Page 2 of How to Write a Rom-Com

Damn dyslexia.

“Bren, listen. I am sorry I spilled that beautiful caramel macchiato that you just made. And I will come here every day and offer you penance in exchange for the blessing of my immortal soul, but at this very moment, my boss is probably standing next to my desk, tapping her foot—a foot which is most likely in a pair of Louboutins that cost more than my last two pay checks—wondering where her coffee and her assistant are,” I say, forcing a broad smile on my face. “So please, in the name of our good Lord who on this day really wants your girl here not to lose her job, can I pretty please with whipped cream on top, have another caramel macchiato… with whipped cream on top?”

“Wow, that was a lot,” Elle mutters. I shoot her a menacing look out of the corner of my eye.

Brenda glares at me, and I’m sure the word “murder” is somewhere in her thoughts.

“Have you seenThe Devil Wears Prada?”

“I’ve met your boss, she’s nothing like Miranda Priestly,” Brenda deadpans.

Okay, points to the snooty barista. Didn’t peg her as a connoisseur of classic Anne Hathaway movies.

I see Elle nod. I elbow her in the side.

“Have I told you about the time she threatened me within an inch of my life with a stapler?”

“Lucy, she was in labor!” Elle squeals, gently hitting me on the arm.

“And that makes itokay?”

“Oh my God, fine! Anything to get you out of my face!” Brindy/Brenda whines, slamming a jug of milk on the counter so hard that some shoots out the top. I quickly grab another handful of napkins and reach across the counter to wipe it up. “But the next time you come in here, I swear you better not make a mess.”

“Bren, I promise. This will never happen again,” I plead, pressing my hands together.

“You said that last time,” Elle mutters.

“Whose side are you on?” I snap at her, whipping my head around so fast that my hair hits me in the face.

“The side that gets me to this meeting on time,” she mumbles.

“Exactly, sozip it,” I say, motioning for her to lock her lips with my hand.

Brenda hands me the hot drink without putting a cardboard sleeve on it, so my hand is absolutely scorched when I touch it. Well played, Brindy. Well played.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter as Elle types in our floor number into the elevator keypad. I move the cup of coffee from one hand to another to distribute the pain.

“Will you chill out? Everything is going to be fine. Anne is never ready to start these meetings on time anyway,” Elle says. “Why sosassytoday?” she adds.

I love Elle. She is the best friend and roommate I could ever ask for. Sometimes, I envy her. She’s able to put on a positive, upbeat face, even when she feels the complete opposite on the inside. She can match my cynicism punch-for-punch, but she can also be optimistic in a way that I struggle to be. She is the sunshine in my day, always looking for the bright side, always there to challenge my occasional (read: usual) bitterness. I envy so much about her, down to her long eyelashes that accent her brilliantly big eyes and her long blonde curls.

I wish I could look as effortlessly beautiful as Elle does on a daily basis. In the time it takes me to curl my (what I view as) boring chestnut brown hair, Elle can shower, throw some curling product in her perfect blonde hair, and be ready for work. So, most days, my hair ends up in a messy bun at the top of my head, because I just can’t be bothered with it. Today, I was going for beachy waves, but said waves are quickly getting on my nerves. Plus, it’s May in New York, which means the trip from the Upper West Side to Rockefeller Center was a steamy one.

I grunt. “I don’t know. Everything just seems to be such a struggle lately,” I mumble, pushing some of my hair out of my face.

“What do you mean?” Elle asks as the elevator dings past another floor.

“Ugh, it’s just—,” I mutter. “You know I had an agent lunch last week and she was pitching a book that I would kill to acquire, you know, if I actually had that ability.”

“So, I’ll acquire it,” Elle says with a smile.

“That’s not the point,” I respond with a huff. “I need a raise. I need a change of pace. I’ve been getting coffee for two years, so long that I’m on a semi-first name basis with the barista.” I let out a long breath, annoyed at myself for dumping all of this on Elle. “I don’t know. I just… I want to remember why I’m in this industry, you know?”

“You’re here because you love books, you goose,” Elle says as we watch the digital numbers on the wall in front of us approach our floor. “And you love books about love. We all do.”

“I just don’t know if that’s enough anymore,” I mumble. Elle puts a hand on my shoulder and pouts. “It’s hard to be passionate about books about love when you haven’t felt it in so long.”

“You mean you weren’t in love with that Uber driver you went out with last month?”

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