Chapter 21
CHAPTER 21
T he coffee shop is deafening.
The pre-work crowd has formed a line that wraps around the block. Taylor and I barely snagged a corner booth before the space filled with disgruntled, un-caffeinated bodies.
Taylor’s foot is jiggling beneath the table, one of several visible signs he isn’t entirely enthused by our present location. But I don’t need his clenched jaw or flushed cheeks to tell me he’s uncomfortable.
I knew how he would feel the moment I chose the trendiest cafe on Melrose as our writing destination.
That’s precisely why I chose it.
And not to be petty. I was serious when I promised to play by the rules. But if Taylor is going to actually learn something, he’ll need to push himself. And that means stepping out of his comfort zone. Which, in his case, are hole-in-the-wall indie bistros where no one looks each other in the eye. Taylor doesn’t like to be bothered. Too bad for him I’m incredibly good at being bothersome.
“If you want to write, you’re going to have to get used to coffee shops,” I say, only half-joking. “Being here is kind of like a rite of passage.”
He grumbles something I’m glad I can’t make out and takes a long sip of his iced latte.
I fiddle with the lid of my matcha, avoiding his gaze. What he doesn’t know is that there is another reason I’ve brought him here. A reason I’ll never, ever admit aloud.
It’s because it’s neutral.
Braving the noise and the people might be a challenge for him, but it’s safe for me.
This cafe is too loud, too crowded, too bright . Here, my thoughts lack the opportunity to wander. We’re crushed side by side, which means I don’t have to sit across from him, fighting to keep my eyes away from his lips. And the noise? He has to shout. No whispering my name so low I feel it in my veins. The sun is an added bonus, considering all the awful ideas my mind conjures up in the dark.
“So? What now?”
I jolt at Taylor’s exasperated tone, the one I haven’t heard all week. Funny how quickly I forgot the sound of it.
“From the top,” I say, briskly, throwing my laptop open. Already onscreen is the syllabus I spent the night preparing. “What’s your favorite story?”
The side-eye Taylor gives me is deadly. “I thought you were going to take this seriously—”
“I don’t have time to teach you the rules of every genre under the sun. I have time to teach you how to write a single screenplay. And if you want it to be any good, it should be in a genre you’re actually interested in.” I swallow a bit thickly, thinking of my own outline I haven’t touched in days. I know exactly what it feels like trying to force a project that doesn’t want to come.
Taylor looks between my eyes, searching for any falsehoods. With a sigh, he comes up short. “I don’t think I have a favorite story. That’s my problem.”
I hum, trying not to show my displeasure. Taylor is even more of a novice than I thought. “Well, are you drawn to more plot-driven or character-driven works?”
The question in his eyes has me opening my mouth once more. “Character-driven stories focus on the feelings and ambitions of the protagonist. Plot-driven usually means the action is guided by external events, and that’s what shapes the story.”
As I’m talking, Taylor retrieves a notebook and pen. He scribbles down every word I say, underlining a couple of key notes.
“Character-driven.” He sets his jaw, meeting my eyes. “Definitely that one.”
I try to temper my surprise. In a year, I think I’ve seen a grand total of five emotions flit across Taylor’s face. I’m not sure he’ll be able to truly dive into the feelings of a character when he has a hard time expressing his own. But that will be his problem to solve.
“Okay,” I say with a shrug. “Then the first thing you need to do is create your cast. Get to know your characters—learn their names, occupations, their fears and greatest desires. Spare no detail and really take the time to dive into who they are and their relationships with one another. Does that make sense?”
Taylor taps the cap of the pen against his lips and my traitorous eyes zero in on the motion. I’m still staring at his perfect cupid’s bow when he says, “You’re giving me homework?”
I drag my gaze back to his arched brows. “Well, yeah. How else did you think this was going to work?”
Taylor takes another sip of his drink, watching me above the lid. I force myself to maintain eye contact, even though his gaze is beginning to burn.
He swallows, and I definitely don’t watch his Adam’s apple jump with the motion. “And when’s my assignment due, Teach?”
I narrow my eyes. “Tomorrow. And no stupid nicknames.”
He ignores that. “Really? That’s all you got for me?” A dubious note enters his voice, and I’m sure he’s wondering whether I’m going to pull one over on him, waste his time until I can claim the Italy prize.
