The Rom-Commers

Chapter Twenty-Six

IT WAS BASICALLYa belly flop—but onto my side.

I tripped on that crazy shoe—and then I went over. Not gracefully.

Whatever I did on the way down, it was—I think we can all agree—not a swan dive.

The specifics are a bit blurry, but there was flailing involved. And thrashing. And screaming. And then a shatter like a shotgun as the side of my body smacked the surface of the water so hard that it popped the side seam of my sister’s maxi dress.

It hurt like hell. And it knocked the wind out of me, too. And all I could do was sink downward for a minute, hopelessly tangled in Maria von Trapp’s curtains.

In that moment, I felt so bad for what I’d just done to Charlie.

Poor, aquaphobic Charlie. He’d shimmy back down the ladder as fast as he could and then call 911 as he paced back and forth at the edge, watching me undulate beneath the surface—helpless to save me.

Oh, god. I was a goner. They’d never get here in time.

This was it. I’d die in Esther Williams’s pool and become a footnote on her Wikipedia page: *A failed screenwriter drowned in thepool of her second mansion after getting stood up by a man who couldn’t swim. Her last words were: “Cold beef Wellington is not a delicacy!”

What were my last words? Were they guinea-pig related?

Now we’d never know.

A fitting end for me, in a way. Maybe my mermaid screenplay would sell now—with the macabre addition of a real-life aquatic tragedy to the story.

No matter what, Charlie would carry the crushing guilt of this moment for the rest of his life. I’d wanted revenge, yes—but not this much.

Poor guy.

But then, before I had the chance to list any more regrets, or feel thankful for my blessings, or start writing my mental obituary, something clamped around my waist and started yanking and tugging me up toward the surface.

Charlie.

Charlie’s arm, to be specific. Clasped tight around my waist as all his other limbs propelled us through the water.

Huh.

Charlie was not panicking at the pool’s edge. He was underwater with me.

He really could swim.

As soon as we reached the surface, I coughed and sputtered and gasped, and Charlie rotated me onto my back and tugged me by the shoulders, his legs scissoring beneath us, to the steps at the shallow end.

He propped me on the second-to-top step and I draped over the pool rim, both of us breathing and coughing as Charlie clapped his hand on my wet shoulder, lacking any other way to help. We stayed like that for a few minutes, just trying to regulate our breathing. My side was stinging like hell from ankle to shoulder where I’d hit the water’s surface.

Heck of a way to sober up.

But I was alive. I should be good-and-drowned right now, not suddenly hyperaware of the wet smacks of Charlie’s bare palm as he patted my naked shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Charlie asked then.

I turned toward him. “I’m okay,” I said. “Are you okay?”

In response, Charlie coughed some more.

“Oh, god,” I said. “You’re half-drowned.”

But Charlie shook his head. “I’m fine.” As he settled, he turned to inspect my body. “But you really belly-flopped.”

“I side belly-flopped,” I pointed out, like that was better.

“You can break a rib hitting water from that height. You can—”

“I know, I know. Explode your internal organs. You told me.”

Charlie met my eyes. “Did anything explode?”

“Just my dignity.”

“Well,” Charlie said, a microscopic glint of affection in his eyes. “That’s nonessential.”

“Tell me about it.”

We kept breathing for another minute before Charlie said, “I knew this was going to happen.”

“Did you? I didn’t.”

Charlie tried to shake some water out of his ear. “I knew from the very first day you came here that some way, somehow, you’d make me go off that high dive.”

I frowned. “Did you go off the high dive?”

Charlie nodded.

“Just now? You jumped in after me? That’s how you wound up in the water?”

Charlie nodded again.

Why was that so touching? “I’m very impressed, Charlie,” I said. “High dives are scary even if you aren’t afraid of water.”

“I agree.”

“But you jumped in, anyway.”

Charlie was looking into my eyes now.

“That was genuinely courageous,” I went on. “You saved my life. You performed a water rescue.”

There was something electric about it all. The way he was leaning in close, and examining me, and dripping wet—but somehow so aware of me he didn’t even seem to notice. Focused on me like he couldn’t see anything else.

“Thank you,” I said, and I really meant it.

But it was all too intense. Charlie had to break the moment. “Couldn’t you have tried to die in, like, any other way?”

