Driftwood 12
Title: Driftwood (12/?)
Pairings/Characters: Stephen/Other
Rating: PG13
Summary: Stephen speaks
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Author's Note: This chapter is written from Stephens perspective. It was surprisingly difficult to write.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 |
Stephen
My first day back at the studio was embarrassing. It was downright embarrassing. I retreated immediately to my office at 8:30 and shut the door. That was rare for me, and the silently closed door a signal to everyone--Stay away. I could sense the staff's discomfort, the anger and disgust. I was familiar with it, because I felt the same way about myself. I had gotten it for half of the vacation, until Evie and the kids left the house and went to her mothers in Charleston. I got it from the media, who were delightfully reaming me. Then I gave it to myself as I sat on the beach alone each night, drinking more than I should have, but unable to really dull the pain. At one particularly bad moment, I had walked up the beach and parked myself in the sand in front of the rental cabin, staring at the dark water and feeling haunted and sorry for myself, turning the memory of our last kiss over in my mind.
I stared out the window at 54th street, blankly, and gave into another instance of reliving the last day I saw her.
When Kathryn crawled out of bed that morning, I rolled over to check what time it was on my phone. I knew immediately what had happened. I had missed a dozen text messages and half as many calls, and an inbox full of emails from producers, family and friends. That level of contact on the first day of our summer break meant some serious shit had gone down. The general consensus seemed to be, "what the fuck is going on, Stephen? Have you lost your mind?" followed by an increasing sense of panic as the day got later and I still hadn't responded to anyone. I sat up on the edge of the bed and googled my own name, something I deliberately avoided. The news was easy to find, and clear--the pictures had spread quickly. And they were damning evidence. I was furious when I saw them, my privacy invaded to a point of astonishment and rage. I wanted to find the little fuck who took them and have his knee caps broken. The anger was physical and immediate.
My first thoughts traveled immediately to Kathryn, in the bathroom talking in a murmur. I assumed she was finding out as I was. My second thoughts jumped to my children. I would be able to shield them from some of it. But I had never been able to completely protect them from my fame, and they would see these photos. Their father cradling another woman's face, staring at her with nothing but unabashed affection on his face. I felt a white hot anger.
When Kathryn came out and silently stood there, my anger wasn't any less in view of my affection for her. I tried to remain calm as I spoke to her. I deliberately kept my gaze away from her, not wanting to deal with the rush of desire I felt every time I was around her. Again, I saw my children's faces and my anger sparked. It flared up in my hands, clenched and I felt it burn in my jaw. I was going to throw something. I didn't trust myself to stay calm, and retreated into the bathroom before I took it out on her. I smacked a pile of towels off the sink and they landed with an unsatisfying plump on the floor. I couldn't help but laugh at my inadequacy. Figures.
I was pushing myself to calm the fuck down and think. The decisions and choices I make in the next few days would affect far more people than just me and just her. This was going to get complicated and messy, and I had a dozen different problems to consider. The biggest loomed in the next room, beautiful and attractive and in love with me. The answer was clear, and I knew I was wasting my time by considering any other possibilities. My gut clenched. We might have been able to carry on for a few months longer, even a year or two. But the writing was on the wall for us on the day I picked her up off the side of road. I had pursued her against all of my best instincts, driven by the sex, and the companionship, and the curious jump my heart gave when I thought of her. I was the happiest I had been in the last 5 years in the last 6 months, and it showed--I was running on all 8 cylinders effortlessly at work, churning out shows that I felt gave us an excellent shot for the Emmy nomination reel. Life was joy, play, and fun, even with a soured marriage. The anger and bitterness I felt towards my marriage softened in view of Kathryn's love and support. I felt almost generous with Evie, willing to forgive the comments and cold stares, the fake smile for cameras and the empty bed. Having Kathryn made every part of my life better. And now, I was going to walk away from it, and destroy both of our happiness in the process.
I told myself this was going to be the best decision for both of us. I was only holding her back, taking advantage of her in a relationship we couldn't truly have. I was married, and I had been for nearly 25 years. Divorce was simply not an option. Making this choice set Kathryn free. Evie had been with me through too much, and I wouldn't be where I was in my life without her help. Things were bad between us, very bad. I had accepted years ago that I wasn't in love with her anymore. But I respected and honored the commitment I gave to her.
