The Rom-Commers(24)

“You’ve made that abundantly clear,” I said.

“But it almost made me believe in love. And I don’t believe in anything.”

Charlie set our mugs down at the dining table, and I took a seat facing him.

“So…” I said. “You read my writing, and now you want to—”

“Hire you,” Charlie finished. “For real. For the rewrite.”

My brain quivered from the whiplash. As excited as I’d been when I arrived here yesterday, by this morning, I was feeling the polar opposite: desperate to get home—back to safe, friendly territory with people who didn’t think I was worthless.

Like Charlie had.

But that was yesterday.

I tried to make the shift: today, apparently, he thought I was dazzling. And now, also, after reading my stuff: someone he wanted to hire.

“You want to hire me?” I asked. “For the rewrite?”

“Yes, but just for a week.”

“A week?” I said. Logan had said six. “You can’t fix that script in a week.”

“I don’t want to fix it. Just make it passable.”

I shook my head, like Doesn’t compute.

“Did Logan explain the whole deal to you?” Charlie asked then. “Why I even wrote this thing to begin with?”

I thought back. “It’s like an exchange? With some executive? You write this for him, and he’ll produce your Mafia script?”

“Yep. But it’s not the exec who wants this script. It’s his mistress.”

What a weird, old-timey word. “His mistress?”

Charlie nodded. “She loves this movie, and she wants to star in a remake. She’s pushy as hell, and she’s been nagging him, and he wants something to give her.”

“So you’re saying it’s not a real project.”

Charlie nodded. “It’s never going to go.”

I stirred my coffee.

“It doesn’t have to be good,” Charlie said. “It just has to be good enough to pass her muster.”

“Sounds like she didn’t like your first version, either.”

Charlie shook his head.

“So we’re doing all this for a vanity project?”

“We’re doing all this so I can get my Mafia movie made.”

“Does the world really need another Mafia movie?”

“I don’t know about the world,” Charlie said, “but I know I need it.” Then, leaning forward, like he was really sharing something tender and vital about himself, he looked into my eyes and said, “I just need to do something I’m proud of.”

Right then, my phone dinged. I glanced down. My ride was outside.

Here’s the thing. Honestly, in that moment, I just wanted to go home. “Charlie?” I said. “No.”

Then I stood up and walked over to my bags.

Charlie followed me. “No?”

I slid on my backpack and grabbed my bags, lifting the broken carry-on so it wouldn’t screech. “No.”

Charlie took both bags and led the way out. “You’re saying no?”

Was I saying no? To working with Charlie Yates? This was lunacy. But there it was. “I’m saying no, Charlie. I don’t want to do this.”

“You wanted to do it yesterday.”

“You wouldn’t even hire me yesterday!”

“I didn’t know how good you were yesterday.”

“Well, I didn’t know it was a fake project yesterday.”

We made it to the front walk, and when I didn’t slow, Charlie dropped my bag, like Carry your own crap, then. I circled back and grabbed it, letting the broken wheel squeal and scrape toward the waiting Uber.

But Charlie kept following. “You don’t want to work with me? It’s practically free money! You’re already here, anyway! This is an unbelievable opportunity for you! Let’s make a few minimal adjustments to this shitty screenplay, collect our checks, and move on. Do you know how famous I am?”

I’d made it to the car. I turned around to face him. “How very inspiring.”

“Inspiration isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

The Uber driver popped the trunk and got out—but Charlie held up his hand like Halt and then turned back my way.

“Why can’t you just help me?” Charlie asked, leaning in close.

I wasn’t playing hard to get. The truth was—I really just wanted to go home. The mansion, the untouchable coffee maker, the fake project for some weird mistress. It just wasn’t for me.

“Look,” I said, hoping this would kill it for Charlie. “I live in a crappy apartment with my half-paralyzed father. I work all the time. I don’t have money, and I don’t have friends, and I haven’t even made eye contact with anyone attractive in over a year. All I’ve got is my writing and my love of rom-coms and my basic human dignity—and I’m not sacrificing any of those things for this weird, sad project. I am needed at home. I was willing to leave for something big and inspiring. But I am not willing to abandon my family for some abomination of a screenplay that doesn’t even matter.”

That oughta do it. Right?

I turned toward the car, but Charlie grabbed my wrist to spin me back around.