The Rom-Commers(104)

“You sabotaged me,” he said in a lowered voice the last time I saw him at an awards show—just as Charlie broke in with “You sabotaged yourself,” and steered me off to visit with someone else.

I won’t name-drop who the someone else was …

But let’s just say her name rhymes with Sheryl Sheep.

Was that enough comeuppance for T.J.? Not getting what he wanted one time?

Probably not. But it’s a start.

If you’re wondering how The Rom-Commers did, I’ll let the legendary box office numbers answer that. And all the headlines that included the term “surprise blockbuster.” And also that piece in The Atlantic, “How Charlie Yates and His Writing Partner Are Resuscitating the Rom-com.” True, my name is missing from the headline. But the full-page photo is of me, filling up most of the frame, with my curly hair puffed out to maximum dramatic capacity by a makeup artist who also does shoots for Vogue and who made me look a thousand percent cooler than I am in real life. And Charlie, in profile and half out of frame, gazes at me admiringly.

When I saw the photo, I said, “This is the only time I’ve ever liked my hair.”

And Charlie said, “That’s okay. I like it enough for both of us.”

Also: During the interview for that piece, Charlie deferred to me at every question, and then, when the writer turned for his response, just nodded and said, “What she said.” Every time. Making sure, in his friendly way, that I was quoted—heavily.

All to say: Charlie’s doing just fine.

As am I.

I did eventually give in and marry Charlie, by the way. And I did transfer my mug collection to his mansion. But I am still, to this day, not allowed to touch the coffee maker.



* * *



AND THAT’S HOW this story comes to an end: with a total of not one, not two, but three weddings.

Do you have to get married in life to be happy? Of course not.

But it’s certainly one way to go.

My dad got certified as a reverend online for thirty-five dollars, insisted we all start calling him Reverend Dad, and then served as our officiant. We all gathered once again in the community garden, surrounded by a bumper crop of Mitsuko’s dragon’s egg cucumbers—just a year to the week after my dad’s own wedding in the same spot.

I carried a bouquet of marigolds, which were my mom’s favorite flower, and which the lovely Mitsuko had planted and grown in anticipation of the big day. We also pinned them to the guys’ white guayabera shirts—it was far too hot in June for jackets—as boutonnieres.

This time, in his official capacity, my dad had some things to say. Leaning on his walker, he told us the smartest thing he knew about being married: “People say ‘marriage is hard’ all the time.” He looked around the small crowd—which included our family, Jack Stapleton and Hannah, Logan and his husband, Nico, Mitsuko’s family, in town for the summer drop-off, and all the members of the community garden.

My dad went on, “But I disagree. I don’t think marriage is hard. I think, in fact, if you do it right, marriage is the thing that makes everything else easier.”

My dad let that sink in.

He went on. “Now you’re wondering how to do it right—right?”

We nodded.

“Well, you’re lucky. Because love is something you can learn. Love is something you can practice. It’s something you can choose to get good at. And here’s how you do it.” He let go of his walker to signal he meant business: “Appreciate your person.”

He looked around.

“That’s it,” he said, like we were done. Then he added, “Well—first, be sure to choose a good person.” He evaluated the crowd to make sure we’d done that. Then he said, “But we’re all good people here.”

Bashful smiles all around.

He went on: “Choose a good, imperfect person who leaves the cap off the toothpaste, and puts the toilet paper roll on upside down, and loads the dishwasher like a ferret on steroids—and then appreciate the hell out of that person. Train yourself to see their best, most delightful, most charming qualities. Focus on everything they’re getting right. Be grateful—all the time—and laugh the rest off.”

My dad smiled at us, and then put a hand back on his walker.

“And that goes for kids, too, by the way—and pets, and waiters, and even our own selves,” he said. “There it is. The whole trick to life. Be aggressively, loudly, unapologetically grateful.”

My dad nodded at us then, like You’re welcome.

Then he concluded with, “Now let’s get these two kids hitched.”



* * *



ALL TO SAY … yes. This was and is a happily ever after.

Even though I still—always—miss my mom. Even though my dad continues to struggle with his balance, and just got seven stitches after slipping in the shower, and still keeps his unplayed cello in a corner of the room where he can see it. Even though Sylvie and Salvador have been trying for a baby for two years and haven’t had much success. Even though I still google “elbow cancer” in the middle of the night, and I don’t make it home nearly as often as I’d like to, and feel, honestly, a little jealous of Sylvie sometimes, now that she’s taken over. Life has no shortage of disappointments. Mistress Jablowmie got vengeful when she didn’t get her screenplay from Charlie, and now his Mafia movie may never see the light of day. T.J. Heywood continues to menace me every chance he gets—stubbornly refusing a redemption arc. The lovely Mitsuko has an irritating new neighbor who keeps spraying insecticide on the butterfly weed she planted as food for the monarch caterpillars. And Cuthbert the guinea pig never did conquer his melancholia—and eventually followed his brother across the rainbow bridge.