Page 15 of The Rom-Commers

“Because he did immersion research in Chicago for that Mafia thing, and he didn’t call her one time in three months.”

I felt an impulse to defend him.He was working!But then I said, “Okay, yeah. That’s a long time.”

Logan nodded, like we were finally on the same page. “Don’t let those corduroy trousers distract you. You are here to get in, kick-start your tragically delayed brilliant career, and get the hell back out.”

Five

YES, CHARLIE YATES’Shouse was an Old Hollywood–style mansion-slash-villa-slash-estate on a switchbacky road packed with mansions just behind Sunset Boulevard.Of course he lives in a dream house, I thought, as we stopped out front and Logan yanked up the parking brake. He was living the dream. And that’s what the dream looked like.

After we parked, I dallied: I put on fresh lipstick, patted down my pom-pom, and pulled out a little mirror to spot-check—one more time—for pepper in my teeth. Even though I hadn’t eaten any pepper today. That I knew of.

I’d already done all these things in the airport bathroom, but, dammit, I did them again.

I was about to stand before Charlie Yates.

I was about to come into contact with genuine greatness.

It wouldn’t have entirely surprised me to find a throne in his living room.

I’d watched every video of him on the internet—most of them on stages at screenwriting festivals in front of adoring audiences—and practically memorized his remarks on structure, character arcs, andhow to keep the mushy middle from sagging. I’d seen his face. I knew his voice. I knew that he was thirty-five, and a Gemini, and slightly duckfooted, and had an unwavering affection for flat-front, wide-wale corduroy pants. And while no one would accuse him of being movie-star good-looking, he had a kind of disheveled, no-rules, maverick appeal that I couldn’t classify as anything other than handsome.

Also? He had a habit of grabbing the front of his hair while he was talking, and squeezing it in his fist so tightly that when he let it go, it was all pointing in another direction.

Come on. Irresistible.

It was the kind of thing I’d think about sometimes, idly, while making dinner. What was it about his face that I liked, exactly? Some hidden geometry that clicked with patterns in my brain? The plumpness of his mouth, maybe? Or the angle of his jaw? Or—and this might betray how many times I’d rewatched some of those videos—something about the shape of his nostrils? Is that a weird thing to say? That a man has appealing nostrils? But he did. Friendly, straightforward, symmetrical nostrils that kind of dimpled down a little when he was suppressing a smile.

Writers, in general, aren’t exactly the best-looking subsection of humanity. Like if aliens came down and said,Show us the most perfect physical specimens of your kind, we wouldn’t go searching for the coffee-stained writers of the world, hunched over their laptops in their basement efficiencies. The bar for writers, looks-wise, wasn’t exactly high. Charlie might be a normal person’s eight—but he was a writer’s ten, for sure. That, plus his early success—the quirky indie movie that he madein collegewas a sleeper hit and launched his career—made him a media darling. Most screenwriters? No one’s ever heard of them. But we all knew and loved Charlie Yates.

He had a perfect storm of talent, charm, and irresistible nostrils.

And I really, really hoped I would not accidentally say that out loud when I met him.

A nightmare vision of my pumping Charlie Yates’s hand and gushing, “I love your nostrils!” flashed through my mind—and then, at thefrozen horror of his expression, my trying to make it less weird by explaining: “It’s that teardrop shape they have, and how they kind of lean back against that tippy-top part of your upper lip, like they’re James Dean about to smoke a cigarette. You get it, right?”

Oh, god. I really was my own worst enemy.

Logan reached Charlie Yates’s front door while I was still wincing at that, and so there was nothing to do but drag my suitcase and carry-on through the gravel of the driveway at top speed to catch up.

As Logan knocked, I tried to settle my breathing.

God, I was nervous. Should I visualize the ocean? Try a power stance? Do a quick meditation? I tried to assess how much time I had before Charlie Yates opened that door.

But he didn’t exactly open the door. Not in the usual way, at least.

In response to Logan’s knock, the knob turned a little and then the door cracked, leaving maybe a four-inch gap. It was clear from the voice inside that Charlie was wrapping up a phone call and notansweringthe door so much as just unlocking it. So Logan held his finger up at me, like,Give me a sec, then handed me his phone and keys to hold, and slipped inside.

Leaving me standing alone on the front steps with Logan’s phone and keys, my bags, and my backpack full of favorite pens and notebooks.

Huh.

Looking back, Logan must’ve thought he shut the door behind him. But it didn’t catch. Which meant, minutes later, I was accidentally eavesdropping on their conversation through the slit at the doorjamb.

A conversation that got very dark very fast.

“Got a present for ya, buddy,” Logan said to start off, seasoning his voice with as much bro-ish camaraderie as the Queen’s English would allow.

“What do you mean, ‘a present’?” Charlie asked. His voice was more gravelly in real life than through my computer speaker.

---