The Rom-Commers(20)

“Well, it works.”

How did Charlie Yates not know this term?

“The point is,” Charlie went on, “you information-gapped me—”

“You information-gapped yourself.”

“—and now I need you to fill in the … information.”

I gave it a beat. Then I said, “Why would I do that?”

Charlie shrugged. “Why wouldn’t you do that?”

“Because,” and I couldn’t believe I had to say this out loud, “you didn’t hire me.”

Charlie nodded, like Interesting.

“If you had hired me,” I said then, wanting to be totally clear, “I would happily do that right now.” I gestured toward my backpack in the guest room. “I’ve got ten pages of typed, single-spaced notes. I’ve got Post-its all over the printed screenplay—and comments filling up the margins.” Though, in truth, the margins mostly said things like WTF??! and FFS!!!—more of a chronicle of horrors than thoughtful commentary. “I spent every free minute,” I went on, “from the time Logan told me I had this job until I got on the plane to come here breaking down that screenplay and figuring it out—time I will never be compensated for, by the way.”

Charlie nodded, like he hadn’t thought of that.

I went on, “I could spend hours explaining what I didn’t like about your screenplay. I could go all night.” Then I concluded with, “But you didn’t hire me.”

Charlie nodded, and said, “What if I hired you now—just for that?”

“What?”

“What if I hired you for a consultation? Just for tonight? Tell me what you think, and I’ll pay you handsomely for your time and your thoughts and your trouble.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because you just taught me the term ‘information gap.’”

Well, at least he could admit it.

He could see I was considering it. “What’s your going rate? Two-fifty an hour?”

I had no idea what my going rate was. “Three hundred,” I said.

“Okay. Let’s cover three hours tonight, give or take, and whatever time you spent last week. Plus your time, your stress, your inconvenience, your fainting spell. How’s three thousand dollars?”

“Five thousand,” I countered, not skipping a beat.

That was reasonable, right? We were negotiating in his mansion, after all.

“Sold,” Charlie said.

Wait—what?

Wow. Three cheers for information gaps.

“Sold,” I echoed back. “You write the check. I’ll get my notes.”





Eight

ASTONISHING, REALLY—HOW A five-thousand-dollar paper check can perk a girl up.

The second Charlie handed it over, I tucked it in my bra for safekeeping.

Which felt like a power move.

We cleared the dining table, and then Charlie sat across from me with a fancy Moleskine notebook and a pen. Like he might—good god—take notes on what I was about to say.

Notes for or against, I wasn’t sure.

He watched while I unloaded my backpack. My pen bag, my laptop, my stack of notebooks, my printed notes, all building to the grand finale of his screenplay, bound with brads and a card stock cover, absolutely bursting with Post-its, annotation tabs, and dog-ears. Not to mention a few coffee rings and a wrinkled corner where I’d accidentally dunked it in the bathwater.

A well-read script, for sure.

Charlie stared at it.

“Let me ask you a question,” I said next when I was all set up. “Do you want me to be honest? Or do you want me to blow smoke up your ass?”

“I want you to be honest,” Charlie said—no hesitation.

But that didn’t mean much.

Writers always want you to be honest—but only if you love it.

“Because I didn’t love it,” I said.

“I figured that out when you called it ‘apocalyptically shitty.’”

I squinted, like I guess you heard that? Then I nodded and said, “Can you handle it?”

“Handle what?”

“Not being loved.”

“Sure. Easy. People don’t love me all the time.”

“Not like this they don’t.”

Maybe it was because he’d been so insulting and so dismissive to me back in the car. But now that I had some food in my stomach and some money in my bra, the idea of giving this guy a little comeuppance felt pretty appealing.

Did I want to tell him what I really thought about his screenplay?

Suddenly, I did.

“You sure you want to do this?” I asked him, in a tone like Last chance.

Charlie nodded, looking less sure.

I took a sip of my water and began: “Let me just start by saying that, up until I met you today, you were my favorite writer of all time. I’ve read everything you’ve ever written. I love your character arcs, your dialogue, your plot twists, your settings, your flawed heroes and heroines, your weirdly relatable villains, your timing, your redemption arcs, your sense of humor, and, maybe most of all, your catchphrases.”

Charlie nodded, like all was right with the world.

“But this screenplay,” I went on, “is a crime against humanity.”