Page 100 of The Rom-Commers

Charlie thought about it. “Yeah. I guess that’s right.”

“So…” I said, still processing. “This teenager is married to the directing legend and very middle-aged Chris Heywood, but she’s also sleeping with this evenmoremiddle-aged executive who wants to make your Mafia thing—at the same time?”

Charlie nodded. “That’s pretty much it.”

“And everybody’s fine with it?”

“As fine as it gets in this town.”

I nodded. “She must be a hell of a multitasker.”

“So that’s the hesitation,” Charlie said. “It’s possible T.J. might show up at the meeting.”

“Ah,” I said. And suddenly, Charlie was right. I didn’t need to stay. “But why do you have to meet in person? Can’t you just email?”

Charlie shrugged. “She wants to come by the house,” he said, like that was that.

It bothered me. A lot. “She’s not going to try to seduce you, is she?”

“What!” The very notion prompted a coughing fit. “No!” When herecovered, Charlie said, “Turn off your brain, and go down to the coffee shop. Maybe you’ll run into Spielberg.”

The first time I’d ever gone there, Charlie had said, “That place is crawling with industry people,” and every time I’d gone since, I’d expected to see somebody,anybody.

It had become a little joke. “Who’d you see?” Charlie would say whenever I came home.

“Alfred Hitchcock,” I’d say. Or Robert Altman. Or Fellini.

And we were so deadpan, we didn’t even laugh.

In truth, I’d never seen even one industry person there—and I’d wondered if Charlie had made it all up.

But it turned out, Charlie was right.

That day, while Charlie was hobnobbing with Mistress Jablowmie—and possibly even Teej himself—and I was at the café, working on my laptop and quietly demolishing a banana muffin, who should walk in but the reigning queen of all industry people… the one and only Donna Cole.

I’m not kidding. Donna Cole!

Donna Cole. Director ofTime of My Life. AndThe Lovers. AndCan’t Win for Losing.

Donna Cole, whose most famous wise quote—“The most vital thing you can learn to do is tell your own story”—was the centerpiece of my vision board back home. Right next to the iconic red carpet photo of her in a white Wayman + Micah gown with her natural Afro high and bold and stunning like she was the patron saint of fashion and wisdom and rom-coms all rolled into one.

I’d loved her so long—and so madly—from afar.

And now here she was. Up close.

Very up close.

So up close that I stopped breathing when I saw her and didn’t remember to start up again until I began to feel woozy.

To be honest, my number one fantasy about coming to LA was that I might run into her by pure, nonstalkery accident, get to pleasantly chatting, give her the elevator pitch forThe Accidental Mermaid, andthen, when she looked intrigued, just happen to have a copy of it in my bag.

This is a common fantasy for aspiring screenwriters on the outside of the industry: running into their own personal Spielberg by accident. Common, but also impossible. A moment like that would absolutely never happen.

But… what if it did?

It wouldn’t. It couldn’t.

But that didn’t mean I hadn’t carried a copy of that ninety-three-page script in my backpack with me everywhere I went ever since the day I’d finished it—just in case it happened anyway. Like impossible things were more than welcome to do.

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