The Rom-Commers(9)

“Yates,” Logan said, like Duh.

With Charlie Yates? I shook my head. “I’m sorry. Wait. I’m going to be living with Charlie Yates?”

“Staying with,” Logan corrected, like that was different.

“This is way too close for comfort,” I said.

“You’ll never even see him,” Logan said. “He’s got, like, five guest rooms.” He glanced over at my stricken face. “It’s basically a resort.”

How had I missed this basic information? Was I so starry-eyed at the prospect of going to Hollywood that I couldn’t think straight?

“What other details haven’t you mentioned?” I asked as Logan zoomed us through traffic like the other cars were slalom poles.

“Just go with it,” Logan said. “Details are overrated.”

Were they?

Logan glanced over. “You look a little green,” he said.

“I’m out of practice with adventure,” I said. “And you’re a terrible driver.”

“Being a terrible driver is a power move,” Logan said. Then, from his place of power, he added, “Do you want some advice?”

“Not really.”

“Don’t sleep with Charlie.”

“Don’t sleep with Charlie?!” I shrieked, like the idea had never crossed my mind.

“I know you have a writer crush,” Logan said. “But keep it at that.”

“Are you insane?”

“You’ve got a photo of him on your bulletin board.”

“I’ve got a photo of Kurt Vonnegut on my bulletin board, too.”

“I’m not concerned about Vonnegut.”

“Yeah. Since he’s dead.”

“Since you’re not moving into his house.”

“Well, whose fault is that?”

“I’m very pro the professional partnership,” Logan clarified. “But I’m very anti anything more.”

“Why are we even having this conversation?”

“You’re lonely. He’s lonely. It’s like an incubator for fornicating.”

“You’re the one who set this up. I’d be perfectly happy to stay literally anywhere else.”

“You’ll write better in the house,” Logan said.

I gave him a look. “As long as I don’t fornicate,” I added.

“Exactly!”

I was still a little motion-sick from the turbulence we hit during landing—and Logan’s NASCAR-inspired driving wasn’t helping. I hadn’t eaten all day—or yesterday, for that matter—and I hadn’t slept well the night before. I still had that heart-thumping thing going on inside my rib cage. Needless to say, this little fornication-themed heart-to-heart wasn’t helping.

“All I’m saying,” Logan said, “is don’t even think about it.”

“I wasn’t thinking about it—until you got me thinking about it. Now I’m thinking about it.”

“Stop complaining,” Logan said. “I’m helping you.”

“You’re freaking me out.”

“It’s better if you’re prepared,” Logan said.

“Maybe you should stop talking now.”

But Logan went on. “He’s terrible in relationships! Why do you think his wife left him?”

He had me. “Why?”

“Because he did immersion research in Chicago for that Mafia thing, and he didn’t call her one time in three months.”

I felt an impulse to defend him. He was working! But then I said, “Okay, yeah. That’s a long time.”

Logan nodded, like we were finally on the same page. “Don’t let those corduroy trousers distract you. You are here to get in, kick-start your tragically delayed brilliant career, and get the hell back out.”





Five

YES, CHARLIE YATES’S house was an Old Hollywood–style mansion-slash-villa-slash-estate on a switchbacky road packed with mansions just behind Sunset Boulevard. Of course he lives in a dream house, I thought, as we stopped out front and Logan yanked up the parking brake. He was living the dream. And that’s what the dream looked like.

After we parked, I dallied: I put on fresh lipstick, patted down my pom-pom, and pulled out a little mirror to spot-check—one more time—for pepper in my teeth. Even though I hadn’t eaten any pepper today. That I knew of.

I’d already done all these things in the airport bathroom, but, dammit, I did them again.

I was about to stand before Charlie Yates.

I was about to come into contact with genuine greatness.

It wouldn’t have entirely surprised me to find a throne in his living room.

I’d watched every video of him on the internet—most of them on stages at screenwriting festivals in front of adoring audiences—and practically memorized his remarks on structure, character arcs, and how to keep the mushy middle from sagging. I’d seen his face. I knew his voice. I knew that he was thirty-five, and a Gemini, and slightly duckfooted, and had an unwavering affection for flat-front, wide-wale corduroy pants. And while no one would accuse him of being movie-star good-looking, he had a kind of disheveled, no-rules, maverick appeal that I couldn’t classify as anything other than handsome.