Chapter 21
Maggie groaned and opened her eyes. A headache banged on her skull to the tune of nearby birds singing outside the window. Reaching for her phone, she typed the voice of her nightmares:
If wine gets better with age, then why do hangovers only get worse as we get older?
She was awake in Mac’s bed, fully clothed, alone.
She was mortified.
Last night was a disaster. Ty’s delivery of the Kurt news. Her old boss was haunting her, his face flashing behind her eyelids each time Maggie blinked. He was a ghost she was determined to outrun.
Ocean Beach was suffocating. Her mind was swirling. She needed to get out.
She checked the homebound ferry schedule—surely she could make the 10:40 a.m. boat back to Bay Shore? Hop on the next LIRR after that? She’d handle the apologies in Manhattan. Explain everything later.
For now, she needed stable ground.
Maggie crept out of Mac’s bedroom and exhaled. Thankfully no one was in the wood-paneled hallway; no one else even seemed to be awake. Where was Mac? She couldn’t let herself wonder. Instead, she tiptoed down the hallway, to her and Brenna and Quinn’s room. She opened the door as slowly, as silently as she could, eager not to disturb her sleeping roommates. Maggie threw her belongings into her faded purple duffel bag, a hairbrush and miscellaneous makeup. She spied a spare condom at the bottom of the bag, embarrassed to remember how she’d packed one in case the weekend brought unexpected romance. Maggie cringed at the reality. She had spent the night in someone else’s bed, but the circumstances couldn’t have been less sexy.
As she zipped her bag and tiptoed downstairs, she remembered Mac’s worried face as he’d walked her home last night, as he let her cry in his bed, not wanting Brenna and Quinn to come home early and see her in such a state. They settled on his mattress, Maggie under the comforter, Mac on top, as he angled his laptop out so they could both rewatch episodes of How I Met Your Mother. She was too exhausted, too hurt, then, to wonder if he was swallowing the same memories. The reminders of the last time they’d been in that very bed together.
Instead, she’d spent last night silently screaming about all that had happened, all that irreversible damage since they’d moved from the category of friends to lovers to exes.
She’d let the show’s laugh track lull her to sleep.
Now, as she slid the Serendipity House’s kitchen door closed behind her, morning birds chirping their familiar tune, Maggie wondered what it meant, how Mac was there like a shoulder to fall on, right when she needed him most. He was always thinking, always caring, always doing, yet she couldn’t ignore how their chemistry had extinguished like a flame doused with water when his lips pressed against her own last night.
The summer in New York had felt like endless round-peg-square-hole syndrome, relearning a rhythm that rewired her roots. Would she ever be able to fit into Mac’s life again?
Then she heard movement from the backyard, the porch door swinging open.
Maggie looked up and saw him.
“Mags, I was just coming to find you,” Mac said. He held two coffees in a travel tray.
“Hey.” She felt her cheeks warm.
“You’re leaving?” He clocked her duffel bag.
“I, uh, yeah. I don’t feel well,” she said—not quite the truth but not quite a lie.
Mac tilted his head. “Is this about last night?”
She bit her lip.
“Can we sit for a second? Talk?” He placed the iced drinks on the outdoor table, but it only made Maggie want to run. Her blood started racing, her stomach swirling. She generally loved the spotlight, but she hated confrontation, especially when hungover. Especially when so much was at stake. Guilt poured through her, but she knew she couldn’t handle a repeat of last night.
She couldn’t take another one of Mac’s love-soaked confessions.
“Thanks for the coffee,” she said, rolling on the balls of her feet, itching to escape. “But I should get going.”
“Just one second—”
“Mac, come on, let’s not—”
“I dare you, M.” His eyes widened, his face serious. “I dare you to tell me what’s going on. Why did you move home? Look. Last night—”
“I can’t do this again,” Maggie said, pained. The reminder of their broken adolescence only made her regret crystallize. “I can’t give you what you want, Mac. I know that now. Maybe Robyn should’ve stayed—”
“Robyn?” He looked stung. “This isn’t about Robyn, this is about us.”
“There is no us, Mac.” Maggie’s voice was a whisper.
“I know, let me explain—”
“Mac, please, please, don’t make me say this all again.”
“Really?” He shook his head. “You know, I was doing fine until you came home. Robyn and I were solid. I was good. And then you came and messed with my head and—”
“Ruined everything?” Maggie said, tears brimming involuntarily. “It’s what I do. Liz. My parents. My job. Now you. I broke your heart all over again.”
“Christ, Mags.” Mac grimaced, running his hands through his hair before standing up. “I want to be your friend right now. But do you ever stop and wonder if not everything revolves around you?”
It was a punch to the gut. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“That came out wrong.” He winced. “I’m just trying to say, I’ve always been there for you. Sometimes I just wish you’d return the favor.” With that, he shook his head and walked back inside the house. The untouched coffees sat where he’d left them.
Maggie was too stunned to reply, to call after him, to explain herself. She was mortified, speechless.
Had she misread everything with Mac from the start?
She needed to get out of there, but then she heard another sound that fixed her feet, frozen.
“Just like that?” a voice called out.
