The Rom-Commers(77)

But was Charlie a decent person?

I honestly wasn’t sure. About anything.

Three more days. We had three days and a good chunk of Act Three left before we were done. I wouldn’t leave. I’d finish my work here like a non-crazy professional, and then coolly collect my check and go home.

The best thing to do after a person flat-out rejects you is, of course, to never, ever see that person again. But since that wasn’t an option, I had to figure out how to cope.

With Charlie “Bad Call” Yates.

It was the imbalance I hated: we both now knew for sure that I thought he was special, and desirable, and lovable—and that he did not feel those things about me. Lots of people didn’t think those things about me, I pep-talked myself, and it was fine. And I’d had unrequited crushes before, too, and survived them. But it was the combination that was so lethal. Him knowing that I liked him—and still not liking me back.

Charlie had rejected me—and that was a fact. Nothing could change that.

But how I responded to it? That was my choice.

I could let it totally destroy me—sit across the table all day, staring forlornly at Charlie with tears dripping off my face. Or I could pretend it wasn’t a big deal.

It was a big deal.

To me, anyway.

But if the last ten years had taught me anything about myself, it was that I could survive anything. Or at least—I could survive being rejected by a man who couldn’t remember what love felt like.

But how was I supposed to work like that?

That was the question I couldn’t answer. How could I think about dialogue and commas and character arcs now? How could anything going on with imaginary people even compare to the humiliation that had suffused my entire emotional landscape like a fog? And how, exactly, was I supposed to craft the last thing on my to-do list for the screenplay: the happy frigging ending?

I’m glad you asked, because I googled it, and now I have many tips for how to transition from a soul-crushing rejection right on over to a productive writing day with a coworker: Make eye contact, because that’s what alphas do. Stand up tall, because it summons a sense of pride. Keep your movements simple and direct to show that you aren’t flustered. Lift your eyebrows so you look unconcerned. Take deep breaths because they inflate your chest and hide your collapsing soul.

I wrote down a cryptic list to remind myself: Stand up. Lift. Breathe. Inflate.

And then, past the crux of it, I gave quiet thanks for how disappointment so easily gives rise to contempt.

Really? This guy?

I snuck a look at him as we got to work. His hair part was all zigzaggy, like no one ever taught him how to do that. His collar was half-flipped, he’d missed a button, and that Oxford was redefining the maximum limits of rumpled. And while I’d always seen Charlie’s can’t-be-bothered-to-do-laundry vibe before as proof positive that he got to make his own rules, today it just seemed pathetic. Really, dude? You’re in your thirties and you can’t iron a shirt? Also—his shoe was untied, his fingernails were chewed, and he’d never learned to type. For real. He hunted and pecked. Remarkably quickly, but still: If you’re going to be a writer, shouldn’t you at least learn to type? Wasn’t that the bare minimum?

See? He wasn’t so great.

I was fine.

This was freeing, in a way.

I could go home with no attachments when this was all over and return to all the many, many delightful activities I did back at home.

Whatever they were.

Maybe I’d take up line dancing for real and astonish us all by getting so good that I went to the Olympics.

Did they have an Olympics for line dancing?

Maybe I’d start one.

Point being: only three more days.

Be strong, I told myself. You’re fine.

But my eyes betrayed me. Every other part of my body was being utterly obedient: my body was neat and composed, my fingers were typing busily—even if only the asdf jkl; keys over and over—and my heart was trudging along numbly but steadily. Only my rebellious eyes were acting out—so much that I had to pretend to sneeze over and over so I could wipe them.

“Allergies,” I told Charlie.

“The worst,” Charlie agreed.

Eyebrows up. Sit tall. Deep breath.

Don’t collapse. Don’t collapse. Don’t collapse.



* * *



WE WORKED ALL day, and after a while, in that way that stories can save you—it started tugging me along like a little paper boat in a stream. The pull of that familiar current helped a lot.

Here’s another tip for being okay when trapped in a small space with the man who rejected you: Play loud music in your earbuds like an angry teenager.

Loud, cool music—because you are a cool person and no guy who doesn’t appreciate you can touch that.

I had a playlist called “Coolness,” in fact, and I just let it rip. The bands were cool, the songs were cool, I was cool for listening to it—and Charlie Yates could go to hell.

Needless to say, there was not much reading aloud of dialogue today.

No sharing snacks, no chatting, no collaborating.

I never took my headphones out—worked for six straight hours without touching them. Even wore them to the bathroom.

As we worked, I vacillated over whether or not to cancel the dinner I’d promised to cook Charlie—tonight—for his five-year-iversary of being cancer-free.