The Rom-Commers(96)
“The Rom-Commers,” Logan said.
“Okay, there’s been a mistake,” I said. “I haven’t written a screenplay called The Rom-Commers.”
“Yes, you have.”
“How? In my sleep? I’m telling you, I didn’t.”
“It’s the one you wrote with Charlie.”
“But that’s not called The Rom-Commers. It’s called—”
“He changed the title,” Logan said.
“But—”
“And the plot.”
“Apparently.”
“Now,” Logan said, “it’s about two screenwriters who write a script together and fall wildly in love.”
I ignored the funny flutter those words prompted in my chest. “That’s crazy,” I said—though, actually, it was kind of a great idea.
“And guess what?” Logan said. “It’s good.”
“Of course it is. It’s Charlie Yates.”
“Spoken like a person who called his last rom-com ‘a crime against humanity.’”
“Everybody deserves a mulligan.”
“I love your loyalty.”
“Charlie Yates the human is complicated,” I said. “But Charlie Yates the writer is the love of my life.”
“You say that like they’re not the same guy.”
“When did he have time to do this?”
“After you kicked him out of Texas.”
“That was fast.”
“He’s fast when he’s obsessed,” Logan said. “And thank you for your service, by the way.”
“For my service?”
“You cured him of the yips.”
Did I?
“He’s the opposite of blocked now,” Logan went on. Then, like he was reading a marquee: “Charlie Yates is back.”
My heart stung at that. Charlie Yates was back.
“I’m sending it to you,” Logan said. “Read it. You will lose your mind with joy. It’s a love letter to fun. And to love. And to you, I think.”
“It’s definitely not a love letter to me,” I said. “That much I know for sure.”
“Guess who it’s written by?”
“Is this a trick question?”
“Check your texts,” Logan said.
A picture came in of a title page. There, in classic screenplay Courier font: THE ROM-COMMERS
WRITTEN BY
EMMA WHEELER & CHARLIE YATES
“But I shouldn’t have a credit,” I said. “I was the ghostwriter.”
“Stop talking,” Logan advised. “Let yourself have this.”
I stared at the photo.
“Charlie finished it and sent it to Donna Cole that same day, with a note that said, ‘Present for you!’—and she texted him within the hour and said, ‘I want it.’”
“She wants it?”
“And she wants to meet with you both. In LA. On Thursday.”
“In LA?” I echoed. “On Thursday?”
Guess I was going to LA.
So much for never seeing Charlie again.
Thirty
THE MEETING IN LA with Donna Cole went very well.
And by “very well,” I mean: I sat nervously in an original Mies van der Rohe chrome-and-leather chair next to Logan while an icon of modern filmmaking rhapsodized for an hour about a surprise screenplay I barely knew I’d written—and then offered me six figures to buy the rights.
That kind of “very well.”
Her office was bigger than my family’s entire apartment, by the way. And she had a Georgia O’Keeffe painting—an original painting, not a poster from a museum store—on the wall behind her desk. And she was terrifying.
Terrifying in the most fantastic way.
I didn’t wind up seeing Charlie, though. Donna Cole is an exceptionally busy woman, and the only hole in her schedule happened to be just when Charlie was headed to the Biltmore hotel to receive a screenwriting award.
Another one. He was gonna need a bigger drawer.
Oh, well. So much for the crown braid, mani-pedi, and new moisturizer I’d invested in before leaving town. Not to mention the three different outfits I’d panic-bought—settling on a crisp blue shirtdress and some sandals that actually fit—for nothing.
His loss, I guess.
At the end of the meeting, as Donna was dismissing us, she gave a pretend pout: “I can’t believe Charlie Yates picked getting another award over seeing me.”
“Lunacy,” Logan agreed, as Donna air-kissed him goodbye.
Then she turned her attention to me, and said, “Don’t ever let Charlie write anything again without you.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said, feeling like a liar.
Her assistant was waiting for her, but Donna stopped us at the door.
“I almost forgot,” she said.
Logan and I turned back.
“It’s not official, but we’ve got Jack Stapleton attached to star.”
“Jack Stapleton?” I asked. “Attached? To star?”
Logan was smiling like this wasn’t news to him.
“That was all Charlie,” Donna said.