Honored enough to cheat on her, Colbert? What kind of man does what I've done? For not the first time since I met Kathryn, my anger turned inwards toward myself. I was acting like a selfish prick, and I was going to pay for my selfishness. There was no way out of this without shattering Kathryn, and I hurt Evie. My own heartbreak, looming and already creeping on me seemed small in comparison, a fair punishment for damage I was about to reek on the woman I had fallen in love with.
I choked back my pain, and got dressed, doing the job right. I could put a suit on blindfolded, and I practically did. My thoughts were jumping erratically, but they kept coming back to one single thought: I was going to have to go out there and break Kathryn's heart.
And it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I broke my own when I did it. When I saw her start to cry, I could not handle it, and I told her so. I was grateful when she ran for bathroom, and I sat on the bed in silence, forcing myself to listen to every cry and sob she made. It was hot fire on my skin, torture, and I had earned every second of it. It was a moment that was burned into my memory--the quiet, cold hotel room, and Kathryn crying in the bathroom. Pure agony. It was all my fault.
My mind rushed forward to the rest of the afternoon; numbly calling downstairs to evaluate what the situation was outside of the hotel, ordering a private car to take me back home, and arranging one for Kathryn the next day, grateful I didn't have to face my wife, calling to change Kathryn's plane ticket for her as we kept a distance between each other in the room. It was only a few hours before we had lost ourselves in the others body and I hadn't forgotten that. Kissing her goodbye was a bittersweet moment. I felt my desire for her heat my blood as it did every time, but I had hurt her so badly that I was ashamed to touch her. I could see she was broken inside, all the spirit gone, quiet and tired. All the love and distress and heartbreak I felt at walking away from her was tempered by my anger and guilt. I gave into it for one last brief moment when my lips hit hers, and I found myself crying, caught up in her taste, her sweetness and her strength. Her fingers wiped my tears away and I felt her shudder, her breath short and caught, and I knew she was crying too. I tried to make that kiss say everything we had never spoken out loud. I hoped it said that I was sorry.
15 minutes later, I climbed into the black sedan parked in the loading lot of the hotel. The interior of the car was dark, and quiet, and cold. The driver had the privacy window up. It was only then that I really let myself cry for her, and for myself. For nearly the last year, a tiny part in the back of my mind had been asking me, Stephen, don't you deserve to be happy too? Then talk to her. Call her. Touch her. Make love to her. As I wept in the car for my own heartbreak, for Kathryn's, and for my family, I knew I had an answer to the question. It was no. When the car arrived at my home, and I climbed out to tip the driver, I promised myself I wouldn't be doing that again. Crying like that helped nothing. It wasn't in my personality to linger over pain, but to learn the lesson in each instance of it.
The trip to the vacation house was long, and tiring. I sprung for a private plan, an expense I didn't normally pay for. But I couldn't deal with an airport, not if I had the means to avoid it.
Needless to say, my break had not been restful, and my patience was short. I was expecting a bomb when I finally trudged into the vacation home, but Evie was calm. And cold. She kept the hurtful comments to a minimum, but she got her digs in.
"Ended things with your princess, right?"
I was unpacking in the bedroom when she appeared in the doorway. I froze for an instance, a stab in my chest.
"I did," to the bed.
"I had my suspicions."
"Did you?"
"I did. Well, I'd give you a divorce, but that'd make you too satisfied."
"We wouldn't want that, would we?"
"No, not for either of us." And she was gone, out the door.
I took the jabs with a silent reaction, figuring I deserved them. Apologizing to my kids was a completely different beast. My daughter was angry, siding with her mom. I took her reactions too, understanding she didn't see the marriage dynamic between us. I was the ogre, the jerk who is hurting her mother. I tried to be as honest as I could, and sincere in telling her I regretted doing anything to hurt my family. I cringed in the office when I thought of her. She ended being far more hurt in this thing then I had anticipated. It shook her worldview to the ground, at a rough teenage age, seeing her father with a woman that wasn't her mother. I would be making up for this for years to come.
I spent the rest of the week at the cabin, talking to my siblings and friends, gathering support when I could, and condemnation when I couldn't. Paul was good to talk to, listening without judgement. He was the only person I told the entire story to, and he was also one of the very few people who advised me to divorce Evelyn. He understood why I couldn't bring myself to do it, but he told me he hated seeing me unhappy, and it was clear to anyone who saw the photos that I was deeply in love with Kathryn.
