"Mr. Cruise, I honestly didn't expect you to call me yourself. What's up?" Joy said, trying to keep her voice from doing that embarrassing squeak thing.
She'd spent years of her last life using Tom Cruise as her personal motivational poster. Same kind of public crucifixion, same comeback obsession. Some scars only people who've bled in the town square really understand. Rich kids like Hughes would never get it.
"Just Tom is fine, Grant."
"Then you have to call me Joy."
"Deal, Joy." The way he rolled the "J" was unfairly smooth. Her heart did a tiny, traitorous flip.
He sounded polite, a little distant, but curious. "I saw the trades. You actually pulled off a hard sci-fi movie for twenty million. I gotta be honest… I didn't think you'd do it."
Not quite praise, but definite surprise.
Joy laughed under her breath. "Yeah, I'm still waiting to wake up. It all happened stupidly fast."
Tom Cruise was light-years above her pay grade, yet he talked to her like she was a colleague, not some cautionary tale with a rap sheet. No condescension, no mansplaining—just respect. That kind of quiet class only comes from getting knocked around by life a few dozen times.
He chuckled softly. "So now I'm dying to know what the hell you made. Mind sending me a screener?"
He'd low-key thought the whole idea was nuts… until she actually did it. Now the same stubborn streak that once lived in him was wide awake and fascinated.
"Of course," Joy said instantly. "I'll overnight it. You'll have it tomorrow."
"No need to overnight anything. Jack'll swing by and grab it. Stay put."
She opened her mouth to say thanks and the call was already over.
Next day, Jack showed up, all grins. They barely got two sentences of small talk in before he yanked her toward his car.
"Get in."
"Wait, where are we going?"
Jack rolled the window down and floored it up the hill. "Tom's place. Obviously."
Joy almost choked on air. "I wasn't invited!"
"I asked. He said cool. I told him I wanted you there so we could all talk. He trusts my taste in people."
Another near-heart-attack later, they were winding up into Beverly Hills—where the streetlights literally don't exist so the mansions can hide better at night. Security here is tighter than Fort Knox because the second you flip on a lamp, some creep in a Prius with a telephoto lens gets a payday.
Paparazzi row was already camped outside the gates like it was the world's saddest tailgate party.
Tom's house (mansion, compound, whatever) was a $194 million fortress built in the 1930s, right down the street from Oprah. Double iron gates, jungle-level foliage, cameras on the mailbox. You'd need a Black Hawk to get an aerial shot.
They rolled through the gates, past the tennis court, the lake (!), the Olympic-size pool, and a cluster of buildings that looked like Morocco and the Mediterranean had a baby.
Inside was surprisingly minimal—black, white, clean lines. Single rich dude chic.
Joy was still gawking when she noticed the massive framed photo over the fireplace: a beautiful, serene woman in soft light.
Tom appeared beside her in a chocolate-brown sweater that did zero favors for her blood pressure. "My mom," he said quietly.
"She looks kind," Joy answered, smiling.
Jack was already face-deep in the spread the chef had laid out like they were royalty: chicken pot pie in little ramekins, ginger-pepper salmon, lobster, truffle risotto, and—because apparently Tom had asked about her—a full Chinese spread and every girly dessert known to man. Strawberry cheesecake puffs. Peanut-butter-dipped pretzels. Rainbow gummy everything.
Joy dropped into a chair. "I'm not dieting tomorrow. Possibly ever again."
Tom sat too, amused. The giant TV was playing I Am Sam.
Jack, mouth full, mumbled, "Your boy Sean wanted that Oscar bad with this one."
Tom bit into a pretzel. "He didn't get it."
"Shame. He was great," Jack said.
Joy shook her head. "He went too far. Academy doesn't give statuettes to full-on rtards."
Jack nearly choked laughing.
Tom's eyebrow went up, half-smiling. "Explain."
Joy swallowed a gummy worm. "They love disabled characters, but never actually helpless ones. Rain Man? Secret math genius. Forrest Gump? Runs across the country, wins medals in Vietnam, becomes a shrimp millionaire. Oscar bait is always 'inspirational disability,' not straight-up tragedy."
Tom was outright grinning now. "So the Academy wants rtards… but, like, useful rtards?"
"Exactly!" Joy laughed.
Jack wiped his eyes. "We're definitely running future scripts by you, kid."
Joy glanced at Tom. "He doesn't need my help. He already knows what wins—he just doesn't want to uglify himself for it."
Tom didn't deny it.
Jack still looked confused. "Who turns down an Oscar?"
Joy ticked off the last decade of Best Actor winners on her fingers: greedy gay writer, blind Black musician, ex-con grocery clerk, Holocaust-surviving pianist, death-row Jew, racist OCD Italian, African dictator, oil baron, gay politician, broke country singer, stuttering king…
She finished with a flourish. "Tell me which one of those Tom Cruise is dying to play."
Jack lost it. Tom just looked at her across the table, something warm and curious in his eyes.
"If I ever decide I want one," he said quietly, "you'll be the first person I call. You read the room better than people twice your age."
(If only you knew how many decades of red-carpet footage I've memorized, Tom.)
Dessert disappeared. Conversation drifted to Source Code. Joy got passionate talking camera moves and loop structure; Tom loosened up, asking smart questions, clearly impressed despite himself.
Eventually Jack stretched and asked the million-dollar question. "So who's the money on this thing? Nobody writes a single check for twenty mil on an indie sci-fi. That's a unicorn."
Joy shrugged. "Hughes Raystone."
Tom's smile was small and knowing. "Of course. I know Hughes. And I know your… history. Just didn't realize you two were still—"
"We're not," Joy cut in quickly. "Strictly business now."
"Good," Tom said, almost to himself. "Golden boys aren't built for girls like you."
He didn't elaborate, but she caught the subtext: guys like Hughes (born on third base, convinced they hit a triple) never learn how to handle someone else's pain. They think love is just another acquisition. People don't work that way.
Tom stood to walk them out. At the door he paused, looked her dead in the eye.
"Send me that cut the second it's locked. I want to see what you did."
"I will," she promised.
He nodded once, like they'd just made a pact.
As Jack pulled away past the paparazzi gauntlet, Joy stared out the window, heart racing for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with the sugar coma.
Tom Cruise just invited her to his house, fed her gourmet lobster, laughed at her jokes, and basically said, I see you.
Yeah.
Today was a pretty okay day.