teach you this. Not real filmmaking."
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. That question had been haunting me for months. Every day, I wondered if I should give up college and pour everything into my career. Swimming or academics never challenged me, and the film world was calling louder with each passing week. But there was still something I needed to prove to myself, something beyond fame or success.
"Did you go to college, Paul?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied after a brief pause.
"And if you had the chance, would you go back and erase that time from your life?"
"Hell no," he said without hesitation. Then he leaned back, studying me. "But your circumstances are different. I didn't have the kind of opportunities you have now. My answer might've been very different if I were in your shoes."
"Let the kid live, Paul," Doug cut in with a light chuckle. "Let him go to college and have fun." Then he turned toward me, his tone softening. "Ignore this grumpy old man and do what you feel is right. Just keep in mind that once we start shooting, you'll have to see Risky Business through, even if that means deferring a term."
I nodded. A big university like Harvard would surely understand why I needed to take a short break.
"Enough about my education," I said, trying to steer the conversation back on track. "Let's focus on Risky Business and the changes you've made."
"I'm sure you'll like them," Doug said confidently as I took a seat. He handed me the script, the margins marked in yellow highlights. I began flipping through the pages, scanning the revisions.
(Break)
By the time I got home that evening, exhaustion was catching up to me. The day had been long, filled with back-and-forth debates and line-by-line reviews. In the end, I approved nearly all of their edits, rejecting only one change because it made my character seem misogynistic.
If I wanted the audience to see me as a hero by the end of the movie, I had to ensure that my image appealed to both men and women. Writers from this era often overlooked nuances that people in the 21st century took for granted. I wanted my film to feel timeless, something that would still resonate decades from now, and for that, it needed to connect with everyone.
The moment I stepped inside my house, something felt different. There was a stillness in the air, the kind that made the hairs on my arm rise. My suspicions were confirmed when I entered the living room and froze. Sitting there, in the middle of the couch, was the one person I didn't expect to see anytime soon.
The same graying hair with a bald patch in the middle. The same steely blue eyes, the same bulging belly acquired thanks to his regular beer consumption. It may have been months, but he hadn't changed a bit.
"Dad," I blurted, my voice catching slightly.
"Noah," Dad greeted quietly, his expression unreadable.
My eyes shifted past him and landed on my younger brother, Zach, who sat stiffly at the edge of the couch.
"He forced me to bring him here," Zach said nervously. "I'm sorry, Noah."
"It's alright," I assured him. "If he really wanted to come, you could've just brought him along. No need for all the drama."
Zach let out a small sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing.
Before I could ask Dad why he was here, Julie appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.
"You're home," she said with a gentle smile. "I hope you don't mind that I let Zach and your dad in. I made dinner and offered them some, but they declined. I'll give you some privacy."
With that, she disappeared into her bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.
Dad's gaze followed her, then shifted back to me. "You moved in with a girl," he remarked flatly.
"She's just a friend," I said quickly. "We're staying in separate rooms." I gestured toward my bedroom on the far side of the apartment.
Dad nodded plainly. "I wouldn't have minded even if she were your girlfriend and you two shared a room. But I thought you were with Lola?"
I let out a slow sigh, not wanting to explain my arrangement with Lola to anyone, let alone Dad. "Why are you here, Dad? Didn't you make it clear that I wasn't your son, and that I should never come back?"
"And yet you're still calling me Dad," he said quietly.
Despite everything, I couldn't bring myself to hate him. No matter how complicated our history was, I couldn't erase eighteen years of growing up under his roof. Even knowing that I had loving parents in my first life, or that Poseidon was technically my biological father in this one, didn't change any of that.
"Do you want me to call you John?" I shot back. "Because I can, if that's what you'd prefer."
Zach fidgeted nervously on the couch, his fingers twisting the edge of his shirt as he glanced between us, unsure whether to intervene.
"No," Dad finally said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I didn't mean what I said that day," he replied, his tone unusually soft. The words caught me completely off guard. "I want you to come back home. You can shoot films, do modeling, whatever the hell you want. I won't stop you."