I was surprised at how much that fact was brought up in the media. I had always made a point of avoiding blogs and print media when it came to reviews or topics about me. I learned my lesson after the White House Correspondents dinner--nothing good comes from reading about yourself. But I watched it, and read it, for any chance at a glimpse of Kathryn. There was a surprisingly large amount of people who came to our defense, that the pictures were inappropriate and invasive and wrong, that we were in love and should be left alone, and that it was no ones business.
Secretly, I hoped they were my fans. I hoped.
But I had watched with increasing agony as Kathryn's identity was made known, and pictures of her plastered over blogs. They were not gracious to her. The general attitude seemed to be she was a gold digging home wrecker who destroyed her own marriage in the hopes of coming after mine. She was the single divorced mom. I was a hypocrite, who shouted about traditional marriage values on my show and cheated on my wife. The paparazzi shots of her were particularly upsetting to me, and for the first time in our entire relationship, I began to understand how she felt a little.
Kathryn had mentioned in passing once or twice that she didn't watch the show because she found it odd and too eerie, and that it was hard for her when she accidentally ran across something about me. While I had listened to her, and thought I understood, it had never really been an issue for me. She existed only in my cell phone at that point. But now, with our contact gone, stumbling on an article with her picture in it (or more frequently, one of the hallway photos) was intensely hurtful. It was a flash reminder of all that I had had, didn't realize I had, and subsequently lost.
Both of us were getting raked over the coals. I was fielding interview requests from all the major news outlets, as well as independent journalists and bloggers, but I was having my agent turn all requests down for the moment. I knew I would have to address this publicly at some point, but the only statement I had released was a request for privacy, for both my family and Kathryn's, and an explanation that this was a private family issue and would be addressed as such. A few intrepid photographers had tracked down the location of our beach house, something that had never happened before, and were camped out on the dunes as close to my property line as they would dare get. I only ventured out to the beach at night. I watched with a sick fascination as the details of Kathryn's life came out, pictures of her being shouted at by photographers as she left her house, an interview with her exhusband who made me angry enough I threw the remote at the wall. Knowing everything I did about how he treated her and his own behaviors, I felt like he had no justification for condemning Kathryn.
I wanted every day to pick up my phone and call her. I wanted to know how she was holding up, and to tell her that it was hard for me too, that I missed her and wished I could see her. Sitting here in the office made me think of it--how often in the last half a year had I spoke to her from this desk? I missed her intensely, and I was starting to truly realize how much I had lost in her. I glanced at the clock--it was after 9am. I had spent half an hour sitting here feeling sorry for myself, and I knew my day was just starting. I was dreading the show, for the first time in years. I wanted to know if my fans still stood with me, or if they had discarded me as a prick like everyone else had. I was dreading the Q&A session, and the writers meeting, and the 2pm meeting I had scheduled with the network producers.
The writers meeting came first though, as there would be no show if we didn't get topic assignments out.
When I walked into the room, I could sense the shift in the air. An awkward silence overtook them as I sat on the top of the desk, staring down both rows of writers and staffers. The news sat in the middle of the room like a steaming pile of shit, fucking up all the magic and funny. I hated it.
"I owe all of you an apology." I spoke from the desk, looking up and at the group. They shifted in their chairs, some looking directly at me, others at the clipboards on their laps.
"I risked my reputation, and as a result, the reputation of each of you and the show. I risked your careers and this very existence of this program. I know I disappointed you all personally, as well as professionally. I've gotten pretty good at eating shit the last few days. I expect to eat it from you, but we do still have a show in 10 hours. Laughter is the best medicine, for all of us. So lets write some funny shit and get it done."
I paused, knowing I probably didn't need to say this out loud, but I wanted to make it known.
"Any topic about this, or her, is off limits."
Another pause. I felt the question hanging in the air.
"And I am not getting divorced."
The murmur that ran across the room hushed quietly, as they realized I wasn't joking.
Eric was the first one to break the silence.
"Stephen..."
I looked up from the desk, eyeing him.
"What is it, Eric?"
"Be happy. That's all I'm going to say. No judgement, no shit. Just support, man. Be happy."
I heard and processed his words before I felt them. I didn't respond to him, but instead I stood up from the desk and walked out of the writing room, leaving the door to shut behind me. I couldn't listen to that. Happy. What a crock of shit.
