The Rom-Commers(48)

“The keys are on the front hall table,” Charlie said.

I knew that. But I said, “Ah,” like that was news. Then I gave a little vague wave in their direction, the way I imagined someone who was not suddenly the girl not chosen might, and said, “See ya later!” with such forced cheer that I accidentally added a tinge of madwoman.

I walked out to the car before realizing that I’d forgotten my purse—so I U-turned back into the house, and I was seconds from snagging it off the dining table when I heard Charlie and the terrifying Margaux, still in the kitchen. Talking about me.

And get this: Margaux was pressing a bag of frozen corn niblets to Charlie’s tailbone.

And Charlie wasn’t resisting.

Guess he was fine with his wife’s frozen vegetables.

Ex-wife’s.

“That was definitely more than research,” Margaux was saying, a hint of teasing in her voice.

“What would you know about research?” Charlie said.

“You don’t have to be a writer to read that situation.”

Charlie put his hand over the frozen corn to take over, and he stepped back to rest against the counter. “Don’t read the situation, okay? Don’t read anything.”

“I approve. She’s enchanting. I love that crazy hair.”

“Don’t call her hair crazy.”

“The fact that you’re so grouchy is just proving me right.”

“You don’t get to be right—or wrong—about any of this, Margaux.”

“Look, I’m just saying you clearly like her.”

“I don’t like her!” Charlie said.

But Margaux’s voice dripped with teasing. “Are you sure about that?”

“She fell on me, okay? It happens! Sometimes objects in space collide with each other!”

“Do they ever,” Margaux said, just luxuriating in innuendo, clearly enjoying this.

“I didn’t do anything!” Charlie said. Clearly not.

“I support you,” Margaux said. “It’s past time you released the ghost of our relationship.”

“There’s no ghost—and there’s nothing to support,” Charlie insisted, like he’d never heard anything more ridiculous. “She’s nobody. Just a writer. A failed writer, in fact. A person with a tragic past who Logan asked me to work with. Briefly. As a personal favor. She has no job, no money, and absolutely nothing going for her. She’s leaving as soon as we’re done, and I’ll never see her again. So don’t turn this into a whole thing, okay?”

I held very still.

The words were bad, but the tone of voice was worse.

So eye-rolly. So devoid of warmth. So authentically dismissive. As if there were truly no topic less interesting and less important than me.

There was a good writing lesson in there—that being dismissed is worse than being scorned. In a different frame of mind, I might have paused to think about it: Of course not mattering is worse. It means you didn’t even register. It means you’re not even worth getting mad about. It means you’re literally nobody.

Was this how Charlie really felt about me?

I thought about Charlie’s tell—how good he was at pretending the things that mattered didn’t matter.

I felt tempted to hope he was pretending.

But the thing was, he just didn’t seem like he was.

More important: What was more likely—that I was important to Charlie? Or that I would engage in complex emotional gymnastics to wrongly convince myself that I was? Connecting dots that “didn’t need, or want, to be connected.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d said these things, after all. He’d voiced all of this to Logan when I first got here. Nothing here should be a surprise. But that was before he’d read my stuff and then asked me to stay. Before we’d worked together. And lived together. Before he’d revived me from fainting, and googled my heart attack, and used the word dazzling. Had nothing changed for him? Had nothing shifted at all?

Just a writer. A failed writer.

If he was acting, he’d missed his calling.

One thing was for sure. I wasn’t going to wait around here to find out.





Seventeen

THE NEXT DAY was, of all things, my birthday.

I woke up feeling deeply homesick.

I’d driven around until midnight the night before, in that hostile way you embrace your independence after you’ve been rejected: Fine. Whatever. I never cared, anyway.

I cranked the music up too loud. I left the windows down. I burned all Charlie’s gas and did not refill the tank. I kept my phone turned off so that if Charlie wanted to find me, I was plainly unavailable.

I didn’t turn it back on until I was crawling into bed.

And then only to check for texts from Sylvie, or my dad, or anyone I actually cared about. Though I did happen to tangentially notice in the process that nothing had come in from Charlie, either.

Not that I was looking.

It was all so odd. Charlie’s saying those things should not have smarted so much. Three weeks ago, I didn’t even know this guy. My life had been fine then, and—for the record—it was still fine now. In the big picture: better than fine, in fact. My dad was in good health. Sylvie was performing her duties respectably. I was in LA living a personal dream I never thought I’d get anywhere close to.