The Rom-Commers

Chapter Twenty-Five

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT—AFTERa famous writer has given you a hard pass in his dining room at the start of your writing day together?

You, uh…

You just, uh…

You just get back to work.

You nod for a few seconds, blankly, letting it all register… and then you take a long, slow walk back around to your own side of the table, sit primly in front of your own laptop, and place your fingers on your keyboard.

Did I want to storm out of the house and never come back—possibly swiping one of his drawer awards on the way out?

I did.

But I stayed. For the contract.

Going through all this and then forfeiting the money at the end would just be bad to worse. If I had to stay until the end to get paid, then I’d stay till the end to get paid.

A display of strength, if nothing else.

A decent person would prorate my pay. I’d gladly leave for 90 percent of the total. I’d give up 10 percent in a heartbeat to get out of here.

But was Charlie a decent person?

I honestly wasn’t sure. About anything.

Three more days. We had three days and a good chunk of Act Three left before we were done. I wouldn’t leave. I’d finish my work here like a non-crazy professional, and then coolly collect my check and go home.

The best thing to do after a person flat-out rejects you is, of course, to never, ever see that person again. But since that wasn’t an option, I had to figure out how to cope.

With Charlie “Bad Call” Yates.

It was the imbalance I hated: we both now knew for sure that I thought he was special, and desirable, and lovable—and that he did not feel those things about me. Lots of people didn’t think those things about me, I pep-talked myself, and it was fine. And I’d had unrequited crushes before, too, and survived them. But it was the combination that was so lethal. Him knowing that I liked him—and still not liking me back.

Charlie had rejected me—and that was a fact. Nothing could change that.

But how I responded to it? That was my choice.

I could let it totally destroy me—sit across the table all day, staring forlornly at Charlie with tears dripping off my face. Or I could pretend it wasn’t a big deal.

It was a big deal.

To me, anyway.

But if the last ten years had taught me anything about myself, it was that I could survive anything. Or at least—I could survive being rejected by a man who couldn’t remember what love felt like.

But how was I supposed to work like that?

That was the question I couldn’t answer. How could I think about dialogue and commas and character arcs now? How could anything going on with imaginary people even compare to the humiliation that had suffused my entire emotional landscape like a fog? And how, exactly, was I supposed to craft the last thing on my to-do list for the screenplay: the happy frigging ending?

I’m glad you asked, because I googled it, and now I have many tips for how to transition from a soul-crushing rejection right on over to a productive writing day with a coworker: Make eye contact, because that’s what alphas do. Stand up tall, because it summons a sense of pride. Keep your movements simple and direct to show that you aren’t flustered. Lift your eyebrows so you look unconcerned. Take deep breaths because they inflate your chest and hide your collapsing soul.

I wrote down a cryptic list to remind myself: Stand up. Lift. Breathe. Inflate.

And then, past the crux of it, I gave quiet thanks for how disappointment so easily gives rise to contempt.

Really? This guy?

I snuck a look at him as we got to work. His hair part was all zigzaggy, like no one ever taught him how to do that. His collar was half-flipped, he’d missed a button, and that Oxford was redefining the maximum limits of rumpled. And while I’d always seen Charlie’s can’t-be-bothered-to-do-laundry vibe before as proof positive that he got to make his own rules, today it just seemed pathetic. Really, dude? You’re in your thirties and you can’t iron a shirt? Also—his shoe was untied, his fingernails were chewed, and he’d never learned to type. For real. He hunted and pecked. Remarkably quickly, but still: If you’re going to be a writer, shouldn’t you at least learn to type? Wasn’t that the bare minimum?

See? He wasn’t so great.

I was fine.

This was freeing, in a way.

I could go home with no attachments when this was all over and return to all the many, many delightful activities I did back at home.

Whatever they were.

Maybe I’d take up line dancing for real and astonish us all by getting so good that I went to the Olympics.

Did they have an Olympics for line dancing?

Maybe I’d start one.

Point being: only three more days.

Be strong, I told myself. You’re fine.

But my eyes betrayed me. Every other part of my body was being utterly obedient: my body was neat and composed, my fingers were typing busily—even if only the asdf jkl; keys over and over—and my heart was trudging along numbly but steadily. Only my rebellious eyes were acting out—so much that I had to pretend to sneeze over and over so I could wipe them.