She whipped around and saw Liz, towel wrapped around her body, the outdoor shower door closing behind her.
“Just like that, you’re leaving?” She was staring at Maggie’s duffel bag, shaking her head. It looked like she’d been crying. “You’re leaving all over again?”
Maggie was tongue-tied. “I, uh—last night—”
“Did you ever care about us at all?”
Maggie’s whole body went cold. It was like the wind had been knocked right out of her. But before she could reply, Liz swallowed a sob and ran back into the house.
“Of course I did,” Maggie whispered, but it was too little, too late.
Her heart sank. How could Liz think that Maggie cared so little? About Mac, about all of them?
That she had only moved home to break their hearts?
Liz, gone again. Liz, the worst casualty.
It had been Liz first, always. Even before Cam and Mac. Liz hadn’t just been Maggie’s next-door neighbor or best friend. She’d been the closest thing she’d ever had to a sister. Mac was kind and a worthy runner-up, but Liz had always been that support system she craved, that sense of home and peace and place.
Maggie had let flashbacks of teenage hormones and misguided romance get in the way of what had mattered most all along.
She couldn’t believe how wrong she had been. How much growing up she still had to do. She had sacrificed her relationships in pursuit of success once before, and she wouldn’t do it again.
Ocean Beach blurred by as she walked through the town square to the ferry. The streets were already buzzing with tourists and beach lovers, merriment and day drinking at the ready, but Maggie’s mind was racing with apologies and explanations. All her regrets and missteps. And for what? For Kurt? For the embarrassment of a lifetime?
She plopped onto a bench, her heartache in stark contrast to the cheerful foot traffic circling her every which way. She knew it was time to listen to Kurt’s voicemails. To read the messages that had poured in, the ones she couldn’t handle until now.
She owed her friends the truth about what had happened out in LA.
But that meant being honest with herself. And how could Maggie explain that she had given up her life, her family, her friends, her free time to work for a maniac like Kurt? It was humiliating, embarrassing—for her, for everyone who had hoped for her success. He hadn’t needed to use his fists or fingers to harm her. Sometimes, in the worst moments, she’d wished he would hit her. Throw a stapler, like those mailroom horror stories in the past.
Instead, Maggie was subjected to the twisted, slow-burn power of words. Kurt was a yeller, leapt at any opportunity to scream or to scold. Like the days she’d ordered his usual salad, only for him to accuse her of intentionally ruining his diet. Didn’t she know he was no longer consuming dairy? he’d shout. Kurt Robinson refused to listen to excuses. He said excuses were just mistakes dressed up as hand-me-downs: useless and in poor taste. If she tried to explain, Kurt would say denial only made her look even uglier than she already was. He told her she needed a nose job, and she’d need a new job, too, if she made a mistake like that again.
Maggie put up with it—the personal tasks, the particular orders, the perennial commands—because she’d convinced herself that this, all of this, was simply what it took. She swallowed the discrepancy between Kurt’s slate and the monster behind the scenes. She was working for a visionary. Of course it demanded perfection. It demanded that Maggie chip away at herself day after day, let verbal abuse roll off her back, all with the promise of mentorship. It demanded being on call every waking hour, all in hopes that one day, he would read her scripts. He’d mold her writing, maybe even angel-invest in or help produce her films. She’d be on her way.
Kurt had seen her scribbling in her notebook, sneaking her laptop out in every corner. Opening to Final Draft any second she could get. He knew Maggie’s endgame was to make movies of her own.
After two years of Maggie working for him, Kurt called her into his office.
Write something new, he told her. Give me something. If it was good, they’d talk.
His voice thick with honey so Maggie hadn’t known it was a trap.
She wrote. She barely slept until she’d finished The Come Back Comeback, a story about mothers and daughters and friends. Family that never left you behind, that you could always find your way back to again. It was everything she wanted to say to her mom, to Liz, to everyone she’d abandoned when she fled to LA. She was a coward in real life, sure, but in that script…she said it all. She set it on Fire Island, the beach community of her youth that still glowed with hope. The perfect backdrop for a rewrite.
She emailed the script to Kurt on a Sunday night, glowing brighter than her laptop screen. It was the best thing she’d ever written, her favorite story yet. It had fallen out of her fingertips like an April shower from the sky. The sweet release, the rush, the pride.
Only, a week passed, and then a month, and Maggie still hadn’t heard a word from her boss. It was impossible to focus on her assistant duties when she didn’t know what Kurt might say about her writing. It was vulnerable, terrifying.
Finally, she plucked up the courage to ask. Have you read? What did you think?
Maggie’s career nightmare followed.
He’d hated it, Kurt said. It was one of the worst scripts he’d ever read. The characters were undeveloped, the dialogue felt like Maggie hadn’t ever spent time with a real human being. Do you even have any friends? He had ridiculed her. She’d never cut it as a screenwriter, he said. She was a pretty good assistant, though, so he’d let her stick around. But there was only so far a girl like her could go in this town.
Maggie spent the next few weeks going through the motions. Was any of this worth it if she couldn’t write?
