The Rom-Commers(68)

Then, for a grand finale, I made him do a close read with me of Ji Chang Wook executing a perfect Korean drama cool-guy kiss—slowing the clip down frame by frame and pausing to point out “nuances, subtext, and emotional body language of the kiss journey.”

By this point, Charlie was too exhausted to fight me. “First he pretends to tease her,” I said. “Then he puts his hands in his pockets and strikes a conversational yet masculine pose. Then she steps closer, and then he steps closer. And the whole time, he’s acting like he’s not all that interested. But now look: he’s stepped so close that his thighs are touching hers, and his torso is touching hers—but the genius is that his hands are still in his pockets.”

Charlie looked at me like Why could that possibly matter?

“There is nothing sexier than a man starting a kiss with his hands in his pockets,” I said, like Hello?

Charlie frowned.

“The snug turtleneck also helps.”

“Ah,” Charlie said—sarcastically.

But I had the moral high ground here. I was saving the world one kiss at a time. “Look at how he leans in,” I said, as Ji Chang Wook bent his head lower. “Pretty sure that’s the exact geometrical angle of maximum yearning.”

“How many times have you watched this clip?”

But this wasn’t about me. This was about the craft of writing—capturing human emotion. Did Charlie not care about craft?

“Do we need to watch it again?” I asked.

“Nope,” Charlie said. “I think I got it.”

But he clearly didn’t.

Because if he got it, he wouldn’t have argued with me when I said we should use a pockets kiss for the grand finale.

“It’s not our job,” Charlie kept saying, “to tell the director how to block the scene.”

“We won’t tell him or her what to do,” I kept saying. “We’ll just write it so vividly that she, or he, will naturally do it right.”

“You don’t understand how movies work.”

“Well, you don’t understand how kisses work.”

We wound up arguing about it all through the end of the writing day, all the way through our trip to the grocery story to get ingredients for dinner, and all the way home. We argued while we cooked, Charlie standing next to me, bringing up counterpoint after counterpoint like he was never going to give in.

It was like he liked teasing me. Like he liked getting me worked up.

Like maybe he didn’t even want to finish the screenplay.

“You know what you need?” I finally said as I peeked into the oven to check the readiness of the roasting chicken with herbes de Provence. “You need to kiss someone.”

“What?” Charlie recoiled physically like he had to dodge the words.

“Yes,” I said, clanking the oven door closed. I liked the notion more spoken out loud. “You need to remind yourself what kissing is.”

“I know what kissing is,” Charlie said, now shifting from offense to defense.

“What it feels like,” I said, feeling more and more pleased with how right I was. “Of course you can’t write a totally immersive kissing scene! Not if your heart is a suicidal bird.”

“Now I’m regretting telling you that.”

“Who can you call?” I asked then, raising myself up to sit on the island countertop, ready to get to work on this idea.

But Charlie just took in the sight of me sitting on his kitchen island. “Margaux never let anyone sit on the counter.”

I nodded like this was good. “We’re breaking all the rules tonight, Charlie. We’re leaving our old limitations behind. Now give me some names.”

“Names of what?”

“Of people you could kiss.”

Charlie blinked. “People I could—?”

“Kiss, kiss,” I said, in a tone like Get with the program. “There have to be women in your life who could help you with this. Friends from high school. Divorcées. Or—what about some of the actresses I’ve seen you with on the red carpet?”

Charlie was totally aghast. “You want me to kiss real people—in real life?”

“All you need is one. What about Liza McGee? She’s cute.”

Charlie could not disguise his horror. “She’s, like, nineteen!”

I shrugged. “That’s legal enough.”

“You can’t be serious. I work with these people.”

“Charlie, this is work. This is research.” Then, before he could brook another protest, I said, “What about Brooklyn Garcia?”

“She just had a baby! And she hates me.”

I saw a pad of paper at the far end of the island and stretched way over to grab it.

“What are you doing?” Charlie said.

“Making a list,” I said.

“Of women for me to proposition?” he said.

“Of potential sources,” I said, like this was Woodward-and-Bernstein-level stuff.

I wrote down BROOKLYN GARCIA and LIZA MCGEE and then crossed them out. Then I held my pen to the pad. “Let’s brainstorm some potentials.”

“I’m not doing this,” Charlie said. “I’m not going to call up random women and ask them to kiss me.”