Pairings/Characters: Stephen/Other
Rating: PG13
Summary: Stephen speaks
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Author's Note: This chapter is written from Stephens perspective. It was surprisingly difficult to write.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 |
Stephen
My first day back at the studio was embarrassing. It was downright embarrassing. I retreated immediately to my office at 8:30 and shut the door. That was rare for me, and the silently closed door a signal to everyone--Stay away. I could sense the staff's discomfort, the anger and disgust. I was familiar with it, because I felt the same way about myself. I had gotten it for half of the vacation, until Evie and the kids left the house and went to her mothers in Charleston. I got it from the media, who were delightfully reaming me. Then I gave it to myself as I sat on the beach alone each night, drinking more than I should have, but unable to really dull the pain. At one particularly bad moment, I had walked up the beach and parked myself in the sand in front of the rental cabin, staring at the dark water and feeling haunted and sorry for myself, turning the memory of our last kiss over in my mind.
I stared out the window at 54th street, blankly, and gave into another instance of reliving the last day I saw her.
When Kathryn crawled out of bed that morning, I rolled over to check what time it was on my phone. I knew immediately what had happened. I had missed a dozen text messages and half as many calls, and an inbox full of emails from producers, family and friends. That level of contact on the first day of our summer break meant some serious shit had gone down. The general consensus seemed to be, "what the fuck is going on, Stephen? Have you lost your mind?" followed by an increasing sense of panic as the day got later and I still hadn't responded to anyone. I sat up on the edge of the bed and googled my own name, something I deliberately avoided. The news was easy to find, and clear--the pictures had spread quickly. And they were damning evidence. I was furious when I saw them, my privacy invaded to a point of astonishment and rage. I wanted to find the little fuck who took them and have his knee caps broken. The anger was physical and immediate.
My first thoughts traveled immediately to Kathryn, in the bathroom talking in a murmur. I assumed she was finding out as I was. My second thoughts jumped to my children. I would be able to shield them from some of it. But I had never been able to completely protect them from my fame, and they would see these photos. Their father cradling another woman's face, staring at her with nothing but unabashed affection on his face. I felt a white hot anger.
When Kathryn came out and silently stood there, my anger wasn't any less in view of my affection for her. I tried to remain calm as I spoke to her. I deliberately kept my gaze away from her, not wanting to deal with the rush of desire I felt every time I was around her. Again, I saw my children's faces and my anger sparked. It flared up in my hands, clenched and I felt it burn in my jaw. I was going to throw something. I didn't trust myself to stay calm, and retreated into the bathroom before I took it out on her. I smacked a pile of towels off the sink and they landed with an unsatisfying plump on the floor. I couldn't help but laugh at my inadequacy. Figures.
I was pushing myself to calm the fuck down and think. The decisions and choices I make in the next few days would affect far more people than just me and just her. This was going to get complicated and messy, and I had a dozen different problems to consider. The biggest loomed in the next room, beautiful and attractive and in love with me. The answer was clear, and I knew I was wasting my time by considering any other possibilities. My gut clenched. We might have been able to carry on for a few months longer, even a year or two. But the writing was on the wall for us on the day I picked her up off the side of road. I had pursued her against all of my best instincts, driven by the sex, and the companionship, and the curious jump my heart gave when I thought of her. I was the happiest I had been in the last 5 years in the last 6 months, and it showed--I was running on all 8 cylinders effortlessly at work, churning out shows that I felt gave us an excellent shot for the Emmy nomination reel. Life was joy, play, and fun, even with a soured marriage. The anger and bitterness I felt towards my marriage softened in view of Kathryn's love and support. I felt almost generous with Evie, willing to forgive the comments and cold stares, the fake smile for cameras and the empty bed. Having Kathryn made every part of my life better. And now, I was going to walk away from it, and destroy both of our happiness in the process.
I told myself this was going to be the best decision for both of us. I was only holding her back, taking advantage of her in a relationship we couldn't truly have. I was married, and I had been for nearly 25 years. Divorce was simply not an option. Making this choice set Kathryn free. Evie had been with me through too much, and I wouldn't be where I was in my life without her help. Things were bad between us, very bad. I had accepted years ago that I wasn't in love with her anymore. But I respected and honored the commitment I gave to her.
