Chapter 14
fourteen
. . .
Natalie
I can’t stop thinking about what happened with Jake.
My mind keeps circling back to him assembling the crib in my guest room. To what happened after.
The way he looked at me when I grabbed his shirt. The roughness in his voice when he said my name. The moment right before he kissed me, when I could have stopped it but didn’t want to.
I told him it couldn’t happen again. And I meant it.
Except I can’t stop replaying every detail. The heat of his skin under my palms. The sound he made when I sank down on him. The way he held me after, like I was something precious instead of just a complication he’s stuck dealing with.
I really like him.
The thought hits me hard enough that I have to grip the edge of the counter.
I like Jake Reyes. Not just the sex, though that’s admittedly incredible.
I like the way he shows up. The way he remembers things.
The way he looks at our baby on the ultrasound screen like it’s already the center of his universe.
And that terrifies me.
Because three years ago, I liked someone else. Liked him enough to say yes when he proposed. Liked him enough to plan a wedding, buy a dress, believe him when he said forever.
And he liked me back, too. I thought. That’s the part that still messes with my head. There were no signs. No obvious red flags. No evidence that something was wrong. Until he didn’t show up at the altar.
No phone call. No explanation. Just gone. I stood there in that stupid white dress and pretended my heart wasn’t shattering into a thousand pieces.
How am I supposed to believe what I’m feeling with Jake is real, when I was so sure before and ended up humiliated in front of everyone?
But Jake is different whispers a traitorous voice in my head.
I shove the thought away and arrange crackers on a plate with more force than necessary. It doesn’t matter if he seems different. My instincts can’t be trusted.
The front door opens without a knock.
“It’s just me!” Jonah calls, appearing in the doorway with his signature container of homemade dumplings. “These are fresh. Still warm.”
“You’re a saint.”
“I know.” He kicks the door closed with his foot and makes himself at home on the couch, already pulling out his notebook.
This is how it always is with our writers’ group. We’ve been meeting for five years, so we’re long past pretending we’re guests. We just walk in and start talking.
Wren arrives next, blonde and eternally optimistic, color-coded notebook already open, chattering about some meet-cute she witnessed at the talent agency where she works.
Then Eric, rumpled from whatever set he just came from, former journalist turned screenwriter with an obsession for structure.
Iris in all black, quietly brilliant, carrying a box of fancy tea like an offering.
And finally Brody, the youngest at twenty-four, clutching his latest draft like he’s afraid someone’s going to snatch it away.
Eric and Jonah started this group six years ago. The rest of us found our way in through various connections, industry events, and one desperate post on a UCLA alumni board. Now we’re family.
I wish they were working with me on Spellbound. But someday, when I’m actually in charge of something, I’ll bring them along. That’s the dream anyway.
“All right,” Jonah announces once everyone’s settled around my living room. “Before we do anything else, let’s celebrate!”
“We really don’t need to—”
“Yes, we do.” Wren produces a small cake from her oversized bag like a magician. “You sold a pilot to FlixPix. That’s huge!”
“The first one of us to actually make it,” Eric adds, raising his coffee mug in a toast.
“I haven’t made it yet,” I protest. “The show still has to get produced.”
“You will,” Iris says quietly from her spot on the floor, teacup balanced on her knee. “Your writing’s too good not to.”
My throat tightens. These people have seen every draft of Spellbound, every rejection, every almost-deal that crashed at the one-yard line.
“Speech!” Brody grins.
“Absolutely not.”
“Come on,” Jonah pushes.
I sigh. “Fine. Thank you for reading all my terrible early drafts and telling me not to give up.”
“They were never terrible,” Wren says loyally.
“That first draft of the pilot was rough,” Eric says.
“Okay, yeah, that one was bad.” Iris laughs.
“But you all helped me make it better. So thank you. For everything,” I say.
We cut the cake, and Wren pours wine for everyone except me. I tell them I’m doing a cleanse, and no one questions it. Perks of having friends who try all the wellness trends.
“So when do you start?” Eric asks.
“Writers’ room starts in December. Pre-production in the spring.”
“That’s soon,” Jonah says. “Nervous?”
“Terrified.”
“Normal,” Eric assures me. “First room’s always scary. But you know your show better than anyone. Trust that.”
We talk about what it’ll be like, the group peppering me with questions about the deal, the timeline, whether I’ve heard anything about who else might be staffed.
It feels surreal, sitting cross-legged on my own rug talking about Spellbound as a real show instead of a document I quietly tinkered with for years.
Eventually we transition into notes. Tonight is Brody’s turn, and he’s brought pages from his multi-cam pilot about friends working at a failing arcade. It’s funny and surprisingly heartfelt, with the kind of sharp dialogue that makes you mad you didn’t write it yourself.
“This is really good,” I tell him when it’s my turn. “The banter between Luke and Jessica in scene three is perfect. But I think you’re burying your emotional beat in scene seven. When Marcus talks about his dad? That should land harder. Right now it reads like a throwaway line.”
Brody scribbles notes frantically. “You’re right. I was worried about it getting too sappy.”
“It’s a comedy,” Jonah says, “but comedy works best when we care about the characters. Let us feel something, then make us laugh. That’s the magic.”
We spend the next hour digging into Brody’s pages, everyone pitching fixes and alt jokes, cutting the lines we love but know don’t belong. This is what I love about this group. We make each other better. We call each other out when we’re playing it safe.
When we finish, conversation drifts to industry gossip. Who’s staffing where, what shows got picked up, which ones are quietly circling the drain. Jonah hints he’s close on another deal, knocking on the coffee table for luck.
“Same time in two weeks?” Jonah asks, pulling on his jacket.
“My place,” Eric offers. “I’ll send out pages by the end of the week.”
We say our goodbyes at the door, hugs all around. Wren squeezes me extra tight.
“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers.
“Thanks, Wren.”
I stand on the porch for a second, watching them pile into their cars, waving as they drive off.
The street settles into that quiet, late-night hum.
Distant traffic. A dog barking down the block.
The soft whoosh of sprinklers kicking on somewhere.
I’m closing the door when I hear footsteps on the porch.
“Forget something?” I call, pulling it open without looking, but it’s not one of my writers’ group friends.
It’s Jake.