I wrinkled my nose. “I prefer the worst possible way. That’s just my style.”

Charlie shook his head at me. “Anything except water next time, if you don’t mind.”

“But,” I pointed out, “I did give you a chance to conquer your aquaphobia.”

Charlie smiled and looked down. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“What I’m hearing,” I said, “is ‘thank you.’”

At that, a breeze came through the yard and Charlie saw the shivers on my arms. “You’re cold,” he said.

He looked a little blue himself. “So are you.”

“Come on,” he said.

“Where?”

“Inside. To dry off.”

As he said it, he brought his arms around to gather me up and hoist me out of the water like he was some drenched, bedraggled, corduroy-clad superhero.

“This feels like something we should be writing about, not doing,” I said into Charlie’s neck as he carried me up the steps and back to dry land.

But Charlie just said, “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

Charlie carried me straight to his room, wrapped me in a towel as big as a sheet, and sat me on his bed while he rifled through his chest of drawers to find us some dry clothes. I was genuinely shivering now, so I just held very still and waited.

“I’m going to change first real quick,” he said from behind me, “and then we’ll deal with you.”

“Okay,” I said, teeth chattering a bit.

“Don’t look,” Charlie said. He was just feet away—in easy looking distance.

“You don’t have to tell me that,” I said, squeezing my eyes tight.

And then there was a notable silence where I heard brushes and slaps and squelches as Charlie—presumably—stripped down out of his sopping clothes, toweled off, and replaced them with dry ones.

I wasn’t looking. I would never have looked.

At first.

But then there was this moment when I guess Charlie must have been closing a drawer and he pinched a finger, maybe—because next, I heard him yelp, and when I looked over, he was hopping around and shaking his hand.

Shirtless.

He’d achieved full pants status… but he hadn’t even started on the shirt.

It was a bit of a shock, to be honest.

We’d done lots of swimming together, of course, and so I’d seen his chest and his shoulders and his whole… upper half before. Maybe it was the context this time—in his bedroom, me still somewhere south of sober, him very recently naked.

“You looked!” Charlie said, like I was a cheater.

“You yelped!” I countered, like he was a troublemaker.

“I was fine.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Close your eyes again,” Charlie commanded.

“Put your shirt on,” I commanded back.

But I closed them. And waited. Poutily.

By the time Charlie arrived in front of me with a set of sweats for me to use, I was semi-determined to never open them again.

“It’s fine now,” Charlie said.

“I don’t trust you.”

By the time I finally peered out through my lashes, Charlie was wearing a hooded sweatshirt printed with the words I’D RATHER BE WITH MY IMAGINARY FRIENDS.

“Who’s that quote by?” I asked, dropping all pretense and frowning.

“Me, actually,” Charlie said. “I said it to my sister at a family dinner once, and she got it printed on a hoodie.”

Then he held up the one he’d grabbed for me: WRITERS DO IT ON THE PAGE.

I met his eyes, like Seriously?

Charlie shrugged. “My sister keeps giving me writer-themed workout gear.”

“That one is… humiliating,” I said.

“I agree,” Charlie said, pulling me up into a standing position so we could get started. “But it’s fleece-lined.”

I was shivering too much to argue. “Fine.”

“Here,” he said, holding out the set.

But I shook my head. “I’m too cold.”

“You won’t warm up until you’re dry,” Charlie said.

I was shaking. That much I knew for sure.

Charlie must have looked at this wet, shaking, still-drunk human in front of him and decided we had nothing more than a medical situation on our hands. He didn’t hesitate. “I’m going to help you, okay?” he said.

“Help me do what?”

“Change.”

“What! No!”

“Look,” Charlie said. “You can’t stay like this.”

“I’ll do it,” I said, reaching out a shaky arm for the hoodie.

But then, I dropped it. We both looked down at where it landed.

“Somebody’s got to get you into some dry clothes,” Charlie said, picking it back up. “Just pretend I’m a doctor.”

“But you’re not a doctor.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you catapulted off my diving board.”

I really was quite cold.

“Fine,” I said, not seeing a viable way to argue. “But you have to close your eyes.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Echolocate,” I said. “Like a bat.”

