Chapter 22
CHAPTER 22
INT. DERELICT MUSEUM - DAY
Sally Hines
But Robert, you must know…you have
to know how I feel about you.
Robert Ruhn
Your feelings? Sal, it’s not me you want.
It’s the man you’ve created in your head.
Sally Hines
Don’t condescend to me. I love you!
Robert Ruhn
If you loved me, you wouldn’t be
saying it. You would be showing it.
I stare at the words, lips curling as I hit backspace on every single one.
My manuscript is on a one-way trip to the trash folder. I hate the story I have outlined. A driveling drama inspired by the last two projects Adoria invested in. Featuring a one-dimensional female protagonist and the hero we’re supposed to relate to despite him displaying zero redeemable qualities. I don’t like movies like the one I’m writing. I don’t even watch movies like the one I’m writing.
I double-click on my Final Draft file, repressing the instinct to delete it from existence. If I do, I’ll be fresh out of ideas. At least the kinds of ideas Adoria might like. Even if Taylor keeps his word and drops out of the competition, I have to turn in a finished project when the month is up. Something Adoria will want to workshop with me this summer. Something that will convince her to help me get an agent of my own.
Gritting my teeth, I turn back to my computer screen.
INT. DERELICT MUSEUM - DAY
Sally Hines
But Robert, it’s always been us.
You and me… how can you not see it?
Robert Ruhn
Us? Sal, just because our demons get
along doesn’t mean we’re meant to be.
I grimace before a ding pulls my gaze to the top of my screen.
Taylor’s name pops up with an email notification. I click on it, welcoming any distraction that pulls me away from the hell that is my manuscript.
A document labeled Treatment is attached to his email. Curiosity feels a lot more like anxiety when I open up the single-spaced page. But the nervous fluttering in my stomach grows still the longer I read. And disappointment seeps into its place.
The vivid characters he introduced me to yesterday are but a shadow of their original selves. Any traces of romance have been wiped clean, leaving a plot so rife with holes it’s a miracle I’m able to navigate to the end of the page.
Gone is the childhood friendship, the joy of a first love. Its replacement? A run-of-the-mill drama that’s so flat and uninspired it reminds me of my own.
I wince at the thought.
“Hedlund!”
I shout his name, throwing my duvet over my bare legs. I glance down at my thin T-shirt and try to abandon the desire to change into something my suitcase doesn’t have. The sound of his footsteps on the stairs has me curling my hands into fists.
I take a deep breath, bracing myself before he fills my doorway. Even so, the sight of him still hitches my breath.
Taylor’s in gray sweatpants and a vintage tee, his hair falling haphazardly into his eyes. At least he’s not sweaty this time, I think, motioning for him to come closer. It’s hard enough to ignore Taylor’s effect on me when he’s completely dry.
“What is this?” I turn my computer around, gesturing at the screen.
He lifts a brow. “My homework assignment. I thought you were supposed to be good at reading, Teach .”
“These aren’t the characters you created in your breakdown.”
Taylor crosses his arms, leaning against the side of the doorway. “I know. I changed the story.”
I should be glad to hear the words, take them as proof Taylor isn’t the talent I almost believed him to be. But something doesn’t add up.
“Oh-kay. But the story you outlined is for a short film.”
“It’s for a feature.”
I blink twice. “You’d have a hard time filling thirty minutes with the outline you sent me. Is this really the story you want to tell?”
And then I see it. Something flashes across his face so quick it merely casts a shadow. But it’s there. Doubt.
So I try again. “Yesterday, I told you to make sure you wrote about something you really cared about. After our conversation the other day, I thought you were interested in character-driven stories. What happened?”
He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Aren’t you supposed to be giving me notes? Helping me figure out how to make my outline better?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m doing.”
“I’m pretty sure what you’re doing is trying to sabotage me,” Taylor says the words with a snarl, some of his old anger coloring his cheeks.
I draw back in surprise. “What?”
He barks out a laugh. “You had no notes for my character breakdown, Montes. Why didn’t you mention the Havens hate romance movies? That seems like some pretty important information you forgot to share.”
“I’m sorry, did you want to write a manuscript that will impress the Havens, or do you want to learn how to write?” I’m sitting straighter now, heat burning up my neck. “And I did give you advice: to write about something that actually moves you. You chose to do the exact opposite—and guess what, it shows!”