“I can’t help you write until you have your cast, Hedlund.” It’s the simple truth. “And I can’t help you refine your characters until you create them. If you want to brainstorm, I’m fine with that. But I know you. You work better alone. Tell me I’m wrong.”
His eyes widen before flickering between mine. He doesn’t say a word. Because he can’t. I know Taylor as well as he knows me. Better, even, considering I’ve known him long before my existence was a blip on his radar.
He needs time to think, to plan, to practice. I have never seen the man be bad at anything. And I know he’s not going to flaunt his one vulnerability in front of his worst enemy. At least, not yet.
“Create characters you care about,” I repeat. “That’s my parting piece of advice. Because if you don’t care about them, no one else will.”
Taylor starts scribbling in his notebook before my sentence is complete. I pack up my stuff quietly, leaving him to it.
Halfway to my car, I can’t help but glance back at the cafe. Through the glazed window, I can just make out the hunched shape of Taylor’s back. He’s typing furiously on his keyboard, and for some inexplicable reason, the sight brings a smile to my face.
I’m knee-deep in a bowl of instant macaroni and cheese when Taylor slides a piece of paper across the dining table.
“You’re done early,” I muse, hoisting another forkful into my mouth.
He looks down at the paper, then back up at me. He wants me to read it now, I can tell by the way his fingers are twitching at his sides. That’s why I chew extra slowly, blinking up at him like we have all the time in the world.
The moment he opens his mouth, I start to speak. “Well, are you going to loom over my shoulder while I read it?”
He scratches his jaw. “You’ll read it, then?”
“Maybe once you stop staring.”
“You’re the one who gave me homework. If you don’t want to read it, just—”
I snatch the sheet of paper off the table, holding it pointedly in front of my face. When I lower the sheet, Taylor has slinked off. And with him goes the weight on my chest.
I’m not sure what I was expecting to read. A couple of stilted sentences, maybe. Or a handful of characters that are as surly and arrogant and taxing as him. What I’m handed squeezes my windpipe until it hurts to breathe.
Because it’s good. Taylor has written a thorough breakdown of his two main protagonists: A man who’s spent his life loving his neighbor, and a woman who never noticed her pen pal lived right next door. The more I read about their hopes and dreams, the wider my eyes grow. Taylor’s plans are clear. With every line, I see his story taking shape. And I’m not sure what surprises me more—the care he’s put into building these star-crossed lovers, or that his story centers love at all.
My throat feels tight when I set his paper down. Taylor is writing a romance. One with all the makings of a heart-fluttering, stan-inducing, instant classic.
“Hedlund!” I call out. I know I’m screwed when I can’t even find pleasure in how quickly he runs over. “You only fleshed out your protagonists. I can see where your story is headed, but you’re going to need an entire ensemble behind them.” My gaze flickers to him, foreboding trickling into my gut. “We’ll need meddling best friends, disapproving parents, comedic relief, and competition. I want you to write up a one-page synopsis. Focus on the main beats—exposition, rising action, climax, resolution. Keep those background characters in mind while you do this, but you don’t need to go into detail about each one. Do you think you can get this to me by tomorrow evening?”
Taylor stops scribbling notes just to cast me a disbelieving look. “Wait, you’re just going to give me more homework? What about my notes? Shouldn’t you be marking up the page with a red pen?”
I know he’s referring to what I do for Adoria. Every time I hand a script back to her, I make sure it’s covered in red ink. She appreciates seeing my edits, along with my thorough thought process behind them. My stomach sinks a bit when I shake my head.
“Your character breakdown is solid. I know exactly who Liza and Brandon are. I can see why they fell in love.” Taylor went into even greater detail than I would have, taking the time to develop their past traumas, their red flags, and how those traits affect their sense of self. He’s made it look easy, and there’s no disguising the note of jealousy that enters my voice when I say, “You’re off to a great start. I want to see where their story is headed. I’m sure I’ll have more notes for your synopsis.”
I hope I will. Because there’s that clenching sensation again in my stomach. An uneasiness that whispers Taylor’s burgeoning talent has the potential to surpass my own.
Something on my face causes his eyes to narrow. “Fine. Just remember our deal, Montes. If you don’t do your best to help me, you’re the one who’s going to pay the price.”
I grit my teeth. No matter what I do, I have the awful feeling I’ll be losing in some capacity. “I’m not the only one with a trip to Italy on the line. Don’t come crying to me when I cash in.”
I say the words with a smile. But, for the first time, I wonder if the reward will be worth the cost.