The Rom-Commers(18)

“Do you?” Charlie challenged. “Because the Warner Bros. internship isn’t something that writers just ignore.”

“Logan told you about that?”

“Do you have any idea how prestigious that internship is? How much it could have changed your life? It’s unfathomable that you had that chance and didn’t take it.”

“I know exactly how prestigious it is, and I—”

But Charlie kept going. “Logan thought I’d be impressed that you won. But the fact that you turned it down tells me everything I need to know.”

“Look, there were circumstances—”

“Fuck circumstances! That’s what I’m saying. If you want to do this life, you have to eat it and drink it and sleep it, and it has to come before everything else. Family—friends—sex! Anything else is second best. Anything else is not taking it seriously.”

Turning down that internship had been the most agonizing sacrifice out of all my agonizing sacrifices. But if this guy really thought that my own personal writing goals should truly come before everything else, including my family—including my dad—then there was no use in trying to explain.

We’d reached Charlie’s house. He swung us into the driveway, cut the engine, and stomped the parking brake.

“Is that what you’ve done?” I asked then, quietly. “Sacrificed everything?”

“How do you think I wound up all alone in this giant mansion?”

Was he saying that like it was a good thing? There was bitterness in his voice, and probably a whole story to excavate. But I had my own bitterness to cope with.

I’d already lost this fight, anyway.

I let out a long breath. “You must be right, then,” I said. “By your definition, I guess I don’t take it seriously.”

“Thank you,” he said, like he’d won.

“Pro tip, though,” I said now, at the end of this endless day, not even able to disguise the exhaustion in my voice. “In general, if you have to add the words ‘no offense’ to something you’re saying … it’s probably offensive.”

Charlie frowned at that. Like it registered. Like once the frenzy of trying to make his point had abated, he could suddenly see the wreckage he’d left behind.

“I’ll find a plane ticket home,” I said then, in defeat, hearing a threat of tears in my voice, “for first thing in the morning.”

Then I pulled the door handle to get out.

But the door didn’t budge.

“Oh—” Charlie said, remembering. “It’s broken.” At that, he leapt out and came around to my side. “I have to get it from here.”

He opened the door, and I swung my legs out, fully intending to grab my bags, march inside, fire up the internet, buy a plane ticket, and then defiantly ignore Charlie Yates for the rest of my life.

But instead?

Instead, I fainted.





Seven

DID NOT SEE that coming.

One minute, I was fine—or as fine as you can be when your personal hero is telling you you’re worthless—and the next minute, as Charlie held the car door, and I stepped onto the driveway, coming face-to-face with him by a matter of inches, close enough that I could feel his gaze on me like a breeze, I felt a swell of nausea, heard a rushing sound in my ears, and watched the edges of my vision go dark.

Next, I was coming to, flat on my back on the concrete, Charlie’s face hovering above mine, frowning, his eyes dark with intensity. “Emma!” he was saying. “Emma!”

But the sound was muffled, and out of sync a little.

In slow-mo, Charlie moved his head away and pressed it to my chest. Was he listening to my heart? Checking my breathing? I can still see that chestnut-brown hair of his, as if my mind paused to snap a photo. He was on his hands and knees beside me, but next I saw him launch up and run—run!—to the back of his truck to grab my suitcase and drag it toward me. Then he was lifting my legs and resting them on it to elevate them.

Then his face came back to my face, peering close.

“Emma?”

I could hear him more clearly now.

He was handsome. To me, at least. There was no way around it.

Don’t talk about his nostrils. Don’t talk about his nostrils.

Thank god I was too nauseated to speak.

I started to sit up, but Charlie shook his head. “Don’t get up! You’re not supposed to stand. Give it a second.”

I relaxed back against the driveway as Charlie wriggled out of his overshirt, wadded up a makeshift pillow, and tucked it under my head, cradling my face to his shoulder for a second to get it placed.

Dammit. He smelled good.

Whatever his deodorant was, it cured the nausea like a tonic.

I watched him rise again, and then come back from the car with a bottle of water. He squirted some on his palm, shook off the excess, and then smoothed the water over my forehead.

“What are you doing?” I asked, better enough at last to talk.

“I’m cooling you off.”

“I’m not hot.”

“The internet says to.”

Fine. I wouldn’t argue with the internet. It felt nice, anyway.

“You fainted,” Charlie said, looking genuinely worried.

“I’m sorry,” I said, closing my eyes.