Page 40 of The Rom-Commers

“What do I need to do to get you to stay?”

And so I looked deep into his eyes and quoted Charlie back to Charlie: “I just need to do something I’m proud of.”

To my surprise, that landed. Charlie blinked. “Fine.” Then he started nodding. “Fine. Okay. You want to write it for real? We’ll write it for real.”

“I don’t want to write it for real, Charlie. I want to go home.”

“Name your terms,” Charlie said then.

“What?”

“Anything. However you want to do it—that’s how we’ll do it.”

I let out a long sigh. “Why are you doing this, Charlie?”

Charlie squared his shoulders like he was steeling himself to say something true. “Because last night, when I was reading your stuff, I wanted to work with you. And I haven’t wanted anything—anythingat all—in a very, very long time.”

Ten

THE UBER DRIVERhad just left us behind in Charlie’s driveway when my phone rang.

It was my dad and Sylvie on FaceTime.

My first thought wasn’t even a thought. It was just a stomach flip.

Did she give him the wrong medicine? Did he have a drop attack? Did he catch his walker on the carpet fringe again?

I answered right there in the yard, forgetting both my bags at my feet and Charlie standing beside me.

But as soon as the call started, it was just ordinary: my dad and Sylvie, heads together to squeeze into the frame, my dad playing “Good Morning” on the tin whistle, and Sylvie shaking his maraca as she sang the lyrics.

Panic gave way to relief, and I was so happy to see their faces that by the time the song ended, my dad leaned closer to peer at me, saying, “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

Oh, god—was I crying?

I touched my face. It was wet.

“Nothing!” I said, smacking at my cheeks. “I’m just happy to see you.”

I forced a big smile.

Nothing was technically wrong, right now, after all.

“And is that your writer?” my dad asked, pointing through the camera.

“Dad,”I said, likeCome on. He wasn’tmywriter.

But as I turned, I saw that Charlie was closer than I’d realized, and as he shifted his attention to my dad’s face on the phone screen, I realized what he was shifting itfromwas me.

Had he been watching me cry?

Bad to worse.

“Hello, sir,” Charlie said, flipping his charm switch. “I’m so happy to be working with your daughter. She’s a heck of a writer.”

“Well, she certainly thinks the same about you,” my dad said, “judging from all the”—he frowned at Sylvie—“what do they call it?” Then he remembered: “Fangirling.”

“Dad!” I protested.

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