Page 171 of The Rom-Commers

DID CHARLIE ANDI wind up going to the Olympics for line dancing and taking the gold for the USA?

Well, since there is no line dancing at the Olympics, and since it’s much more cooperative than competitive, and since it’s not exactly a thing you can win—unless you count justbeing thereas winning—and since I just recently pulled a muscle while executing a sailor step into a coaster step…

Not exactly.

But we did keep going to lessons.

Though, in an effort to minimize any and all six-foot cowboys, we signed up at the senior center nearby, where eighty-year-olds dancedcircles around us. The instructor herself was eighty-six—and still going strong in a pair of red rhinestone boots and a fringe jacket. We went every week, faithfully. Charlie was universally adored, and I was routinely pitied—but with a warmth and compassion that made it okay.

“Oh, sweetheart,” they’d say. “That’s not a rumba step.”

And then they’d show me. Again.

It’s fine. A little humiliation gets you laughing like nothing else can.

And I have begun to masterrightversusleft.

And, for the record, I never mind having a reason to bump into Charlie.

DID CHARLIE ANDI keep writing together? We did.

And did writing “lady movies” tank Charlie’s career, as Jablowmie had prophesized? Would Charlie have been better off lending his talents to the string-bikini reboot ofBeer Tower III—or whatever project T.J. was meeting Donna Cole about at the coffee shop that day? A project she declined to work on, by the way. Which wasn’t my fault—though T.J. still insists that it was.

“You sabotaged me,” he said in a lowered voice the last time I saw him at an awards show—just as Charlie broke in with “You sabotaged yourself,” and steered me off to visit with someone else.

I won’t name-drop who thesomeone elsewas…

But let’s just say her name rhymes with Sheryl Sheep.

Was that enough comeuppance for T.J.? Not getting what he wantedone time?

Probably not. But it’s a start.

If you’re wondering howThe Rom-Commersdid, I’ll let the legendary box office numbers answer that. And all the headlines that included the term “surprise blockbuster.” And also that piece inThe Atlantic, “How Charlie Yates and His Writing Partner Are Resuscitating the Rom-com.” True, my name is missing from the headline. But the full-page photo is of me, filling up most of the frame, with my curly hair puffed out to maximum dramatic capacity by a makeup artist who alsodoes shoots forVogueand who made me look a thousand percent cooler than I am in real life. And Charlie, in profile and half out of frame, gazes at me admiringly.

When I saw the photo, I said, “This is the only time I’ve ever liked my hair.”

And Charlie said, “That’s okay. I like it enough for both of us.”

Also: During the interview for that piece, Charlie deferred to me at every question, and then, when the writer turned for his response, just nodded and said, “What she said.” Every time. Making sure, in his friendly way, that I was quoted—heavily.

All to say: Charlie’s doing just fine.

As am I.

I did eventually give in and marry Charlie, by the way. And I did transfer my mug collection to his mansion. But I am still, to this day, not allowed to touch the coffee maker.

AND THAT’S HOWthis story comes to an end: with a total of not one, not two, but three weddings.

Do you have to get married in life to be happy? Of course not.

But it’s certainly one way to go.

My dad got certified as a reverend online for thirty-five dollars, insisted we all start calling him Reverend Dad, and then served as our officiant. We all gathered once again in the community garden, surrounded by a bumper crop of Mitsuko’s dragon’s egg cucumbers—just a year to the week after my dad’s own wedding in the same spot.

I carried a bouquet of marigolds, which were my mom’s favorite flower, and which the lovely Mitsuko had planted and grown in anticipation of the big day. We also pinned them to the guys’ white guayabera shirts—it was far too hot in June for jackets—as boutonnieres.

This time, in his official capacity, my dad had some things to say. Leaning on his walker, he told us the smartest thing he knew about being married:

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