Winter in the Santa Monica Mountains always feels kinda bleak. Even though it's technically one of the prettiest beach stretches north of L.A., the chill keeps a lot of people away. The palm trees along the streets are half-bare, and deep inside one of the quiet villa neighborhoods tucked into the valley, Joey was holed up in her house, racking her brain for a way out of the hole she was in.
Renee came out of the kitchen carrying a tray of freshly baked cupcakes and set one in front of Joey. "Girl, stop looking like the world's ending. Is the Directors Guild really the only place left to beg for cash?"
Joey's eyes did a slow lap around the room before she dropped her gaze. "I'm still thinking… but you know everyone I used to know is just a bunch of party friends. Ever since I stopped showing up to everything, I've pretty much ghosted the whole scene."
Right then something flashed across the TV. Renee's head snapped up. "Wait—go back! Change it back to that channel, quick!"
Joey fumbled with the remote and flipped back. Sure enough, there on the news was a stupidly handsome face. Renee practically squealed. "Look, Joey! Your idol! Your idol just started some kind of film investment fund—specifically for talented filmmakers who are broke. They fund the movie and take a cut of the profits. Holy crap, it's real!"
Joey stared at the screen. Tom Cruise. Of course. The guy wasn't happy just being the biggest movie star on the planet—he already had deals with all six major studios, and now he was expanding into indie film with his own investment company. Classic power move.
Indie film is its own beast.
Big studio movies are built like products: focus-grouped, market-tested, designed to make maximum cash. That money comes at a price—creative freedom gets strangled. A lot of filmmakers got sick of that, so they started raising their own money, writing their own scripts, directing their own visions. No studio notes telling them to shove in a car chase or a love interest for ticket sales. Those movies became known as "indie."
Joey's whole career (what was left of it) was indie. She funded everything herself, wrote her own stuff, shot what she wanted. No corporate suits breathing down her neck.
These days, indie films were taking over half the market. Some of them were even out-grossing the big blockbusters.
The news segment moved on, but Joey kept staring at the screen. Renee smacked the back of her head. "Earth to Joey! Why are you still sitting here? Go apply! You might actually meet your celebrity crush!"
Joey rolled her eyes. "Can you not make me sound like a thirteen-year-old fangirl? He's just the actor I respect most in Hollywood."
Renee snorted. "Respect, sure. You've had a Top Gun poster on your wall since middle school and used to scream at me asking who 'Lester' was. You're as basic as the rest of his fan club, admit it."
Tom Cruise—the defining superstar of their generation.
Yeah, Joey thought he was insanely good-looking, but what she really admired was how sharp the guy was. He knew exactly who he was in the market and played it perfectly. And the work ethic? Insane. Kid grew up dirt-poor, parents split, mom working three jobs. At eighteen he showed up on the West Coast with nothing, trying to put his sister through school. People forget that before he became the money-printing legend, he was surviving on hot dogs and rice, getting rejected left and right: "not handsome enough," "too much energy," "too tan."
Before Top Gun blew up, he'd done plenty of forgettable roles and bit parts. He'd bulked up and slimmed down on command, almost never used a stunt double, swam twelve hours a day for All the Right Moves—stuff most actors would whine about.
And yeah, Joey loved that warm, slightly sweet vibe he gave off. The guy stayed squeaky clean—no scandals, the ultimate Hollywood "nice guy."
Plus the acting. People loved to pretend he didn't have range because he was so pretty, but the dude had three Oscar nominations. His skill just got overshadowed by that megawatt smile.
Anyway, most directors would pretend to only stan artsy, Oscar-bait actors to look sophisticated. Joey? She was basic and proud—she stanned the biggest movie star in the world, same as half the planet.
But right now she wasn't in fangirl mode. She was in "about to be homeless" mode. So yeah, she was absolutely applying.
She wasn't expecting to actually meet Tom Cruise, so she wasn't nervous—just bummed that after seven years in the industry she still hadn't been in the same room as him. Pretty pathetic for someone who used to be considered a hot young director.
Whatever. She found the fund's website, put together the application—résumé, script, pitch deck, the first thirty minutes in storyboards—and registered the script with the WGA (pointless for legal protection, everyone knew the big studios could rip off your idea and tweak it just enough to win in court, but it was tradition).
Then she hit send and waited for a reply within thirty days.
After that? Instant anxiety.
Would anyone even read past her name? Or would they see "Joey Grant—washed-up party girl" and trash it like every other door she'd knocked on lately?
Or—crazy thought—what if it actually got to Tom Cruise? The guy's nose for hits was legendary. What would he think?
First hurdle was the script. If they loved the script, then they'd look at the budget, the pitch, her past work… the whole package.
Meanwhile, on the other side of town, her email landed.
And somehow, crazy fast, the script and materials for a little movie called Juno ended up on the desk of Jack Hans—one of the most respected producers in the business. Nobody knew how Tom had lured him over to run final approvals, but there he was.
Jack opened the email, clocked the director's name, noticed the script was written by the director herself.
Joey Grant.
Why did that sound familiar?
A quick Google search later and he remembered. Oh. That girl.
What a waste. Used to have real promise, then flushed it all down the toilet partying for seven years. Now that her rich fiancé dumped her, every studio in town had blacklisted her. And she still thought she could make a comeback?
Kinda sad. Kinda hilarious.
She wrote it herself? So all those previous bombs were someone else's fault, and now she's gonna show the world?
He figured a spoiled 23-year-old party girl couldn't string two decent pages together.
But the script had already made it to his desk, which meant it had passed the first filters. So, professional duty and all, he'd give it a skim. Maybe ten pages before he tossed it.
Jack gave himself half an hour, tops.
He thought he'd last ten minutes. He lasted four hours.
He thought he'd hate it. He kinda did—at first he laughed at how "small" it was. A quirky little coming-of-age chick flick? Please.
But he finished it. And when Jack Hans actually finished a script, that meant dollar signs.
He immediately read it again, muttering to himself half in disbelief, half in awe. "This spoiled little 23-year-old wrote this? Where the hell has this brain been hiding the last seven years? The pacing, the way the conflicts bounce off each other, the structure—it's fresh as hell."
Then he scrolled further and realized she'd sent the shot list, the lineup sheet, the works—including storyboards.
Storyboards. Now that was interesting. You can tell everything about a director from their boards—it's literally their brain on paper.
He'd seen boards from legends that looked like a toddler drew them (looking at you, Peter Jackson—he'd hand his chicken-scratch off to pros to clean up later). But most real directors, especially the trained ones, could draw clean, expressive boards that told the whole crew exactly what the shot was supposed to feel like.
So what camp was Joey Grant in?
He clicked the file.
One by one, the boards loaded.
Jack's jaw actually dropped.
They were stunning—some loose and lyrical, some weird and off-kilter, but the fundamentals? Rock solid. The framing, the camera movement, the composition—zero amateur vibes.
(In her past life, Joey had spent decades of free time doing nothing but copying master storyboards. She had whole drawers full of them.)
Jack just stared, speechless.
Then he picked up the phone.
It rang three times.
A calm, quiet voice answered—cool as always.
Jack finally managed to speak.
"Tom… I think we just found a unicorn."