The Rom-Commers(62)

I’d loved her so long—and so madly—from afar.

And now here she was. Up close.

Very up close.

So up close that I stopped breathing when I saw her and didn’t remember to start up again until I began to feel woozy.

To be honest, my number one fantasy about coming to LA was that I might run into her by pure, nonstalkery accident, get to pleasantly chatting, give her the elevator pitch for The Accidental Mermaid, and then, when she looked intrigued, just happen to have a copy of it in my bag.

This is a common fantasy for aspiring screenwriters on the outside of the industry: running into their own personal Spielberg by accident. Common, but also impossible. A moment like that would absolutely never happen.

But … what if it did?

It wouldn’t. It couldn’t.

But that didn’t mean I hadn’t carried a copy of that ninety-three-page script in my backpack with me everywhere I went ever since the day I’d finished it—just in case it happened anyway. Like impossible things were more than welcome to do.

The worst-case scenario, I’d decided early on, wouldn’t be me carrying the script everywhere like a deranged hope junkie for years without ever getting the chance to hand it over. The worst-case scenario would be me actually running into Donna Cole but not having my screenplay with me because I’d given up too soon …

And then missing my chance.

Holding out hope for too long was one thing.

Giving up too soon was quite another.

You know what an elevator pitch is, right? It’s the one-line description of your screenplay that you prepare in case you ever run into your dream director in an elevator.

I wasn’t sure how many elevator pitches actually happened—in elevators, or anywhere else—but I did know they were crucial to write. And memorize. There were whole chapters devoted to them in screenwriting books.

I mean, if you couldn’t sum up your screenplay, who the heck could?

Here was my elevator pitch for The Accidental Mermaid: A woman doesn’t know she’s a mermaid until she falls off her mean new boss’s boat and sprouts a tail; now she must navigate her new identity, keep her dream job, and get her boss to fall in love with her before time runs out and her legs disappear forever.

You’d watch that, wouldn’t you? As long as I could guarantee that no Meryl Streeps would be harmed?

And Donna Cole could make that movie in her sleep. Pop Jack Stapleton into a slim-fit business suit and slap a tail on Katie Palmer—and Wah-lah! Your next summer blockbuster.

Actually, it’s mostly only Marvel movies that are blockbusters these days.

Maybe better to say: Wah-lah! Your next low-budget, moderately successful, character-driven comedy beloved by a not-small half of the population.

That wasn’t dreaming too big, was it?

Maybe it was.

Because even after all that vigilant, relentless, almost masochistically deranged hope I’d refused to let go of for so long … on the day I actually got my impossible chance?

I’d left my backpack at Charlie’s.

I forced myself to take a five-point-five-second breath.

Donna Cole.

She was here. I guess the impossible made its own rules.

I’d cried my face off watching My Beloved Stranger. And I’d practically memorized Good as Gone. And I adored her sexy remake of The Best of Things—damn all those snooty critics.

And here she was in the real world. Shorter and yet somehow so much taller than I’d ever thought possible, otherworldly and yet totally normal, divine and yet so human—and wearing a casual-yet-classy Dior wrap dress and surrounded, of course, by a gaggle of important-looking people.

What was my elevator pitch again? I’d practiced it so much, it was practically tattooed on my brain.

I rummaged through my memory. But the pitch was just … gone.

Time to think fast.

I pulled out my phone, nice and slow, keeping an eye on Donna Cole at all times like a wildlife photographer might track a rare bird that could flap away at any minute.

HEY, I texted Charlie. You busy?

His reply came right away.

What’s up?

Emergency

What’s wrong???

Need my backpack—Can you bring? URGENT

Where are you?

Coffee shop

And then … nothing.

Had he gotten another phone call? Lost interest? Fallen victim to Mrs. Jablowmie’s predatory behaviors?

Was his meeting over—and now he was coming? Or was the meeting still going—so I should try to sprint to his place and back here before Donna Cole escaped?

I closed my laptop and capped my pen. And then I hesitated—not sure what to do.

Minutes went by. Donna Cole ordered at the counter, then took a seat at a banquette around the corner.

More minutes went by.

Then more.

Maybe Charlie wasn’t coming. Who knew what the mistress might be doing to him by now.

I stood up. I couldn’t stand it. I had to do something.

But that’s when the coffee shop door swung open—and it was Charlie. Hair wild, shirt untucked, my backpack over his shoulder, out of breath like he’d been running. He scanned the room until he saw me, and then ran—ran!—over. “Here,” he said, shoving it at me. “Does it have”—he shook his head—“an inhaler or something? What’s going on? What do you need? Are you hurt?”