“Emma,” Charlie said. “That’s not—”

“There’s no way in hell I’m letting you see me naked,” I said, in a tone like I would gladly die of hypothermia before I ever let that happen. “And I don’t think that mean ex-wife girlfriend of yours would be too thrilled about you doing that, either.”

“Fine,” Charlie said. “I’ll close my eyes.”

“Fine,” I said. “Don’t peek.”

Had I been thinking that Charlie seeing my shivering, wet, quasi-hypothermic, goose-pimpled naked body would be too erotic for either of us to handle?

Because whatever I’d just insisted on was worse.

Charlie did close his eyes—and I never saw him try to cheat—but that meant he had to put his hands all over me to figure out how to peel that wet, tangled maxi dress off.

“I think it ripped when I fell,” I said.

“It definitely did.”

“How can you tell?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Oh, god. What had Charlie seen?

At least for now, he wasn’t looking.

But since he couldn’t see me, he had to feel me. All over. In places I’d never even really noticed or thought about before—from the inside of my elbow, to the crown of my hip, the soft pooch below my belly button, to my… withers. And everywhere else, too. I’m telling you, those hands were omnipresent—as he untangled knotted wet cloth, and moved limbs for better positioning, relentlessly feathering accidental brushes and strokes in unexpected places that gave me a whole different kind of shivers.

I clutched the loose sweatpants and sweatshirt to guard my front like a protective barrier between us. But it was no match for the touching.

I was too cold to enjoy it, of course.

Mostly.

Once the dress was in a sopping pile on Charlie’s floor, he had to come back up halfway with his hands to find my underwear elastic on my hips and then roll those down to my ankles so I could step out of them. And then he had to come back up and reach around behind my waist to unhook the low-back strapless bra, the mechanics of which totally threw him.

I guess he could have turned me around to work on the hooks. But he didn’t. He just encircled me with his arms, and I shivered nakedly there while he tugged and yanked at the hooks, the stubble of his jaw brushing against my cheek as he made almost imperceptible breaths of frustration into my ear. What did he smell like? Some kind of classic barbershop shaving cream, maybe? Sweet, and a little salty, too. Whatever it was, I wished I could steal some to take back to Texas.

“I hate this contraption,” Charlie said, in apology for taking so long.

I really was freezing. “Push and then pull,” I said, through trembling lips.

Once every wet thing was off, I handed Charlie the sweatpants while retaining the sweatshirt—carefully positioned in front of my torso like a polyblend shield. He bent down and arranged the sweatpants so I could step into them and then worked them up my legs to my waist.

“Better?” he asked.

“Getting there,” I said.

Then, eyes still closed, he held the sweatshirt open like an O so I could slide into that, too.

As soon as I was in, Charlie opened his eyes.

“Hey,” I said. “I didn’t say you could open your eyes.”

“You need socks,” Charlie said, all business. He grabbed a thick pair from his drawer and squatted down by my feet to put them on. I braced myself against his shoulder for balance.

As he finished with the socks, he looked down at the wet, empty dress as if that, of all things, was stumping him.

“Just throw it away,” I said.

“It’s a hell of a dress,” Charlie said, in protest.

“It’s ruined now,” I said. In more ways than one.

Charlie didn’t fight me. He tossed it toward his trash can, but missed.

“I can’t believe you just made me do that,” Charlie said then.

“What?” I asked. “Throw away my dress?”

“Change your clothes with my bare hands.”

“Stop complaining,” I said. “You’re fine.”

But Charlie wasn’t about to stop complaining. “Classic Emma,” he said. “Everything that you say is not romantic is romantic. You said it’s not romantic for people to fall on each other, but then you fell on me and it was. You said line dancing isn’t romantic, but then we went there and you ogled that Italian guy and I thought I was going to lose my mind. And here you are telling me to strip you down naked with my eyes closed, like if I can’t see you it’ll be PG-13, but instead I’m having to put my hands all over you—and it’s not better, it’s so much worse.”

By the time he was finished, he’d stood back up and was face-to-face with me.

His eyes were dark, and he looked kind of mad.

“Are you mad at me?” I asked.

“No,” Charlie said, still looking mad.

“I thought you didn’t feel feelings like that,” I said. “I thought your heart was a suicidal bird.”

“I feel feelings, okay?”

