Page 44 of The Rom-Commers

But Logan shook his head. “No you won’t.”

“Why not?” I said, likeDon’t tell me what to obsess over.

“She gets run over by a bus in the end.”

I made a growl of disapproval. “How do you know that?”

“The writer’s a client.”

“Great. Then can you please ask that person tonot kill off Meryl Streep?”

“He says it’s more realistic.”

“Really?”I demanded. “How many people do you know who’ve been run over by a bus?”

That’s when Charlie piped up. “Anyway, it’s not a romance.”

“What?” Logan said.

Charlie nodded, likeYeah. “Learned that yesterday,” he said, cocking his head at me. Then, looking mischievous, he said, “It’s not a romance unless everyone has an orgasm.”

“That’s not—” I started.

But Logan said, “Oh, I think that movie’s got plenty of orgasms.”

“If you don’t have ahappy ending,” I corrected. Then I felt the need to stress: “Anemotionallyhappy ending.” How was this conversation happening? To be extra clear: “An ending with the couple happily together. And Meryl Streep alive and well.”

“How old is Meryl Streep, anyway?” Logan pondered.

I sat up straighter and declared, “She is timeless.”

“The point is,” Charlie said, “if you murder Meryl Streep, it can’t be a romance—orgasms or no.”

Logan frowned, likeHuh.Then he turned my way. “I’ll adjust my terminology. What is it, if not a romance?”

Were they teasing me? Either way, I stayed focused. “It’s a tragic love story. Or a tragic erotic journey. You’ve got to warn people, so they know what they’re getting going in.”

“Real life doesn’t come with warnings,” Logan argued, half-assedly.

“That’s why fiction,” I said, “isbetterthan real life.”

We clinked brunch cocktails to that.

But just as we did, just as I was feeling a little bit valuable in the conversation, a guy in a backward baseball cap walked up to our table holding a Bloody Mary and raised it in a toast as he said, “Lo! Gan!” and then sloshed half a glass of tomato juice onto the white tablecloth.

Logan and Charlie glanced at each other, and somehow in that second, just from the vibe—and the backward baseball cap—I guessed who it was.

“Is this the girl?” Baseball Cap asked no one in particular, gesturing at me with that drink.

What was I?Ten years old?I waited for someone—Charlie? Logan? A waitress passing by?—to correct him with “woman,” but no one did.

Not even me.

Next, he leaned in my direction. “You must be Logan’s ex-girlfriend.”

So I said, “You must be Jablowmie.”

It was meant to be insulting, but he grinned. He swilled his drink, and then he raised the empty glass in another toast.

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