Honored enough to cheat on her, Colbert? What kind of man does what I've done? For not the first time since I met Kathryn, my anger turned inwards toward myself. I was acting like a selfish prick, and I was going to pay for my selfishness. There was no way out of this without shattering Kathryn, and I hurt Evie. My own heartbreak, looming and already creeping on me seemed small in comparison, a fair punishment for damage I was about to reek on the woman I had fallen in love with.
I choked back my pain, and got dressed, doing the job right. I could put a suit on blindfolded, and I practically did. My thoughts were jumping erratically, but they kept coming back to one single thought: I was going to have to go out there and break Kathryn's heart.
And it was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I broke my own when I did it. When I saw her start to cry, I could not handle it, and I told her so. I was grateful when she ran for bathroom, and I sat on the bed in silence, forcing myself to listen to every cry and sob she made. It was hot fire on my skin, torture, and I had earned every second of it. It was a moment that was burned into my memory--the quiet, cold hotel room, and Kathryn crying in the bathroom. Pure agony. It was all my fault.
My mind rushed forward to the rest of the afternoon; numbly calling downstairs to evaluate what the situation was outside of the hotel, ordering a private car to take me back home, and arranging one for Kathryn the next day, grateful I didn't have to face my wife, calling to change Kathryn's plane ticket for her as we kept a distance between each other in the room. It was only a few hours before we had lost ourselves in the others body and I hadn't forgotten that. Kissing her goodbye was a bittersweet moment. I felt my desire for her heat my blood as it did every time, but I had hurt her so badly that I was ashamed to touch her. I could see she was broken inside, all the spirit gone, quiet and tired. All the love and distress and heartbreak I felt at walking away from her was tempered by my anger and guilt. I gave into it for one last brief moment when my lips hit hers, and I found myself crying, caught up in her taste, her sweetness and her strength. Her fingers wiped my tears away and I felt her shudder, her breath short and caught, and I knew she was crying too. I tried to make that kiss say everything we had never spoken out loud. I hoped it said that I was sorry.
15 minutes later, I climbed into the black sedan parked in the loading lot of the hotel. The interior of the car was dark, and quiet, and cold. The driver had the privacy window up. It was only then that I really let myself cry for her, and for myself. For nearly the last year, a tiny part in the back of my mind had been asking me, Stephen, don't you deserve to be happy too? Then talk to her. Call her. Touch her. Make love to her. As I wept in the car for my own heartbreak, for Kathryn's, and for my family, I knew I had an answer to the question. It was no. When the car arrived at my home, and I climbed out to tip the driver, I promised myself I wouldn't be doing that again. Crying like that helped nothing. It wasn't in my personality to linger over pain, but to learn the lesson in each instance of it.
The trip to the vacation house was long, and tiring. I sprung for a private plan, an expense I didn't normally pay for. But I couldn't deal with an airport, not if I had the means to avoid it.
Needless to say, my break had not been restful, and my patience was short. I was expecting a bomb when I finally trudged into the vacation home, but Evie was calm. And cold. She kept the hurtful comments to a minimum, but she got her digs in.
"Ended things with your princess, right?"
I was unpacking in the bedroom when she appeared in the doorway. I froze for an instance, a stab in my chest.
"I did," to the bed.
"I had my suspicions."
"Did you?"
"I did. Well, I'd give you a divorce, but that'd make you too satisfied."
"We wouldn't want that, would we?"
"No, not for either of us." And she was gone, out the door.
I took the jabs with a silent reaction, figuring I deserved them. Apologizing to my kids was a completely different beast. My daughter was angry, siding with her mom. I took her reactions too, understanding she didn't see the marriage dynamic between us. I was the ogre, the jerk who is hurting her mother. I tried to be as honest as I could, and sincere in telling her I regretted doing anything to hurt my family. I cringed in the office when I thought of her. She ended being far more hurt in this thing then I had anticipated. It shook her worldview to the ground, at a rough teenage age, seeing her father with a woman that wasn't her mother. I would be making up for this for years to come.
I spent the rest of the week at the cabin, talking to my siblings and friends, gathering support when I could, and condemnation when I couldn't. Paul was good to talk to, listening without judgement. He was the only person I told the entire story to, and he was also one of the very few people who advised me to divorce Evelyn. He understood why I couldn't bring myself to do it, but he told me he hated seeing me unhappy, and it was clear to anyone who saw the photos that I was deeply in love with Kathryn.