“Yeah, but not those feelings. Remember? I had to explain to you what love feels like. And you don’t even like me like that, as you’ve explained in very clear terms. And you’re getting back together with your mean ex-wife. Nothing about any of this should be a problem for you. There should be nothing going on here but mechanics and knitwear.”

Charlie was frowning hard now, like he had fifty different things he wanted to say but couldn’t decide between them.

I waited. Frowning back.

Finally he said, “I’m not getting back with Margaux, okay? That’s not happening. That was never going to happen.”

“You said it was.”

“I said it might.”

“Are we parsing verbs now?”

“The point is—” Charlie started, but then he stopped himself.

I gave it a second, then I said, “What? What is the point?”

His voice quieted. “The point is, we should find you a blanket. And dry your hair.”

“I’m not cold anymore,” I said.

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

Charlie dropped his gaze to my mouth. “Your lips are blue.”

I dropped my gaze to his. “So? Yours are, too.”

“I’m not the person who was just shivering too much to put on my own clothes.”

“Well, I’m not the person who’s super mad about nothing.”

At that, we stared each other down. What were we even fighting about?

I looked at his bluish lips again, and he looked at mine.

And then there was only one thing to do.

I grabbed a fistful of his sweatshirt right at the neck, and pulled him closer into a kiss.

For the record, he kissed me back.

With enthusiasm.

The second our mouths met, he was clutching me to him, and I was clutching back and we were devouring each other like hungry animals. Maybe it was all just physical. Maybe this kind of thing was bound to happen if you made any man peel off your wet dress and slide you limb by limb into a set of his own fleece-lined sweats.

But I didn’t care.

He didn’t like me like that—but I didn’t care.

I was leaving in two days—but I didn’t care.

His heart could only attack its own reflection—but I didn’t care.

This moment, right here—no matter where it came from, or what it meant, or what it would or wouldn’t lead to—was worth it.

He clutched me tight with his arms, and I ran my palms over his jaw and into his hair. There were so many questions whirling through my head that I couldn’t even pay attention. Was this kiss ruining all other kisses that had ever existed—or would ever exist? Was there some way to crawl inside his body? How, exactly, could I make this go on forever?

I wasn’t cold anymore, that was for sure.

I took a step back toward the bed, not breaking the kiss, and Charlie followed.

Then I took another step, and he followed that one, too.

Then, when the backs of my calves touched the bed frame, I tightened my arms around his neck to hold on as I climbed up onto the bed—never breaking the kiss—and tried to pull him there after me.

But as soon as Charlie realized what I was doing, he pulled back and broke away—leaving me kneeling there alone.

He took a second to collect himself, breathing hard. Then he said, “Emma, we can’t.”

“Sure we can.”

“We already said we weren’t starting anything.”

“But we seem to keep doing it anyway.”

“Emma, we agreed.”

“You agreed,” I said.

But now he was returning to his senses.

He shook his head. “We have to stop.”

“Why?”

“You’ve been drinking, for one.”

“I am totally sober.”

“That’s exactly what a drunk person would say.”

“The belly flop sobered me up.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“Maybe it’s the hypothermia—”

“You do not have hypothermia.”

“—or maybe it’s the adrenaline. Who knows what kinds of chemical reactions go on inside the human body? But I’m fine.” I touched my pointer finger to my nose a couple of times for proof. “See? Easy! We’re good. I could walk a straight line right now. I could do a cartwheel. I could take the SAT.”

“Emma,” Charlie said, “there’s an empty champagne bottle lying on its side in the flower bed.”

“I admit that’s a large quantity of alcohol,” I said, trying to sound extra sober. “But I drank it slowly and responsibly over a long period of time. Like a grown-up.” Then, for added panache: “Like a French grown-up.”

“Emma…” Charlie said, shaking his head. “You are not in a state to give consent—to anything.”

Ugh. Now he was throwing consent at me?

How was I supposed to argue with that?

Maybe I could use my feminine wiles.

Did I have feminine wiles?

I decided to find out.

“Come here,” I said, waving him closer.

Charlie leaned cautiously in.

“I’m leaving in a few days,” I said conspiratorially. “We’ll never have to see each other again. And so I’m wondering if you’d be willing—just real quick”—and I still can’t believe I suggested this—“to go to bed with me.”

