Page 63 of Falling Off Script

I nod. “But on-brand.”

He gives a wary chuckle. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” I say. “Think about it: one guy, one mission, one shot at real love. The raw footage alone is a case study. We build a whole series—coaching, accountability, live check-ins. Call itThe Ex Files.”

Matt blinks again, slower this time. “You want to turn my emotional spiral into a marketing asset.”

I spread my hands. “Matt, your spiral has structure. Stakes. A growth arc. And a chance at a satisfying third act. That’s practically a sales page in human form.”

He stares at me like he’s trying to decide whether to be insulted or flattered.

I add, more gently, “And hey—if she says yes, you don’t just get the girl. You become the testimonial.”

Finally, a real smile. “This is either genius or wildly unethical.”

I grin. “Why not both?”

***

The second Matt leaves, the room deflates.

Not just from his puppy-dog sincerity or the smell of stress sweat he insists is pheromonal—but from the part of me that was pretending this wasn’t a terrible idea. The door clicks shut behind him and I finally let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding, which, ironically, is something I mock people for saying.

I rake a hand through my hair and head for the bar cart. Something about coaching other people through their emotional disasters always makes me want whiskey. Coaching a guy like Matt through one? I need a fucking sedative.

The ice cubes clink like they’re judging me. I swirl the glass, take a sip, and stare at the whiteboard where “TRUST = TENSION + PRESENCE” still sits half-erased like a ghost of confidence past.

I shouldn’t have said yes.

I know that. Helping Matt win Rachel back? That’s not coaching. That’s a romcom side quest. With feelings. And the worst part is—it actually matters to him. I saw it. That stupid, hopeful look. Like love’s a group project and I just agreed to do the PowerPoint.

Jesus.

I pace, the way I do when my brain starts looking for exits. There’s gotta be someone else. Someone we can loop in who still has pull with Rachel.

Not his friends—they think she’s out of his league.

Not his exes—wrong type of testimonial.

Not his mom—although honestly, she’d probably land better.

I pause mid-step.

Emily.

Nope. Nope. Next.

I take another sip. Start pacing again.

Emily fucking Parrish.

I try a few more mental gymnastics—somebody from the podcast team? Rachel’s co-worker? A well-placed meme campaign? But it’s like trying to convince yourself you're not hungry when you can smell bacon.

It always comes back to her.

Of course it does. Because even when she’s wrong, she’s persuasive. And even when she’s playing dirty, she’s clean-cut enough that people cheer. Rachel trusts her. The audience loves her. And worst of all—she gets it. The performance of love. The way sincerity sells. The way stories shape decisions morethan facts ever could.

I sit down hard on the edge of the desk and glare at nothing. My drink sweats onto my hand. I should be furious about this. About the fact that Ineedher now. That the same woman who clipped me into oblivion on her little feminist fireside chat is now the key to my student’s redemption arc.

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