Page 67 of Director's Cut

I turn to the birthday kids, who really should be the focus right now anyway. “Oz, Lil, are you doing anything extra special this weekend? Your mom told me maybe you were going to LEGOLAND?” Their eyes light up when I say the magic words.

But before these poor children can answer, their mom has to butt into the other conversation.

“Jesus, Mom, can we leave out the gay remarks on my kids’ birthday?” Gwyn comments.

Maeve exchanges a glance with me—Guess your sister is a badass—while my mom gets a little flustered.

“I meant her celebrity, Guinevere.”

Gwyn goes right back to staring at me. I rip a piece of the white bread off my sloppy joe.

“Mama, we going to LEGOLAND?” Oz asks.

Gwyn shoots me a glare—they clearly weren’t—before looking to the kids. “Sure, and maybe it can be a special thing with just you guys and Daddy.”

Dave shoots Gwyn the same glare. “Or maybe Aunt Val.”

But Mom is not off her shit yet. She now turns to Maeve herself. “Jewish-parent curse, you know. Can’t stop worrying about our babies.”

When she really could be worrying about her grandbabies on their birthday.

Maeve just chuckles, though, diffusing the whole damn thing. “I get it. My parents didn’t think it was going to happen for me either.”

Dad puts an arm around Mom. “No, honestly, it wasn’t even about Val. We knew she liked women too much to never not find someone. This is the girl who committed to watching every single episode of X-Files every night”—he winks—“because she absolutely worshipped Gillian Anderson.”

What. The. Fuck.

“No, we just thought she’d end up with a complete idiot like Phoebe Wittmore.”

Which, okay, I’m a little too embarrassed about the X-Files thing to focus on how brutally my father just dunked on my Goodbye, Richard! costar. But—I repeat—what the fuck? They roasted me less at my own birthday dinner in October. Maybe it’s time to legally separate from the family.

Maeve looks to me, an amused-as-shit smile plastered on her face. “Did Phoebe Wittmore hurt you?”

She starts to laugh as I go tomato red. “Isn’t this a children’s birthday dinner?” I mumble.

“Phoebe’s nothing compared to some of the girls she’s told us about over the years,” Dad says.

“Finn!” Mom snaps, finally on my level.

A long beat of silence follows. Maeve knocks her foot against mine under the table. Reassuring, I think. If only I could be properly reassured that my parents wouldn’t talk about my Hollywood exes anymore. Lily asks me for one of my tots, and I give her two.

Dave looks between Gwyn, who’s still mildly pissed at me for the LEGOLAND thing, and me, who looks like I was choking two minutes ago. “So, Maeve, it must be weird, though, right? Being with someone as famous as Val?”

Just the conversation I need to lower my anxiety. Thanks, Dave.

Now Maeve’s the one shifting her food around her plate. My stomach tightens, hard enough that I don’t even think I can eat the kale.

“It’s…strange, I suppose,” Maeve says. “I’ve never dated anyone who’s had more than three hundred Instagram followers, let alone a platform.” Maeve looks at me. “There’s a lot I don’t know if I’ll ever understand about it. I wish I could have her more to myself.” She takes my hand. “But it’s not like, a huge deal for me. I try not to think about it. I’ve just never really had any investment in celebrity culture.”

She looks me in the eye, which I think is supposed to make me feel better about what she’s saying, but my insides just go tighter, like an invisible rope is ripping through my flesh. “I see you for you,” she says to me. Then she looks back at my family, who seem like they know exactly what Maeve means. “I wasn’t like, a superfan of hers or anything before. I wasn’t seduced by the glamor or fame or any of that. Just Val herself.”

I know what she’s trying to say. I believe she’s telling the truth.

I just also know the subtext of what she’s saying. She’s saying that there are very specific parts of me she likes. Hell, even if she loves those parts, there’s a lot she could do without. Including fame. Also known as the thing I can’t just work away with therapy.

Dave coughs a laugh. “Guess Val isn’t taking you to the Oscars to impress you, then.”

Fucking Dave!