Taylor prowls over to me. I feel my room shrinking with every step he takes, all my senses narrowing on his sudden nearness. And when he looms over my bed, I can’t find the strength to move. I just tilt my chin up, waiting in perfect stillness as he brings his face over mine.
“I don’t trust you,” he all but whispers. “How am I supposed to believe a single word you said?”
I tilt my head, ignoring the way our mouths have become perfectly aligned. “ You asked me for help. Remember?”
“Then help me, Montes. Stop half-assing this. I’m offended you thought I wouldn’t notice.”
“Half-assing?” I scoff. “I’m trying the best I can. But you still don’t trust me, and I’m not sure I could say anything that would make you change your mind.”
His jaw shifts. “Give it a try.”
Electricity pulses between us, turning his demand into something else. Taylor’s eyes flicker away from mine, falling to my bottom lip. I don’t realize I’m worrying it between my teeth until his fingers graze my jaw. He holds me still for a single moment, only long enough to stop my anxious ministrations. He looks away, and my next words are so thick there’s no way he doesn’t notice the tremor in them.
“Fine. You want me to hold your hand? Then the truth is that your characters were perfect and charming and full of promise. The truth is that I desperately wanted to have notes for you. I wanted to read their bios and cackle as I covered the page in red. But they were good. You were good. So much better than I hoped you’d be.” I look between Taylor’s eyes, finding my own desperation filling them. He’s drifted even closer, his breaths tangling with mine. “You’re right: the Havens don’t like romance. They prefer trite, tired stories that look great onscreen but lack any heart. If you want to write something they might like then I suppose you’re on the right track. But if you want to tell a story that makes you feel , then you’re better off throwing your outline in the trash.”
I hold my breath, waiting for Taylor to say something, anything.
But he remains quiet, studying my face like he’s trying to read the truth in it.
And then his eyes drop back to my lips.
I freeze on instinct, a deer caught in a hunter’s headlights. I’d let him do whatever he wanted to me, I realize in a sick daze. If he leaned in, I’d mirror the motion. I’d let him put his hands on me, I’d even beg him for it, I think. Which makes it all the worse when he blinks, pulling away with an ease I would never be able to mimic.
“Can’t I do both?” he says, now staring out my bedroom window. “Write something the Havens will like as much as I do?”
My quiet laugh is aimed at my own misguided disappointment. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t managed it.”
“You swear you aren’t trying to mislead me on purpose?”
“I swear I’m not.” It’s the truth. Whether he wants to believe it or not. “If you want to write what you turned in today, I’ll try my best to help you flesh out your outline. If that’s truly what you want.”
Taylor’s shoulders drop by an inch. “I don’t know what I want to write. I thought I did. But when you told me to make sure it’s something I cared about…I don’t know. I guess I got in my head. I couldn’t figure out where the characters were going or why.”
“It’s easier writing something for the Havens than trying to figure out what story you actually want to tell,” I say, familiar with the feeling.
Taylor looks surprised. “Yeah. That’s exactly it. I thought this would be easier somehow. Maybe you just make it look easy.”
Is that a compliment? Taylor says the words so flatly it might as well be an insult. Either way, I think I have a solution.
“All right, I want to try something. But I need you to trust me. Stop asking about my intentions every five seconds, all right? This isn’t going to work between us if you’re fighting me. Can you…I don’t know, suspend your disbelief? Just for a while?”
Taylor looks like I’ve asked him to cut off his right arm. I glare as he rubs a hand down his face, clearly overwhelmed by what someone else might consider common courtesy.
“Trust you?” he repeats, clearly hoping he’s misheard me.
I stare and glare. Glare and stare. Until he blows out his breath and shrugs.
“Fine. I won’t question your every move. But you—”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll hold up my end of the bargain.” I wave his predictability away. “Great. Now that we’ve agreed…I think it’s time I show you what I learned at film school.”
Taylor’s eyes light up. “Finally.”
“You’re going to write a spec script.” The confusion on his face tells me he’s never heard the term before. “I want you to write a sample episode of a show. You’ll have to work with existing characters and any overarching themes, but you get to figure out how to make an original plot fit into an established world. It’s fantastic practice—a ton of writers have ended up converting their specs into something completely new.”
Taylor purses his lips, and I see about a million objections flash through his eyes. But he keeps his promise and manages to voice only a single question. “Fine. For what show?”
And maybe he should have trusted me a little bit less. Because the smile I unveil is positively wicked. “You’ll see.”