The Rom-Commers

Chapter Four

DON’T MEET YOURheroes. Isn’t that what they say?

Oh, god. They’re so right.

Logan picked me up at LAX in his BMW SUV with a vanity plate that read KILL N IT. Which felt very LA.

Although apparently nobody ever picks anybody up at LAX.

I know this because it’s the first thing Logan said to me as I got in the car. “I hope you’re grateful,” he said.

I was late to meet him because my enormous suitcase had gotten caught on the conveyor belt at baggage claim, and my carry-on bag had a broken wheel that dragged and squeaked like it was begging for mercy and slowed me down. Also because I’d stood so long in the airport bathroom trying to wrangle my curly red hair into something, um, less curly and red that I lost track of time.

I didn’t hate my hair or anything. It was just… a lot.

It was the first—and last—thing you noticed about me. As my friend Maria once said about having curly hair: You don’t control it. It controls you.

In the end I settled for the same thing I did with my hair every day: pulling it back into a high ponytail that looked like a pom-pom and calling it a day. The other option was to leave it down—flowing out of my head like lava. But I had to consider poor Charlie Yates. That would be a lot to take in at a first meeting. Visually.

I didn’t want to frighten the poor man.

I overthought my outfit, too, for the record. Jeans, and Converse low-tops, and a little boatneck printed blouse. Was this too casual? Too cutesy? Not badass enough? Should I maybe put on a gunmetal-gray suit and some aviator shades? How did one even dress for meeting the best screenwriter on the planet?

Logan, in contrast, knew exactly how to dress—a perfectly tailored suit so crisply pressed I was almost afraid to hug him. It was the first time I’d seen him anywhere but an occasional FaceTime in eight years, but he looked exactly the same.

“You haven’t changed at all,” I said as we buckled up.

“Are you kidding? I’m way cooler.” Then he looked me over. “You’re the one who hasn’t changed.”

So what if I was wearing the same hoop earrings I’d worn at my high school graduation? They were sterling silver.

I thought we might stop for lunch, or coffee, but Logan drove straight for Charlie Yates’s house in the Hollywood Hills—no stopping allowed.

Guess this was happening.

“Hope you peed at the airport,” Logan said, in a tone like No turning back now.

“Like a racehorse,” I said, in a tone that I hoped said, Bring it on.

Yes, Logan and I had dated in high school—but we’d always been friends first. His very dashing father—American, and Black, and from Atlanta—had met his elegant mother—British, and white, and a TV producer—while working as a war correspondent overseas. Logan was raised mostly in London until his dad got a job as a nightly news anchor in Houston, and he showed up as the new kid at my high school.

We bonded because we were the only two students in our English class who thought Robert Frost’s poem “After Apple-Picking” had to be about sex.

Also—even though he was tall and I was not, and even though he had a posh British accent and I just sounded like a plain old American teenager, and even though his complexion was a warm beige and mine was so pale and befreckled that a guy in my photography class kept squinting at me and saying he wished he could add some contrast… we had the exact same color hazel eyes.

Exactly the same.

And so we started telling people we were twins.

“Not identical twins, obviously,” we’d say.

This game was so fun, and we got so good at it, sometimes people believed us. If they pointed out our obvious genetic dissimilarities, I’d say, “Genetics are complicated. Deal with it.” And then Logan would add, “The eyes don’t lie.”

If a genius noted that one of us talked like the royal family and one did not, I’d wince as if pained by a cruel memory and say, “We were separated as infants in a tragic Parent Trap situation.” And then Logan would lean in and say, “Please don’t trigger her any further.”

Our specialty was getting double free birthday desserts at restaurants.

Logan’s family moved away after high school when his dad got an anchor job on the national nightly news—that’s right: Logan’s dad is Malcolm Scott—and Logan went on to graduate from Stanford and then seamlessly transition into a wildly successful career.

He didn’t have to stay in touch with me, is what I’m saying. Me, stuck at home and not transitioning into a wildly successful anything.

But he did.

And, now, having not seen him in person since the night before he left for his freshman year of college—when he broke up with me, claiming, and I quote, “We both need some freedom”—I suddenly felt nervous.

He’d lived a whole lifetime since then—most notably, coming out in college, and calling me proudly to declare that I was the last girl he would ever date.

“I’m honored,” I said.

“Right? Exactly. No woman will ever replace you.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what Logan’s life was like these days, but I assumed it was full of awesome parties and awesome food and awesome people. So I was highly surprised when a decidedly not awesome guy named T.J. called on speaker before we’d even left the airport grounds.

“Lo! Gan!” This guy T.J.’s voice boomed, seeming to rattle the interior of the car. “What’s up? Did you pick up that girl?”

“I have her here.”

“Don’t tell her she’s a career-killer,” T.J. said.

I frowned at Logan.

“T.J.,” Logan said, “you’re on speaker.”

“I am?” A pause. “That’s fine. I’ll own it. The last thing the great Charlie Yates needs to do right now is to siphon off all his testosterone and write lady movies with the girls.”

Logan poked at the controls on his dash and said, “You know what? I’ll call you back.”

But before he could hang up, T.J. added, “And by the way, this job should have gone to someone who’s actually had some work produced.”

“Bad connection!” Logan said, as he hit END.

Then a long silence as the seams in the concrete moved rhythmically under the tires.

Finally, I said, “That felt a little hostile.”