“Allergies,” I told Charlie.

“The worst,” Charlie agreed.

Eyebrows up. Sit tall. Deep breath.

Don’t collapse. Don’t collapse. Don’t collapse.

WE WORKED ALLday, and after a while, in that way that stories can save you—it started tugging me along like a little paper boat in a stream. The pull of that familiar current helped a lot.

Here’s another tip for being okay when trapped in a small space with the man who rejected you: Play loud music in your earbuds like an angry teenager.

Loud, cool music—because you are a cool person and no guy who doesn’t appreciate you can touch that.

I had a playlist called “Coolness,” in fact, and I just let it rip. The bands were cool, the songs were cool, I was cool for listening to it—and Charlie Yates could go to hell.

Needless to say, there was not much reading aloud of dialogue today.

No sharing snacks, no chatting, no collaborating.

I never took my headphones out—worked for six straight hours without touching them. Even wore them to the bathroom.

As we worked, I vacillated over whether or not to cancel the dinner I’d promised to cook Charlie—tonight—for his five-year-iversary of being cancer-free.

On the one hand, why on earth should I cook for him? I should leave him alone with his meat bags and go out to a fancy restaurant by myself.

But on the other hand: I was a very good cook. Reminding Charlie of all the endless culinary delights he’d given up by having no interest in me seemed like a good idea.

Also: he was officially cured of cancer. That was bigger than my feelings about some petty rejection. Whatever Charlie Yates might mean to me personally in this moment—I could appreciate the bigger picture of what he meant to the world in general.

Yes, I detested him. But I was still glad he was alive.

Maybe “glad” was a bit strong.

I broadly supported the concept of him continuing to exist.

Also? Sylvie really had FedExed her tropical-print spaghetti-strap maxi dress and her strappy sandals to Charlie Yates’s mansion. The package arrived while we were working, along with a note from Sylvie with no greeting or signature that said, simply: “Make him regret he was ever born.”

I liked the look of those words.

I liked them so much, they answered my question for me.

I’d make Charlie dinner tonight, and I’d wear that crazy tropical dress, and I’d celebrate his good health like a virtuous person, and I’d save face at last by cooking something so delicious, it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

And through it all?

I would wear that dress.

WHEN CHARLIE HEADEDout in the late afternoon, I was so relieved that I didn’t ask him where he was going because I officially didn’t care.

Nor did I check in with him about what time he’d be back.

Yes. Objectively, on a night when you’re cooking dinner for someone, it is helpful to know what time that dinner should be served.

But asking seemed… needy.

Who cared, right? Whatever.

We usually ate around seven, so I just planned for that.

I went to the store alone and bought the ingredients for a beef Wellington—which was, everyone in my family at home agreed, the most mouthwatering, buttery, comforting, life-altering entrée in my very large repertoire—as well as vegetables for roasting and a bottle of real champagne from the actual French region of Champagne.

Also, I abandoned the doughnuts-for-dessert concept—trading it out for a snazzy lemon and rosemary tart, instead.

While the beef Wellington was in the oven, I dressed with a distinct getting ready for prom energy. I even googled a tutorial for an “Inside-Out Ponytail Updo” and tried to wrangle my hair into submission. I FaceTimed Sylvie so she could walk me through the process of putting on eye shadow—and voilà: three attempts later, I had eyes that were, both Sylvie and Salvador agreed, “at least ten percent sexier than usual.” The sandals were half a size too big, but it was fine. I wasn’t going hiking in them. And then, the dress: miles of voluminous, foliage-printed fabric from the empire waist down—and almost nothing from the string-bikini-style top up. The spaghetti straps held up two simple triangles and then crossed over a nakedly open back.

Basically, the top would’ve been racy even on a Saint-Tropez beach, and the bottom was like I was wearing one of Maria von Trapp’s curtains—as a curtain.

But somehow it worked?

Did it feel soul-tinglingly vulnerable to wear a garment that left whole sections of my body exposed to the open air? It did. But was it also kind of a power move to be so fearless that I didn’t even need clothes?

Weirdly, yes.

Let’s just say it was a far cry from my strawberry hoodie.

