Chapter 22
twenty-two
. . .
Natalie
The table is covered in fresh stacks of neon sticky pads, three untouched packs of dry-erase markers, and a whiteboard so clean you just know it’s going to squeak when someone writes on it.
It smells like lavender sanitizer and the faint bitterness of coffee. The room has that unmistakable first-day energy, where every chair is still pushed in and the air feels expectant, like the walls are waiting to inhale their first argument about character arcs.
Rebecca is already at the head of the table with her laptop open, tapping notes into a document like she’s been here since dawn. She looks up the second I step inside, her smile warm and sharp at the same time.
I’m hyper-conscious of everything. The way my blazer sits over my stomach. The curve that’s harder to hide now, even in carefully chosen layers. I wore black on black today, strategically loose but not obviously maternity. Professional. Put together. Don’t look at my midsection.
My heart does a nervous little flip as I cross the threshold, trying to hold myself with confidence while also wondering if everyone can see what I’m trying so hard to conceal.
This is it. The room I’ve dreamed about being in for seven years.
The show I created, the characters I built from nothing, finally becoming real.
And I’m terrified they’re going to see me as a liability before they see me as a writer.
I want to prove I belong here first. Want them to know I can pitch great ideas, that I can break story, that I’m worth the risk FlixPix took on me. Then maybe, when they already know what I can do, the pregnancy won’t feel like a complication.
Just a few weeks. That’s all I need. A few weeks to show them I’m serious, that I’m talented, that I earned this seat at this table.
Then I’ll tell them.
I shut the door behind me and take the seat she gestures toward, forcing my shoulders back, my chin up.
“You ready?” she asks.
“I think so,” I say, though my pulse is doing its best impression of a hummingbird.
“Good. Chaos starts in about ten minutes.”
I pour myself a glass of water and start thumbing through the printed script in front of me. Episode One.
Bernard comes in first, with his spiral notebook.
He’s in his mid-fifties and wears wire-rimmed glasses and a sweater vest over a button-down.
He’s the kind of guy who’s been writing TV since I was a baby.
He’s worked on three critically acclaimed dramas and has that quiet, observant energy that makes you think twice before pitching something half-baked.
Priya follows, balancing her laptop and an enormous Stanley cup.
Early thirties, dark hair in a sleek ponytail, wearing a blazer that somehow looks effortlessly cool instead of corporate.
She’s written on two FlixPix shows and has this sharp, fast-talking energy that makes every pitch sound like the best idea you’ve ever heard.
David walks in looking over-caffeinated. He’s in his late twenties, a UCLA film school grad, and this is his first staff writer job. You can tell he’s trying to absorb everything. He’s got that eager, prove-myself energy I recognize because I have it too.
Chris and Lena come in together, whispering about some showrunner meltdown they heard secondhand.
Chris is tall, lanky, always in vintage band tees under blazers, known for writing incredible dialogue.
Lena is petite, pixie cut, big earrings, and has a dry wit that makes every writers’ room story sound like stand-up.
They both came from cable dramedies and seem like they’ve been work-friends forever.
By the time everyone takes a seat, the table feels alive with creative energy.
Rebecca uncaps a marker and faces the board. “All right,” she says. “Welcome to the Spellbound writers’ room. Let’s make something great.”
I look around the room for some indication as to how we’re supposed to respond to that. I guess we stay quiet.
“What are we trying to answer this year?” she asks, turning back to us. “What is the thematic spine? And please do not say ‘Can she have it all?’ because I will throw my coffee.”
“It feels like identity,” I say, before I can talk myself out of it. “You know, legacy versus choice. The whole season is basically asking: Are you what you were born into, or do you get to decide who you’re going to be?”
Rebecca points at me with her marker. “Yes. That. Exactly that.”
Purple ink appears on the board: WHO YOU ARE VS WHO YOU CHOOSE TO BE.
“Okay,” she says. “If that is our spine, everything we break today has to hang off it. The sisters, the love interests, the villains, the magic system, all of it.”
My shoulders drop a fraction. I’m here. I just said a thing in an actual writers’ room and the showrunner didn’t immediately regret hiring me. Good start.