My throat tightened. Dad wasn't the kind of man who apologized, not even when he was wrong. Hearing those words was the closest thing to an apology I was ever going to get.
"But it was true, wasn't it?" I asked quietly. "You're not my biological father."
"I'm not," he admitted. Then, with more conviction, he added, "But I am as well. I'm the one who held you when you cried through the night as a baby. I changed your diapers, taught you to ride a bike, fix a leaky pipe, and drive a car. No one else did that. My name's on your papers, no one else's. That alone makes me more your father than anybody else. Come back home. Your siblings miss you."
But you don't.
A part of me wished he'd said all this months ago, when I was sleeping in motels and trying to figure out where I belonged. But things were different now. I had direction and a purpose.
"I can't," I said at last, my tone quiet but firm. "I've already paid rent here until the end of summer. After that, I'll be leaving for Boston. It doesn't make sense to move back now."
His expression didn't change, but the disappointment was there, in the slight droop of his shoulders, in the way his gaze lingered on the floor for a second too long. I didn't want to end things on that note, so I added gently, "But I can visit sometimes, if that's okay."
He looked up and gave a small nod. "Yes. That's okay." Then he turned to Zach. "Come on, it's time to go."
Zach stood hesitantly. As he passed me, he stopped and wrapped his arms around me in a sudden hug. It was rare for him to initiate a hug because he always tried to act tough, pretending he was above sentimentality. Just like Dad.
I hugged him back. "Everything okay at home?" I whispered.
"Mom came back," he muttered, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Dad was out of earshot.
I froze. "What?"
"Yeah," he said in a low voice. "She's suing Dad with a bunch of charges, including domestic violence, and wants custody of Daisy and me. Dad is probably asking you to come back to be a character witness or something."
I pulled away from him and hissed, "That's messed up! She left us."
"That's what Dad says," Zach replied quietly. "But we never saw what really happened. Daisy and I met her yesterday because of some legal rule. She said Dad lied to us. I don't know who to believe anymore. She doesn't know where you live, but she tried to ask Daisy about it. We didn't tell her. I only told Dad because I wanted to come here and warn you about her."
I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers to my temple, trying to ease the sudden heaviness building there. "But I—"
"Zach!" Dad's voice echoed from outside. "It's getting late."
"Coming, Dad!" Zach shouted back. He turned to me and whispered, "She lives in L.A. now. If she wins, that's where Daisy and I will have to go."
I watched him leave, a knot tightening in my chest. When the door clicked shut behind him, I sank into the couch, staring blankly ahead. Mom, of all people, was returning now to take my siblings to L.A. right before I was about to debut in a film. It felt almost scripted, as if fate had a strange sense of humor. I had contemplated moving to Hollywood after college, and till now, my only reason not to do so was my siblings. But now I wasn't so sure.
"Everything alright?" Julie's voice pulled me out of my thoughts. She stood by the doorway, her expression concerned. "You don't look so good."
"I'm… not sure," I admitted, exhaling slowly.
She walked over and sat beside me on the couch. "Want to talk about it over dinner?"
I turned to her, puzzled. "Are you not mad at me anymore? Because yesterday you definitely were."
"I wasn't mad," she said, shaking her head. "I didn't like what you said, sure, but after thinking it over, I realized you were right. Still, I don't want to take another role right now. I want to focus on my studies. Maybe next year I'll think about it."
"Or… what about during the year?" I offered with a small grin.
She frowned slightly, curious. "What do you mean?"
"It's a long story," I said, standing up. "Let's talk while eating. I'll tell you all about my college plan and the messed-up shit going on with my family."
Julie laughed softly, then covered her mouth. "Sorry, I shouldn't laugh, but the way you said that was kind of hilarious."
"I don't mind," I said, waving it off with a smile. "So, what's for dinner?"
"Pasta," she replied, grinning.
"My favorite," I said, getting up to help her set the table.
I could get used to it. While she and I may not be in a relationship, it was an arrangement that worked smoothly for us. At least for now. We had divided days for cooking, cleaning, and other chores, and both of us were sticking to it for now. Let's hope things don't get complicated in the future.
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