I was surprised at how much that fact was brought up in the media. I had always made a point of avoiding blogs and print media when it came to reviews or topics about me. I learned my lesson after the White House Correspondents dinner--nothing good comes from reading about yourself. But I watched it, and read it, for any chance at a glimpse of Kathryn. There was a surprisingly large amount of people who came to our defense, that the pictures were inappropriate and invasive and wrong, that we were in love and should be left alone, and that it was no ones business.
Secretly, I hoped they were my fans. I hoped.
But I had watched with increasing agony as Kathryn's identity was made known, and pictures of her plastered over blogs. They were not gracious to her. The general attitude seemed to be she was a gold digging home wrecker who destroyed her own marriage in the hopes of coming after mine. She was the single divorced mom. I was a hypocrite, who shouted about traditional marriage values on my show and cheated on my wife. The paparazzi shots of her were particularly upsetting to me, and for the first time in our entire relationship, I began to understand how she felt a little.
Kathryn had mentioned in passing once or twice that she didn't watch the show because she found it odd and too eerie, and that it was hard for her when she accidentally ran across something about me. While I had listened to her, and thought I understood, it had never really been an issue for me. She existed only in my cell phone at that point. But now, with our contact gone, stumbling on an article with her picture in it (or more frequently, one of the hallway photos) was intensely hurtful. It was a flash reminder of all that I had had, didn't realize I had, and subsequently lost.
Both of us were getting raked over the coals. I was fielding interview requests from all the major news outlets, as well as independent journalists and bloggers, but I was having my agent turn all requests down for the moment. I knew I would have to address this publicly at some point, but the only statement I had released was a request for privacy, for both my family and Kathryn's, and an explanation that this was a private family issue and would be addressed as such. A few intrepid photographers had tracked down the location of our beach house, something that had never happened before, and were camped out on the dunes as close to my property line as they would dare get. I only ventured out to the beach at night. I watched with a sick fascination as the details of Kathryn's life came out, pictures of her being shouted at by photographers as she left her house, an interview with her exhusband who made me angry enough I threw the remote at the wall. Knowing everything I did about how he treated her and his own behaviors, I felt like he had no justification for condemning Kathryn.
I wanted every day to pick up my phone and call her. I wanted to know how she was holding up, and to tell her that it was hard for me too, that I missed her and wished I could see her. Sitting here in the office made me think of it--how often in the last half a year had I spoke to her from this desk? I missed her intensely, and I was starting to truly realize how much I had lost in her. I glanced at the clock--it was after 9am. I had spent half an hour sitting here feeling sorry for myself, and I knew my day was just starting. I was dreading the show, for the first time in years. I wanted to know if my fans still stood with me, or if they had discarded me as a prick like everyone else had. I was dreading the Q&A session, and the writers meeting, and the 2pm meeting I had scheduled with the network producers.
The writers meeting came first though, as there would be no show if we didn't get topic assignments out.
When I walked into the room, I could sense the shift in the air. An awkward silence overtook them as I sat on the top of the desk, staring down both rows of writers and staffers. The news sat in the middle of the room like a steaming pile of shit, fucking up all the magic and funny. I hated it.
"I owe all of you an apology." I spoke from the desk, looking up and at the group. They shifted in their chairs, some looking directly at me, others at the clipboards on their laps.
"I risked my reputation, and as a result, the reputation of each of you and the show. I risked your careers and this very existence of this program. I know I disappointed you all personally, as well as professionally. I've gotten pretty good at eating shit the last few days. I expect to eat it from you, but we do still have a show in 10 hours. Laughter is the best medicine, for all of us. So lets write some funny shit and get it done."
I paused, knowing I probably didn't need to say this out loud, but I wanted to make it known.
"Any topic about this, or her, is off limits."
Another pause. I felt the question hanging in the air.
"And I am not getting divorced."
The murmur that ran across the room hushed quietly, as they realized I wasn't joking.
Eric was the first one to break the silence.
"Stephen..."
I looked up from the desk, eyeing him.
"What is it, Eric?"
"Be happy. That's all I'm going to say. No judgement, no shit. Just support, man. Be happy."
I heard and processed his words before I felt them. I didn't respond to him, but instead I stood up from the desk and walked out of the writing room, leaving the door to shut behind me. I couldn't listen to that. Happy. What a crock of shit.