Sylvie made me send a mirror selfie to our group chat—and when she saw it, she texted immediately back: That’s a life-ruiner.

Perfect. Exactly perfect.

I wasn’t trying to change Charlie’s mind about me.

I just wanted to ruin his life a little.

And so I set the patio table with his ex-wife’s decorator’s fanciest cloth napkins, and a little army of candles for mood lighting, and I figured out how to work his stereo system for a little background music, and I got everything ready just in time for the sun to set and Charlie to come home and find it all waiting for him like a glorious gift that he could not keep.

I took the beef Wellington out of the oven to rest and took off my apron, and I sat down at the patio table, struck a pose of nonchalance like I wore tropical-foliage-print maxi dresses all the time, and waited.

And waited.

Seven o’clock came and went.

By seven thirty, I was feeling pathetic enough to open the champagne as a gesture of defiance—so that when Charlie got home, at least I’d be doing something fun.

I was pleased to discover that I’d accidentally bought a sweet champagne.

It was, in a word, yummy.

Too yummy. By nine o’clock, I’d accidentally imbibed the entire bottle.

Oops.

I’ll note that I wasn’t a big drinker, and I hadn’t touched any food all evening, so a full bottle of champagne on that empty stomach was—how to put it?—way too much.

By the time I realized I’d emptied the bottle, it was too late.

The world looped and undulated, and my limbs felt rubbery. I remember thinking I had to be careful with Sylvie’s favorite dress—but then I couldn’t quite remember exactly what “careful” meant.

It hit me that I was drunk right around the same time it hit me that I’d been stood up.

Stood up by Charlie Yates.

Stood up for a dinner that I’d prepared only for revenge.

As the minutes had crawled past, I hadn’t texted Charlie on principle. I refused to seem like I cared. Whatever, whatever. He could show up or not—it was all the same to me.

Though, of course, it wasn’t.

I had needed a triumph tonight. That’s why I’d gone to all this trouble. To prove to the world—and mostly myself—that despite everything, I was still awesome.

But this wasn’t a triumph. It was the opposite.

And somehow, just as I was thinking that, I noticed the high diving board watching me from across the pool.

I was weaving toward it before I’d even made a decision. My brain was so far behind my body that I think I was halfway up the ladder before I realized what I was on my way to do.

A swan dive.

Charlie had said I couldn’t. And so now, to punish us all, I would.

There was nothing more awesome than a swan dive.

I’d done them all the time in high school. Not usually in a backless dress and strappy heels after a bottle of champagne, but still. This was in my skill set. Charlie had forbidden me to dive off that board—forbidden!—but Charlie wasn’t here now, was he? If he really wanted to keep me off it, maybe he should show up for dinner.

It was just the rebellion I needed.

And I was just thinking that as I reached the top of the ladder and stepped onto the board to see Charlie stepping out onto the back patio, gawking up at me as he took in what was happening.

“Emma, what are you doing?” Charlie called up—raw panic in his voice as he moved closer.

“I’m swan diving,” I said, my lips feeling a little useless.

Charlie made it to the edge of the pool, staring up. “Emma, come down.”

“I don’t want to,” I said.

But Charlie started moving now—reaching the ladder and starting to climb.

“You stood me up!” I shouted toward the sky.

“I stood you up?” Charlie answered from the ladder.

I turned around to face the ladder and wait for him. “For your five-year-iversary dinner. Your cancer-free-abration. Your perfect-health blowout bash. Your not-sick-anymore jubilee.”

When Charlie reached the top, he said, “I didn’t know that was still happening.”

“Why wouldn’t it happen? We put it on our digital calendars!”

“Yeah,” Charlie said, “but that was before.”

“Before what?”

“Before the whole thing about me possibly getting back with Margaux.”

“You think I’m that petty?” For the record, I was totally that petty.

“No, I—”

“You think just because I like you—liked you—and you have absolutely zero interest in me at all that I can’t be happy that you’re not sick with cancer?”

“I guess I just—”

“Where were you?” I demanded.

“I was visiting Cuthbert.”

I gave it a beat so we could all take that in. “You stood me up for a guinea pig?”

But Charlie refused to be cowed. “He’s off his food again.”

“So?”

“So Margaux asked me to sing to him.”

