Chapter 28
twenty-eight
three drafts
R yan had set his alarm for eight on Saturday morning. He woke at noon.
“Fuck!”
Iz and Teo were in Phoenix for a cousin’s wedding, and he’d been excited to devote an entire weekend to writing his script, hoping he could finally wrangle this thing.
But the sleepless night on Thursday had undone all the work of adjusting his sleep patterns to working a day job, instead of nights at a busy restaurant.
Another reason he’d resisted working at the family company—he was naturally a night owl, and showing up anywhere before ten had been damned near impossible.
Now the whole weekend he’d set aside was down to only a day and a half.
He rolled out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen. The pod went into the Keurig, the bread went into the toaster, and he went into the bathroom. After using the facilities and splashing water on his face, he returned to the kitchen to an overflowing mug and burnt toast.
“Fuck!”
Ryan cleaned up and tried again. More success. He collapsed onto the couch and turned on a basketball game. When halftime rolled around, he was finally awake enough to start on his draft. First, a shower.
Six hours later, three drafts sat in the trash, and he was half-tempted to take the lot of them to the community grill and burn them.
They’d make better kindling for grilling burgers than they would a podcast. He sat at the kitchen table, his notebook open and his head down, surrounded by his piles of research material.
His process was as organized as it was going to be, but obviously it wasn’t enough. Nothing was.
Time to see if a little alcohol might get him over whatever was holding him back. He poured himself a gin and tonic and plopped on his chair. But before he could start draft number four, his phone dinged.
Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.
He looked. God-fucking-dammit. But a smile snuck out when he noticed who it was from. Elissa.
E: Whatcha doing?
Before he could think twice, he responded.
R: Drinking and trying to write. You?
He held his breath. What would an accountant who seemed to have her entire life in order think about an overprivileged asshole whose day job was office manager for his family’s real estate empire trying to write?
E: Drinking and watching Friends marathon whatcha writing
Wait, where was the punctuation?
R: Elissa Wright, are you drunk texting me
He finished his drink and watched the thinking bubble pulse.
E: Maaayybeeee
Ryan chuckled at her attempt to flirt via text. Obviously not something she did often, if ever.
E: Tell me what you’re writing and I’ll tell you what I’m drinking.
R: A script. Your turn
E: A script for what?
Oh, he needed another drink for this discussion. But first…
R: Answer me and I’ll tell you
E: No fun
He grabbed the gin and bottle of tonic and poured another, adding two lime wedges.
R: I’m plenty of fun but you have to live up to your end of the deal
E: Fine pina colada eegee with rum
He sent a bunch of laughing emojis.
E: We out of wine
E: *We’re
Ah, she was sobering up a bit.
R: I am working on a script for a podcast I’m trying to start. Stupid thing kicks my ass every time
He sat on the couch, abandoning his passion project for now.
He’d tried today, he really had, and still…
nothing. Maybe the inner voice that sounded awfully close to his dad’s was right—this was a waste of time.
No one would listen to some dude yammer on about food and history and booze, and he was foolish to believe he’d be successful.
E: I’m sure you’ll make it behave what’s it about?
R: History of food and how the production and trade have changed the world in both good ways and bad. I majored in global studies and minored in history then worked as a bartender. Loved working in the food industry and wanted to do something with everything I learned.
E: sounds amazing I’d totally listen to that. But why a podcast and not a book?
R: I tried a book but my ADHD is a bitch when it comes to focusing for too long on one thing. This story is so big, spanning the course of human civilization. I needed a platform that would allow me to tell the whole story. No one is doing anything like it.
E: Soooo why are you working for your dad
Money. It was the answer to everything in life.
He could’ve searched for another job or requested for more shifts at Nopalitos.
Learned to manage with what he earned, like almost everyone else.
The money from his trust fund had already bought him a first-rate setup.
He had a high-end laptop, an excellent microphone, quality headphones, and great editing software.
If he failed, he’d need a cushion, and the temptation to have more—more time, more freedom, both bought with the trust fund—had him agreeing to work for his father.
But had he not showed up at DeMarco Property Management when he did, he may never have reconnected with Elissa Wright. And that would’ve been a damned shame.
R: Blackmail sort of
E: ????
R: I have a trust fund. My dad now controls it. He won’t let me have access to it unless I work for the family business for the next 2 years
E: That sucks
R: Yeah but I’m trying to put together a business plan to convince him this podcast can be monetized. Maybe he’ll back off
The thinking bubble appeared and stayed for a long, long time.
