Page 30 of The Rom-Commers

Charlie was assessing me. “Your color’s coming back,” he said, nodding. “Are you okay to go inside?”

I started to sit up, but he stopped me again.

“Not like that,” he said, and then I felt his arms slide under me and tighten as he rose and carried me toward the house.

I was still woozy, and the motion was a littletoo soon, so I curled against his shoulder to brace myself. My view from there was the stubble on his neck. And his square, way-too-appealing-for-a-writer jaw. And his Adam’s apple.

My eyes wanted to close, but I talked them out of it.

How many people gotthisclose to Charlie Yates’s Adam’s apple?

We walked through his front door and into a living room, where he set me down on a plush sofa.

“You leave your mansion unlocked?” I asked as he released me.

“It’s on a remote,” he said.

He turned now to other things: wedging a throw pillow under my head, and then grabbing a throw blanket off a chair, draping it over me, and heading off toward the adjacent kitchen.

I followed him with my eyes as he opened a cabinet, pulled out a glass, turned on the faucet.

He came back with the glass and knelt beside me. “The internet wants you to drink some water,” he said, and then, with a tenderness I never would have expected from the person who’d just called me a “failed nobody writer,” he worked his arm behind my shoulders to raise me up to take some sips.

“Okay?” he asked as I lay back down.

I nodded.

How long had it been since anyone had taken care of me in any situation? The last person to do it must have been my mom. Nowadays, it was me taking care of everyone else. When I got sick or hurt now, I just managed it on my own. Which I was fully capable of doing. But I’d forgotten what it felt like to be looked after. I guess I must have missed that feeling a lot—because tears kept rising to my eyes, and I kept blinking them away.

Or maybe it had just been a really long day.

LATER THAT EVENING,as I lay catatonic on the greige-colored guest bed in one of Charlie Yates’s many greige-colored guest rooms, I got a text from the man himself—across the house.

He’d ordered takeout for us, and I should come to the dining room to eat.

And so I did.

I was miserable, sure—but nowhere near miserable enough to reject dinner.

Charlie was there, seated at the table. And so was half the food in the city of Los Angeles.

Charlie saw my eyes widen at the sight. “I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he said, “so I just got it all.”

I stepped closer to the table and took it in. Sushi, sandwiches, spring rolls, samosas, pizza, pastries, fried chicken… it was all there, and then some.

Charlie was chowing down on a big plate of everything, and he’d set a place for me to do the same.

I took one butter croissant and decided to start small.

Charlie watched me chew, and then asked, after a few bites, “How do you feel? Better?”

“I’m not sure how to answer that question,” I said. Then I talked myself into a section of club sandwich, and a bit of fruit salad, and a few bites of strawberry shortcake before deciding I’d hit the wall.

Was he sneaking looks at me chewing? Was I being monitored? Did I eat like a failed screenwriter?

Just as I was thinking I’d make my escape, he said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“I guess so?” I said.

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