Seriously?I was all for humane treatment of animals, but come on. I flared my nostrils at Charlie. “I’ve been waiting for you for three hours while you were serenading a rodent.”

“That’s an unfair spin.”

Fine. Whatever. “I made you a beef Wellington!” I shouted. “Do you have any idea how much those cost?”

“Let’s go eat it,” Charlie said, clearly hoping to inspire me to come down. “Let’s eat it right now.”

“It’s cold now,” I said. Then, “It’s ruined.”

“Cold beef is a delicacy,” Charlie said, reaching his hand out like I might take it. “People eat cold beef all the time.”

“Feed it to Cuthbert,” I said, bouncing on the board.

“I don’t— That’s not—”

“The point is,” I said, turning back to face the pool, “I’ve moved on.”

“Emma, come back this way—please,” Charlie said, and I could hear genuine fear in his voice. Of course, that didn’t mean much. I’d heard plenty of things in his voice.

“The beef Wellington was going to be my swan dive…” I said.

“Do you mean ‘swan song’?”

I gave him a look, like Don’t tell me words. Then I ignored him. “But now I guess the swan dive will have to be a real swan dive.”

“Emma—do not do a swan dive!”

“Charlie—do not tell me what to do!”

“Emma, I’m begging you. Come here. You look very unsteady.”

“It’s the shoes. They’re too big.”

“It’s not the shoes. It’s the wine.”

“Champagne,” I corrected.

But, just then, Charlie took a step out onto the board. I felt his weight register.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m coming to get you.”

“Don’t do that, Charlie. You’re afraid of this thing.”

“I’m more afraid of you falling off it.”

“I’m not going to fall.”

Charlie started edging his way toward me.

“Cut it out!” I said. “You’re scared of heights.”

“I’m not scared of heights. I’m scared of water.”

I pointed down at the pool. “What do you think that is?”

“I can’t just leave you up here. I have to come get you.”

“That’s ridiculous! You can’t even swim.”

“I can swim. I just don’t swim.”

“Get down,” I told him. “Leave this to the professionals.”

“The drunk professionals? In evening gowns?”

The evening gown. I’d almost forgotten. Then, just because I suspected he’d say anything I wanted him to right now, I said, “Don’t I look amazing in this thing?”

And then Charlie surprised me by saying, “You look fucking incredible.”

Wow. Okay. That was better than I’d hoped for.

“Emma,” Charlie said. “Please come here. You’re so drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” I said. “I just drank too much.”

“That’s the literal definition of being drunk.”

“Why are you so argumentative?”

“Why won’t you come here?”

“Because,” I said. “I don’t want to.”

It felt good to defy him. And upset him. And worry him. Was this what all the parenting books I’d read while raising Sylvie had meant by “attention-getting behaviors”? I never understood it until now. It did feel good to have someone’s full attention—good or bad. Especially someone who already had yours.

I wouldn’t notice this until I thought about it later, but that thing Charlie was so good at where he pretended like things didn’t matter? He wasn’t doing that right now.

He was the opposite of nonchalant.

He wasn’t pretending not to care. He was openly caring. Very much.

Maybe I liked that, too.

Charlie had made it halfway out on the board—to the part where the side rails ended. He was clutching the railing with white knuckles as he stretched his other hand out to me. I looked at it. It was trembling.

Huh.

I could scare the hell out of him on a high dive.

Maybe that was enough for me. Or maybe I’d sobered up a little. Or maybe I just didn’t want to ruin Sylvie’s dress. But I decided to come down.

“Fine,” I said. “No swan dive.”

I felt the sigh exit Charlie’s body. “Thank you,” he said, leaning farther out.

But why did walking back feel so much harder than walking out had been?

Maybe because I’d realized Charlie was right.

I was more drunk than any person on a high dive had any right to be.

This was a bad idea.

Bad ideas are a lot scarier once you realize how bad they are.

I took a step, and then bent my knees to absorb the bounce of the board.

I took another step, and did it again.

And then I took a third step… and it was probably the alcohol, but the too-big shoes certainly weren’t helping: the board under me bounced a little, and I guess it pushed the heel sideways as it came up, and the too-big sandal was loose enough that the whole shoe rotated under my foot… and then, to sum up: I tripped.

And fell. Into the pool.