Page 166 of The Rom-Commers

“I, apparently…” Charlie said, taking in another deep breath, “had bronchitis three weeks ago.”

The crowd burst into laughter and applause, like this had to be a punch line. And Charlie was laughing, too—but he also kept frowning and wiping at his eyes like he was still quite shaken.

“To be clear,” Charlie went on, “up until three minutes ago, I thought I had metastatic lung cancer.”

A murmur from the crowd as the laughter receded.

And then, still watching, a bit hypnotized by everything that was happening in front of me, I took a few steps toward him down that center aisle.

“But it was just bronchitis,” Charlie said next, shaking his head. “And now it’s already gone. Hell of a twist.”

The room chuckled. I took a few more steps.

“Turns out,” Charlie went on, “on a screening test, it’s hard to tell the difference between a ‘concerning mass’ in your lungs and plain old everyday congestion. That’s the news I just got. Better imaging gives a much clearer picture. But my second test with better imaging got postponed because, like a genius, I went to Texas, instead. I skipped my follow-up. Which was worth it, by the way.”

He nodded as he thought about it.

“Bronchitis,” he said next, shaking his head. “I’m not dying, after all.”

Charlie took a deep, five-point-five-second breath.

“And now I can’t even remember why I’m up on this stage. Or what I was talking about. Was it about how we should tell ourselves better stories about who we are? About how we shouldn’t rob ourselves of hope and possibility? About how light matters just as much as darkness—maybe more? Or was I maybe just rambling on about Emma Wheeler? Because, honestly, she’s—”

Right then, I stepped into the reflected stage lights—close enough that he could see me.

Our eyes met.

And Charlie lost his train of thought.

Charlie just stood there staring down at me, and I just stood there staring up right back.

“Because, honestly, she’s…” he tried again, quieter, like he wasn’t even listening to himself anymore—his eyes fixed on me like I might disappear.

“Because,” he tried again, “honestly, unless I’m hallucinating right now… she’s here in this room.”

The crowd all craned to look.

“Are you really here?” Charlie asked into the mic then, his voice low and private, like we were the only two people around.

I nodded.

And then Charlie looked up and seemed to remember where he was. He lifted his award statuette off the podium. And then he said, without pauses or punctuation, “Thank you for this incredible award I’m more honored than I can say and I’ll never forget this night.”

Then he walked straight to the front of the stage, and, without ever taking his eyes off me, he jumped right down.

It took him about ten strides to reach me, and when he got there, he let his award hang forgotten in one hand, like the coolest of cool guys.

The whole room was watching, and now flashes were going off.

I glanced down at the award. “Another award for the drawer?”

But Charlie, never taking his eyes off mine, shook his head. “There is no more awards drawer.”

I waited for clarification.

“I took them all out, one by one, and polished them, and apologized to them, and put them on a shelf, like a person determined to be grateful for his blessings. And I even glued the angel’s broken wing back on.”

I kept my face deadpan. “The Women’s Film Critics Association will be very pleased.”

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