Page 68 of The Rom-Commers

“Perfect,” Sylvie said.

Then, after a pause, to change the subject, she said, “I liked meeting your writer in real life yesterday.”

“FaceTime is not real life,” I said.

“It’s close enough.”

“And he’s not my writer, either,” I said.

But Sylvie ignored that. “He’s cute!” she said. “You should marry him and have little writer babies.”

“Sylvie!”

“They could smoke little pipes and wear tweed jackets and talk about metaphors.”

“Sylvie—”

“I just liked his vibe, you know? And there’s something about his face. A warmth. The way his eyes crinkle up at the corners.”

“Sylvie, we are coworkers. Please do not mentally matchmake us.”

“Too late,” Sylvie said.

Now Sylvie lay back on her pillow. “Tell me about Hollywood,” she said then.

“It’s been…” I said, finally settling on, “a journey.”

Then I filled her in on everything: Charlie not knowing I was coming, then not hiring me, thentaking noteswhile I ripped his screenplay to shreds, then reading my stuff and accidentally liking it, then hiring me—but not exactly for real. I took her through every twist and turn, ending with the grand climax of shaking Jack Stapleton’s hand and then holding my own hand up to the phone for proof. Sylvie frowned and gasped and cheered about all of it—and when we got to the hand part, she said, “You need to get a palm tattoo that says ‘Jack Stapleton was here.’”

“Great idea,” I said.

Next question: “What’s it like living in Charlie Yates’s mansion?”

I thought about it. “Quiet,” I said. “Kind of lonely, maybe? I’m not used to all this space. And luxury. It’s like a hotel. I had to put on a background podcast just to fall asleep.”

“Tell me you’re not homesick.”

“I think I am a little,” I said. “No one sings show tunes here. Or plays the zither. Or reads out loud like a human audiobook to entertain me while I make dinner. The kitchen in this house looks like it’s never even been touched. It’s like a model kitchen in a showroom. It’s not…” I searched for a good word, and ultimately selected “fun.”

“Maybe you’ll just have to make your own fun,” Sylvie said.

“Writing the screenplay will be fun,” I said—but then I stopped. “Or a nightmare. I’m not actually sure which.”

“How could writing a script with your favorite writer be a nightmare?” Sylvie asked.

“Well,” I said, “it’s looking like he’s one of those guys who doesn’t believe in love.”

“Ugh,” Sylvie said.

“And based on everything I can gather, before we even have a shot at writing something decent, I have to force him to take line-dancing lessons, cure him of his water phobia, and convince him that human connection actually matters.”

“Piece of cake,” Sylvie said.

“All,” I added, “without his consent.”

“You were born to do this,” Sylvie said.

“Was I?”

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