We go around, everyone throwing out ideas, and Rebecca writes them all in a messy constellation around the question.
“What I love in your pilot,” Priya says to me, “is that the youngest sister is the one who actually wants the magic.”
“Right,” Chris adds. “And the eldest is the one who’s like ‘you can take your destiny and shove it.’ That contrast is your engine.”
I nod, feeling my cheeks warm. “Yeah, I wanted it to feel like a real family argument, just with fire coming out of people’s hands.”
David chuckles. “As one does.”
We sink into it. We throw up character cards on the board, argue over Episode One’s final image, dig into whether the grandmother is a benevolent badass or a slightly terrifying wildcard.
Somewhere between Rebecca circling “middle sister” and Bernard pitching a season-long mystery around a missing grimoire, my leg stops bouncing.
Around what feels like noon, my stomach growls loud enough that Priya glances over and tries to hide a smile.
“Okay, before we all pass out,” Rebecca says, checking the time on her phone, “let’s order lunch. There’s a sushi place down the street that delivers fast. Everybody good with that?”
The table answers in a chorus of “Yes,” “Always,” “Bless You.”
My brain stalls.
Sushi. Raw fish. Mercury. Parasites. All the pregnant-no-no words parade across my mental screen with little flashing warning lights.
“Actually,” I hear myself say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the zip code of overly bright, “I’m more of a…non-sushi person.”
Rebecca looks up from the menu. “Oh, then we can switch. Plenty of options in this neighborhood.”
Panic flares, ridiculous and hot. It’s day one; I am not about to derail the lunch order because my uterus is occupied.
“No, it’s fine,” I say too quickly. “They have bowls and stuff, right? Teriyaki? I’ll do something like that.”
“You sure?” she asks.
“Totally.” I flip open my laptop and pull up the menu like I’ve done this a million times. “You all get what you want. I’m easy.”
That’s a lie. In so many ways.
The menu loads. I scroll until I find salvation in the form of “chicken teriyaki rice bowl.” There. Safe.
As everyone debates yellowtail versus salmon and whether spicy tuna is overrated, my pulse thuds in my ears.
I’m not even halfway through my first day and I’m already hiding things. It’s just sushi. Just one tiny white lie about preferences. But it feels like a preview of the next few weeks.
The afternoon stretches into more whiteboard scribbles and card-shuffling.
We start roughing out where the season might land, throwing “possible midseason twist” up on the board and starring it twice.
Rebecca keeps us moving without steamrolling anyone, firm and excited and exactly the kind of person you want in charge of your dreams.
By five, my brain feels like someone scraped it out with a spoon, in a good way.
“Okay,” she says, dropping the marker and clapping her hands once. “Fantastic work, everybody. You all showed up, you played nice, nobody pitched a talking cat. I’m thrilled. Same time tomorrow.”
There is a shuffle of laptops closing and chairs scraping. Everyone starts gathering their things, tossing out goodbyes and see you tomorrows.
“Natalie?” Rebecca says. “You have a minute?”
I have a moment of panic. She knows.
Maybe my blazer shifted wrong when I reached for my water. Maybe I touched my stomach one too many times. Maybe the chicken bowl gave me away.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t give me away.
Rebecca sits back down, but she’s more relaxed now, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. “I just wanted to check in without five people staring at us. How are you feeling after today?”
“Good,” I say, honestly. “Tired, but good. It was incredible, actually. Getting to hear everyone bounce off the pilot, start building it out. This is…yeah. It’s everything.”
Her mouth tips up into a smile. “You did great. You jumped in, you weren’t precious about your own pages, your ideas tracked. That’s not always a given with first-time creators.”
“Thank you.” My throat goes a little tight. “And thank you again for taking a chance on the show.”
She waves that off. “The show’s good. That part was the easy decision.”
I want to print that sentence out and frame it.
She hesitates for a beat, then folds her hands on the table.
“One more thing. This job gets intense. The closer we get to production, the crazier the hours get. Things blow up, you’re rewriting on set, life keeps happening anyway.
If there’s ever anything you need from me, flexibility-wise, I want you to know you can say it.
Conflicts, family stuff, mental health days.
