Page 26 of Falling Off Script

A few chuckles. I don’t join them.

I’ve seen that move. I’ve done that move.

“Okay. Did she have a book? Laptop? Phone?”

“She was just... waiting,” he says. “Like she didn’t need to be doing anything. That’s what got me.”

I nod. Not just to him — to the whole room. I feel them recalibrate.

“Alright,” I say, stepping forward. “Next time, here’s what you do.”

The chairs creak as they lean in. I could sell this moment for $900 a seat. But this isn’t content. This is the part I actually love.

“You don’t compliment the coat. Don’t open with a line. You notice something about the space — something you both share. The playlist. The long line. The fact that this place still sells macadamia cookies like it’s 2003.”

They laugh. Good. Still with me.

“Then you make eye contact. Real. Quick. Just enough to give her a decision.”

“She’ll either look away or smile. That’s your moment. You say one sentence. A real one.”

I pause.

“‘I was gonna get the same thing. Now I have to pretend I wasn’t.’”

Someone mutters “that’s good” like it’s sacred text. One guy nods like I just unlocked the Matrix.

“Then you walk away. Pay for your drink. Sit somewhere visible. If she’s interested? She’ll make herself approachable. If she’s not? You didn’t lose anything. But you showed up.”

I look back at Matt.

He’s listening harder than most people ever do.

“You weren’t afraid of her, man,” I say. “You were afraid of being seen by someone who might matter.”

I let it hang.

That silence? That’s the new edge.

“And that’s the game now. That’s the only one left worth playing.”

***

Most of the guys are gone, still buzzing about the playlist and how that macadamia cookie line landed. A few fist bumps. One guy asked if eye contact counts if you’re wearing sunglasses. It does not.

I’m packing up the notes I didn’t look at once when I notice Matt — still standing near the coffee urn like it might pour him courage if he stares hard enough.

“Something still cooking?” I ask without looking up.

“I, uh... yeah. Just...”

I glance over. He’s got that look — post-breakthrough vulnerability mixed with decision paralysis.

“Are you still thinking about the scarf girl?”

He shrugs, sheepish.

“You think I should go back there?”

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