Part two of the nightmare began the following Monday morning, when Kurt added a new project to the status report of his slate. The Come Back Comeback. Kurt’s next project. Maggie found the script printed on his desk; half of the pages were hers, the other half were butchered with his rewrite.
Maggie’s name was nowhere to be found.
Surely it was a mistake. There’d be an explanation. She deserved a cowriting credit if anything. Weren’t those the rules?
Kurt laughed at her when she asked him. He actually laughed. Did he look like someone who followed the rules? She worked for him, didn’t she? So technically anything she wrote while in his employ belonged to him. Hadn’t she read the fine print in her employment contract?
Maggie could handle the trips to three different restaurants when he couldn’t remember which offered his favorite brussels sprouts. She could do the weekly car washes and take the impossible reservation requests in stride. She could do the constant reading, the constant working, the constant tracking, the constant coverage, the constant grind.
She could not do this.
When she threatened to report him to the WGA, he dismissed her out of hand. Who would believe her? Who would care about her? He wasn’t afraid of the Writers Guild. He was Kurt Robinson. Her name meant nothing.
He fired her after that.
Maggie hadn’t cried until she was in her car. Then the realization dawned: She was done. Exhausted, broken. At home, in bed, lying there silently, she wished that she had fought harder. Maybe if she’d had the energy. If she had slept the better part of the past few years.
Then Brenna and Quinn had posted on Facebook that they were looking for a roommate.
It was the final sign. She needed to get out of there. Her dreams were over. She didn’t want to work in LA ever again. She drove back to New York in the next three days. Head hung low, she prepared to face everything she had been most afraid of. Failure. She wasn’t special. She wasn’t strong. She wasn’t cut out for anything interesting or different or big.
She was just mediocre, boring Maggie.
Now, on the park bench in Ocean Beach, she saw the proof in the pudding. The Deadline announcement of how Kurt had sold his new hit script. The premise of the movie was the same as hers, but her name had disappeared like sidewalk chalk after a storm.
She listened to Kurt’s voicemails, resigned herself to reading his texts. They were all threats, reminders of her NDA, of her contract, of how little she could do about any of this. Maggie was simply a loose end. Kurt wanted to make sure that she was on the same page, that she understood that he was doing this without her. Then he never wanted to hear from her again.
On the park bench in Ocean Beach, Maggie sank her head into her hands.
It was over. Her story had been taken. Her career was gone.
She had never felt more alone.
Then someone tapped her shoulder.
It was Ty.
Despite the still-early hour, he had ice cream from Scoops in his hands.
Ty was the last person Maggie wanted to see right now. A concrete reminder of how misguided her professional pursuits had been.
Yet his face didn’t seem ready to gloat, or to pry. He looked concerned as he sat by her side. He must have seen her through the window of Scoops, walking into town, because he had a second spoon tucked into the cup of mint chip.
“The best thing about ice cream for breakfast is that it tricks your body into thinking the hard stuff is over. That it’s already time for dessert,” he said, offering Maggie a spoon. “I’m sorry if I interrupted anything last night or said something that made you upset. I didn’t mean to.”
Maggie swallowed some ice cream, took a good look at Ty. She didn’t know why, but she felt a resolve building. She wanted to do things differently. The past wasn’t working; she needed to bring about a change.
She had to.
“I haven’t been honest with you. About why I’m here, what happened with Kurt,” she said.
Ty turned toward her. She watched as his eyes grew wide, his face smoldered, as she told him the truth. All of it. Walking through the history gave clarity to the amorphous, forced her to pull her previously hidden thoughts to the surface. Surprisingly, it felt good, in a weird, foreign way. To bring someone into the fold, to have her hardships heard. He gave appropriate responses when warranted, “I’m so sorry” or “No fucking way,” but for the most part, he simply listened.
By the end of her monologue, Ty had a small smile slightly outweighing the scowl that had previously weighed his face down during her story. “Do you know what I think?”
“That I’m a total pushover loser hopeless talentless poseur who never was cut out for LA in the first place?”
“Dear god, no.” Ty laughed, nudging her shoulder gently. “The farthest thing from it. I think you’re a rock-star writer who survived one of the worst bosses on the planet. And even Kurt—a monster, who, by the way, we aren’t going to let win this—couldn’t deny it. Your writing is good, Maggie. It’s more than good. Your script sold. And even someone who was determined to keep you broken, lying helpless on the ground, couldn’t deny that you have something in you that shines.”
Maggie felt her eyes start to tear up ever so slightly.
“And to let him keep you down? Well, then he wins. I definitely don’t like that ending. And the rom-com-loving Maggie I know? I have a feeling she’d agree.”
The horn of the inbound ferry blasted as Maggie bit her lip. Next to her, she caught Ty staring at the town’s bulletin, his eyes drifting toward a flier. The Fire Island Film Festival was next month.
The final weekend in Ocean Beach.
The final chance to change her story. With Liz, with Mac. With herself.
Suddenly, Maggie knew what she had to do.
From: [email protected]
Liz:Hey, sorry, it’s been a weird couple of weeks.
Liz:Can we talk Friday in Ocean Beach? Just us?