I’d rather know and work with it than have someone burn out quietly in a corner. ”
On the surface, it’s thoughtful. Generous. The kind of thing people brag about in interviews when they talk about “good showrunners.”
But all I hear is: “Do you have anything I should know about that might make you a problem when we’re in production April through August?”
I grip my notebook a little tighter. “I really appreciate that,” I manage. “Right now I’m good.”
“Good.” She smiles, all warm sincerity. “We’re lucky to have you. Go home. Turn your brain off for a few hours. You earned it.”
Traffic on the way home is its usual mess. I barely notice. My brain loops the same beats: Four months until production. April through August. “If you have any conflicts.”
By the time I stumble through my front door, my whole body feels like I’ve been standing under fluorescent lights for ten straight hours.
I toe off my boots, peel off the blazer, and trade my outfit for leggings and one of Jake’s T-shirts, the soft gray one that mysteriously never found its way back to his drawer.
It falls over the curve of my stomach and I try not to overthink how much that comforts me.
I pour a huge glass of water, flop onto the couch, and open my laptop. There are already three emails from FlixPix. One is calendar invites for the week. One is notes from Rebecca recapping the day.
The third has the subject line that causes my anxiety to spike again.
From: Rebecca Sullivan
Subject: Production Timeline & Availability.
I click.
Hey team,
Quick reminder that production is scheduled from early April through August. We’ll need all hands on deck during that time. It’s long days on set, rewrites, last-minute changes—it’s intense, but it’s also the best part.
Please confirm you’re available for the full production period. If you have any conflicts (vacations, other projects, family stuff), let me know ASAP so we can plan around it.
Thanks!
Rebecca
The email is reasonable but it feels like someone just walked into my living room, took one look at my belly, and asked, “So, you going to be a problem?”
What am I supposed to say back?
Hi, this all looks great. Quick thing: I’m going to give birth two weeks before we start twelve-hour days.
Hi, I promise I will totally be available while also figuring out how to keep a tiny human alive and attached to my chest.
Hi, please don’t replace me.
My stomach knots.
My phone buzzes against the coffee table, cutting through the spiral. Jake’s name lights up the screen.
Jake
How was day one? Want to celebrate? I can bring dinner.
Just seeing his name does something to my lungs. For a second I picture him here, standing in my kitchen with takeout containers, listening while I word-vomit everything in my head. The way he would say, “We’ll figure it out,” and wrap his soothing arms around me.
Natalie
Day was good but I’m exhausted. I have a lot of work to do tonight. Need to prep for tomorrow.
The second I hit send, guilt unfurls in my chest.
Jake
You sure? I can just drop food and go. You need to eat.
Natalie
I’m fine. Thanks though.
The dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Jake
Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.
I put the phone face down. It feels like I just shut the door in his face. Again.
He’s trying to show up. I’m the one backing away. But keeping him at arm’s length feels like the only way to keep everything else standing. I can’t juggle the writers’ room, the pregnancy, and the possibility of falling in love with the father of my baby without dropping something.
I close the laptop without replying to Rebecca’s email. Adult, professional Natalie will deal with it in the morning. Right now, I just want a five-minute break from being “available for the full production period.”
I lean my head back against the couch and press the heels of my hands into my eyes until colors bloom there.
And then I feel it.
A soft flutter low in my abdomen, like someone tracing the inside of my skin with a feather.
I hold still.
It comes again. A tiny tap from the inside, not painful, just insistent. Like a knock. My hands drop to my belly before my brain catches up. I press my palms gently against the stretch of skin where my T-shirt pulls a little tighter.
“Do it again,” I whisper, because apparently I negotiate with my uterus now.
For a heartbeat there is nothing, and I wonder if I imagined it. Then there it is. A little thump. Stronger this time. A swirl and push, like something turning in a small space. Air rushes out of me.
“Hi,” I say, my voice a wrecked little laugh. “Hi, baby girl.”
My eyes sting out of nowhere. I blink too fast, and a tear spills down.
“Your mom’s having a very low-key panic attack about her entire life, but I’m so happy you’re here.”
And in this moment, nothing else matters except her.