“He’s not even supposed to know about you. But my assistant has a thing for him.”

“A screenwriter, I presume?”

Logan nodded. “He wrote and directed Beer Tower. And Beer Tower II: The Reckoning.”

I’d never heard of either of those movies.

“They were huge on YouTube,” Logan said.

“Were they… good?”

“Hell, no!” Logan said. “But he synthesized a ton of horizontal integration. The sponsorship from Solo Cups alone put it in the black.”

“How have I never heard of this movie?”

“You’re not exactly the target audience.”

“Did he want the Charlie Yates job for himself?” I asked.

“Can you blame him?”

“He just seemed douchey.”

“He’s not used to not getting things.”

“Why is that again?” I asked.

“Because he’s third-generation Hollywood royalty. And he’s ridiculously well-connected. And Beer Tower made ten million dollars—before Beer Tower II made twenty.”

“And he just randomly calls you?”

“He’s just one of those people who’s everywhere.”

Logan was acting cool, but it was a strange welcome to LA. I’d barely left the airport and I already had an enemy.

Another little pause before Logan said, “You’ll never see him. Charlie can’t stand that guy. He’s a total dude-bro.”

“But he’s your client?”

“He’s everything that’s wrong with the world,” Logan said. “But, yes. He’s my client.”

BIT OF Arocky start there.

But here was the bigger, more important picture: I had a job working for Charlie Yates—whether dude-bro T.J. liked it or not—and I was absolutely, undeniably on my way to Charlie Yates’s house right now.

I’d never thought of Charlie Yates as even having a house before. I assumed he just lived in some kind of ethereal writing-god plane.

“It’s not exactly a house,” Logan said. “More like a mansion. The exterior was featured in a Nancy Meyers movie.”

Why did that make it scarier?

“Maybe we should stop by the hotel first,” I said.

“What hotel?”

“Am I not staying in a hotel?”

“Can you afford to stay in a hotel for six weeks?”

Wow. I clearly hadn’t thought this through. “Am I staying at your place, then?”

Logan burst out laughing at that and then explained his husband, Nico, ran his own knitting-classes-to-the-stars micro-empire called Knit Bitch out of the guest room in their multimillion-dollar cottage in Santa Monica… and had filled all available space in their home with yarn.

Guess not.

“Where will I be staying, then?”

Logan shrugged. “With Charlie.”

Like a reflex: “Charlie who?”

“Yates,” Logan said, like Duh.

With Charlie Yates?I shook my head. “I’m sorry. Wait. I’m going to be living with Charlie Yates?”

“Staying with,” Logan corrected, like that was different.

“This is way too close for comfort,” I said.

“You’ll never even see him,” Logan said. “He’s got, like, five guest rooms.” He glanced over at my stricken face. “It’s basically a resort.”

How had I missed this basic information? Was I so starry-eyed at the prospect of going to Hollywood that I couldn’t think straight?

“What other details haven’t you mentioned?” I asked as Logan zoomed us through traffic like the other cars were slalom poles.

“Just go with it,” Logan said. “Details are overrated.”

Were they?

Logan glanced over. “You look a little green,” he said.

“I’m out of practice with adventure,” I said. “And you’re a terrible driver.”

“Being a terrible driver is a power move,” Logan said. Then, from his place of power, he added, “Do you want some advice?”

“Not really.”

“Don’t sleep with Charlie.”

“Don’t sleep with Charlie?!” I shrieked, like the idea had never crossed my mind.

“I know you have a writer crush,” Logan said. “But keep it at that.”

“Are you insane?”

“You’ve got a photo of him on your bulletin board.”

“I’ve got a photo of Kurt Vonnegut on my bulletin board, too.”

“I’m not concerned about Vonnegut.”

“Yeah. Since he’s dead.”

“Since you’re not moving into his house.”

“Well, whose fault is that?”

“I’m very pro the professional partnership,” Logan clarified. “But I’m very anti anything more.”

“Why are we even having this conversation?”

“You’re lonely. He’s lonely. It’s like an incubator for fornicating.”

“You’re the one who set this up. I’d be perfectly happy to stay literally anywhere else.”

“You’ll write better in the house,” Logan said.

I gave him a look. “As long as I don’t fornicate,” I added.

“Exactly!”

I was still a little motion-sick from the turbulence we hit during landing—and Logan’s NASCAR-inspired driving wasn’t helping. I hadn’t eaten all day—or yesterday, for that matter—and I hadn’t slept well the night before. I still had that heart-thumping thing going on inside my rib cage. Needless to say, this little fornication-themed heart-to-heart wasn’t helping.

“All I’m saying,” Logan said, “is don’t even think about it.”

“I wasn’t thinking about it—until you got me thinking about it. Now I’m thinking about it.”

“Stop complaining,” Logan said. “I’m helping you.”

“You’re freaking me out.”

“It’s better if you’re prepared,” Logan said.

“Maybe you should stop talking now.”

But Logan went on. “He’s terrible in relationships! Why do you think his wife left him?”

He had me. “Why?”

“Because he did immersion research in Chicago for that Mafia thing, and he didn’t call her one time in three months.”

I felt an impulse to defend him. He was working! But then I said, “Okay, yeah. That’s a long time.”

Logan nodded, like we were finally on the same page. “Don’t let those corduroy trousers distract you. You are here to get in, kick-start your tragically delayed brilliant career, and get the hell back out.”