“What!” Charlie yelped, pulling back.

“I think it’s a great idea,” I said, refusing to participate in his drama.

“Emma,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “Do I have to explain what consent is to you?”

“I won’t tell anyone,” I stage-whispered.

“There will be nothing to tell,” Charlie stage-whispered back.

“Look,” I said, changing tack, “I have never in my whole life had the chance to sleep with someone who I really, really wanted to sleep with.” To be clear, “really, really wanted to sleep with” was a euphemism for “was hopelessly half in love with.”

Maybe more than half.

But that was need-to-know information.

“And,” I went on, “I would really, really like to sleep with you. Specifically.”

Charlie closed his eyes with a What a nightmare sigh.

But I kept going. This was my shot, and I was taking it. “I don’t live a life where chances like this come along very often. I may never get a shot like this again. So you’d really be doing me a favor. I’m not saying we should date—or even stay in contact. Just for fun, huh? Just a little treat. All the good stuff, and none of the angst. My life doesn’t have time for real romance anyway. My schedule’s too booked with”—I couldn’t think of what it was booked with, and somehow I finished with—“worry and stress.”

There it was. That was my pitch.

For a tiny second, Charlie held very still—and I wondered if he was tempted.

I studied his earnest, writerly face and felt a little buzz of hope.

But that’s when Charlie said, “Absolutely not. No way in hell.”

I gave him a second to change his mind.

Then, when he didn’t, I asked, “Charlie?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you like me back?”

Charlie blinked, like he never in a million years saw that coming.

“Is it my hair?” I asked, already agreeing. “Is it the frizz?”

“No!” Charlie said. Like he was offended by the question.

“Is it the color?” I pulled one of the corkscrews straight to take an appraising look. “I get it. The way it scratches the backs of your eyeballs. It’s a lot.”

Charlie shook his head. “No,” he said. “I love your hair.”

Huh. Okay. “Is it my strawberry writing hoodie?” I asked. “I know it’s crazy. But my”—my breath caught unexpectedly here—“my mom gave it to me.”

“Your strawberry writing hoodie is adorable,” Charlie said, his voice softer now.

But I was searching for an answer. “Is it how I ripped your screenplay apart when I first came here? That couldn’t have been fun for you. Or how I mocked you so much for trying to open biscuits with a can opener? Or how I keep rolling my eyes at your Mafia movie? I could revise my opinion on that. Maybe I haven’t been giving leather bell-bottoms a fair shot. Am I too chatty—is that it? Too opinionated? Too direct? Maybe if you tell me what it is, I could try to fix it.”

“Stop talking,” Charlie said. “You’re making me mad.”

“So it’s… not fixable. Is that what you’re saying?”

“You don’t need fixing,” Charlie said. “I’m the one that needs fixing.”

There was such impossible finality in his voice.

“You’re asking me what’s wrong with you,” Charlie went on, “but you should be telling me what’s wrong with me. I am not a catch, Emma. I’m an insomniac. I’m a misanthrope. I like imaginary people better than real ones. I haven’t folded laundry in, like, four years. This isn’t a rejection for you. It’s a lucky escape.”

What was he doing? Trying to argue me out of liking him?

None of those things were deal-breakers, but okay.

None of those things were deal-breakers… but maybe the fact that he was listing them was. How fully, incontrovertibly, utterly uninterested in me must he be to construct a whole case against himself like that—to my face?

I took a five-point-five-second breath.

“Okay,” I said, nodding.

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I get it.”

“You do?”

I nodded. “You really don’t like me.” I nodded some more. “I’ll stop bothering you. I got carried away. I’ve never had a writing partner before. Or lived with a guy. I must have”—and here I quoted him again—“connected dots that didn’t need or want to be connected.”

Charlie glanced away.

“I kept thinking we must be having a misunderstanding. But there is no misunderstanding. Is that right?”

Charlie nodded and met my eyes again. “There is no misunderstanding.”

“You know I like you, and you know I am propositioning you,” I said. “And any feeling I keep having that you like me, too, is just wishful thinking bending my perceptions—because you are clearly, plainly saying no.”

Charlie nodded, like he was really sorry about it.

Then he said, “I am clearly, plainly saying no.”