E: I helped a couple of friends work through the finance stuff for their business plans in college. Want me to look at what you have?
He hadn’t been fishing for help. Just trying to explain to the girl he was…
what? Dating? Attracted to? Simping for?
All of the above, to be honest. Ryan wished her to know he was more than an office manager for his father’s property management company.
He had plans for his future and wasn’t always an entitled asshole.
R: That would be great! You sure it’s not too much to ask?
E: I wouldn’t offer if I couldn’t handle it. Let’s meet on Thursday and you show me what you have.
Her punctuation was back with its usual precision. Guess he’d sobered her right up.
Where to meet? They’d only been on half of an official date. Inviting her here would be creepy. And suggesting her place would be even creepier.
R: Himmel Library as soon as you’re off work? They’re open to 7 on Thursdays.
E: Perfect. I’ll see you then. OMG is it midnight already?
R: Afraid of turning into a pumpkin?
E: You’re lucky I still have thumbs . Goodnight Ryan
Ryan chuckled. He had never dated anyone with Elissa’s sense of humor before.
R: Goodnight Elissa
He resisted the temptation to add any sort of cute emoji, as much as he wanted to. Iz would tease him horribly the next time they got into his messages and saw smileys or, god forbid, heart eyes. Jesus.
It was late, and if he had any hope of writing tomorrow, he should go to bed. He polished off his drink and turned in.
But Sunday was only a little better for productivity than Saturday had been, and two more drafts landed in the trash before the handle on the front door jangled around four. Iz and Mateo walked in carrying grocery bags.
“Can we get a hand, dude?” Iz asked.
Ryan gave up his fruitless attempt at writing for the weekend and helped unload the groceries. Once everything was put away, Iz and Teo started on Sunday dinner. Soon, rich scents wafted through the air, and Ryan’s appetite awakened as he cleared his mess so they could eat at the table.
“That smells fucking amazing,” he said.
Teo stood in front of the stove, stirring something in the Dutch oven while Iz chopped lettuce and vegetables for a salad.
“Jambalaya, like my grandma used to make,” Teo said. “Can you pull out some beer?”
Ryan hurried to the small fridge stocked with beer they kept in the living room, a leftover from his dorm days with Iz.
He pulled out three Barrio Rojos and grabbed the forks and napkins his friend had placed on the counter.
Ryan made quick work on setting the table, and soon the three of them sat down for dinner, the fragrant scent of onions, peppers, and spices making him drool.
Mateo brought over the salad and a plate for Ryan, with Iz right behind carrying two more plates. The flavors burst on his tongue, the spiciness a counterpoint to the rich flavors of the rice and sausage.
“Kudos to your grandma, Teo,” he said around a mouthful.
A pained looked crossed Teo’s face, which he attempted to cover with a smile an instant later.
“I’ll pass them along the next time I talk to her.”
The smile was more a grimace, and it never reached his eyes. Ryan didn’t press the issue. He could ask Iz later.
“So, has the infamous script finally triumphed over the intrepid writer?” Iz changed the subject.
Ryan purposely took another bite in order to avoid answering the question for a minute.
“Want to join me in freeing its remains from this mortal coil?” he shot back. “I’ve got charcoal and lighter fluid.”
Iz smiled at him. “Can’t be that bad, sweetie.”
“Oh, it’s not bad, Iz. It’s fucking awful.”
Mateo choked on his beer and was subjected to the ministrations of both Iz and Ryan. After a moment, he held up his hands in surrender.
“Enough. I’m not dying today.”
Iz lifted Teo’s hand and gave the back a quick kiss before returning their attention to Ryan.
“What’s wrong with it?” they asked.
Ryan sighed. What wasn’t wrong with it? “It’s boring, for one. I sound like Mr. Butler from freshman English. People will tune out and unsubscribe.”
“You’re a good storyteller, Ryan,” Iz said. “Write it like you were telling me the story. Actually, don’t write it. Let’s sit down after dinner, and you tell me the story. We’ll record it, and you can transcribe it.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic!” Performing was easier to Ryan than writing, and if he did as Iz suggested, he might end up with a rough draft by the end of the night.
“I’ve been known to have a bright idea on occasion.” This time, Iz’s smile was genuine, lighting up their face. “But only if you do the dishes.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal.”