Page 1 of The Rom-Commers

One

LOGAN SCOTT CALLEDjust as I was making dinner, and I almost didn’t answer because my dad and I were singing along to ABBA’s greatest hits. There were not too many people I’d interrupt ABBA for—but yes, fine, Logan Scott was one of them.

Logan was my former high school boyfriend, who still felt guilty about the way we broke up, and he dealt with that guilt by sending me job opportunities.

Not the worst way to handle it.

It was the penance he paid for his unscathed life.

Though nobody’s life is truly unscathed, I guess.

Hisless-scathed life, maybe.

He was a manager. In Hollywood. For screenwriters. A very glamorous job.

Technically, he wasmymanager—although I’d never made him any money. I was kind of like his pro bono case.

It was fine, he always insisted. I’d pay off eventually.

I’d placed in two different screenwriting contests because Logan insisted I submit. He got me in the door freelancing forVariety. Andall those movie reviews I got paid minimum wage to do? Courtesy of him.

He just kept sending me work.

I told him to stop feeling guilty. I was fine. But I didn’t exactly mean it. Not if that guilt of his was going to keep paying my bills.

Some of them, anyway.

All to say, on this particular night, Logan had a doozy of an offer for me.

“Emma,” he said. “I’m going to need you to sit down.”

“I’m flipping pancakes-for-dinner right now,” I said. My sister, Sylvie, was coming home from college, so I was making her favorite meal.

“You will definitely drop them all when you hear this,” Logan said, like he’d pictured mejugglingpancakes instead.

I covered the in-progress stack with foil, turned off the music, and gave my dad a “one minute” finger from across the room.

My dad nodded and gave a hearty thumbs-up, likeDo whatever you need to do.

“I’m ready,” I said to Logan.

“Are you literally sitting down?”

“No.”

“I’m not kidding. You need to do that.”

I walked to our dining-slash-breakfast table and sat down at my already-set place. “Okay,” I said. “I’m literally sitting.”

“I have a job for you…” Logan said then, pausing for effect.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

“Writing a feature film script…” he went on, stretching out the moment.

“Sold,” I said, likeMoving on.

And then he got to his grand finale: “With Charlie Yates.”

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