“He gave me special attention. Giving me extra feedback on my scripts. He was always willing to meet me before class if I had questions, which was a key part in my getting an A in that class. And the second he was no longer my teacher, he asked me out.”
He took me to Back to the Future in concert at the Hollywood Bowl. It was the nicest date I’d ever been on. Looking back, I think he had me ensnared in his trap the moment we sat in our seats and the opening chords played from the stage. He made me feel special . . . worthy.
“He got staffed in writers’ rooms for some of my favorite shows and was always working on the next best movie script. I was graduating and trying to break into the industry he seemed to be conquering. When he passed along a few of my samples and helped me land my agent, a part of me started to doubt that I’d be able to do anything without him. Like all the success I managed to gain was directly tied to him.”
Nate, who has been silent so far, speaks up. “I don’t know much—well, anything about that industry, but I have to assume that even if he showed your scripts, you’d have to have talent to get an agent. It couldn’t just be because of him.” He looks away from me, biting down on his lip, and I wonder if I even want to know what he’s thinking. “And you know, I’ve given you a hard time, but you’ve always been really talented. I still remember the stories you used to write when we were younger.”
“Thank you.” It feels as if gravity dissipates and I’m floating on air. My skin tingles under his heartfelt compliment. It’s one thing when my parents tell me I’m talented, but it’s something else completely when a person who struggles to say anything nice about me does it. “That actually means a lot.”
“It should.” He smirks, and lines I’m not convinced came from smiling deepen beside his eyes. “You know I don’t give out compliments often.”
“How could I ever forget?” I gave him a ceramic mug I made in pottery class my freshman year. He was so free with his thoughts that I almost took it back. I think the only thing he liked was the color palette.
Jerk.
“Okay.” He leans against the wall and I feel like those hazel eyes of his are trying to look straight into my soul. “What happened after he started systematically breaking you down until you were insecure and dependent on him? I’m guessing you moved in and he doubled down. Maybe tried to link your careers even deeper? As a favor, of course.”
My jaw falls open because that’s exactly what happened next.
“I moved into his one-bedroom apartment and he offered to put his name on the script I’d been working on.” I start to feel queasy as I recount all the mistakes I made . . . how I did this to myself. “I tried to sell a few scripts on my own, but there was one I’d been working on since college. It was the project I knew had the most potential. It was fresh and fun but still had a lot of heart and a smidge of darkness. I’d been polishing it for years, holding off on it until I knew it was as perfect as it could be.”
If you look around, a lot of white men in the industry will tell you they’re struggling to find work because studios are only wanting diversity. However, if you only look a layer deeper, you’ll realize that’s not true at all. Sure, it may be easier for me to get a meeting, but a meeting isn’t the same thing as a green light and funding.
Inevitably, someone would tell me that they couldn’t relate to my messy biracial heroine. It was like she could either be funny and white or troubled and Black. I could never wrap my head around that, why characters of color couldn’t have a full existence and problems that weren’t always about their race. Like, how are they spending millions of dollars on dragon stories rife with assault, but the successful Black woman leaning into her ho phase is too risky?
“After a few of my scripts fell to the wayside because they weren’t relatable enough, Peter thought to add his name to the script. At the time, it felt like a great idea. Having him take a few meetings and showing that it was already white-man approved would help skip over a few obstacles. But adding his name to this script was all he did. The concept, the characters, the dialogue, that was all me.”
“Oh fuck.” Nate grimaces. “I think I see where this is going and it’s not good.”
“Bet you ten dollars it’s worse than you’re thinking.” I offer my hand.
Nate shakes it with wide eyes and his brows nearly touching his hairline. “That bad?”
“Oh yeah.” It was an actual nightmare. I still wake up in a cold sweat some nights. “So as I’m sure you can see very clearly, when Peter took the show out and pitched it, he didn’t only add his name; he erased mine. Something he didn’t tell me until I was driving home from work and started getting text messages from writers who knew the title of the show, asking if the good news was true.”
Nate’s face twists and his shoulders stiffen like he’s bracing for impact.
“I was so excited when I saw the news that I didn’t notice my name was missing or wonder why I was seeing this on the internet instead of hearing about it from my boyfriend, agent, or literally anybody.” I still get angry at myself for being so naive. There were a million clues and I ignored them all. “I drove to the liquor store and splurged on the best bottle of champagne I could find. I mean, I had a paycheck coming in. I could afford it, right?”
WRONG.
“I got home, lit some candles, put the champagne on ice, maybe had a shot of tequila or two—”
“Collins, no.” Nate groans. “Even I know you don’t handle tequila well.”
“Hey! That was one time and I didn’t know how to handle my liquor yet. Plus, you know those kids were hogging the swings. If they would’ve just gotten off the third time I asked we wouldn’t have had any problems.”
I mean really. Children are assholes; it’s a universal truth. You lose your temper with them one time and people never let you live it down.
“Anyways.” I level him with a pointed stare and continue with the story. “I finally sit down and pull up the deal announcement. And wouldn’t you know it? My name is nowhere to be found. The entire announcement lauded Peter Hanson as this longtime screenwriter who’s written for some of television’s best shows and is finally ready to run a writing room of his own. They credited this thirty-something white man for a coming-of-age story about a Black woman.
“I was still telling myself it was a mistake when he came home. We’d been dating for years. We lived together. We loved each other. No way would my boyfriend do this to me.” I tend to think in terms of worst-case scenarios, but this was outside the realm of even my imagination. “I figured it was all a misunderstanding. So imagine my shock when I brought this up to him when he walked in and he said—and this is a direct quote—‘When I open up applications for the writers’ room, I’m going to look at yours first.’？”
“No, he didn’t.” The absolute horror in Nate’s voice would be enough to make me laugh if this story didn’t make me want to burst into tears all over again.
“Yup.” I nod, confirming that Peter Hanson does, in fact, have more audacity than any other human on the planet. “Then, when I got rightfully furious hearing this news, he told me I was overreacting. That was not the right thing to say.” I tell him something I’m sure any rational human with a brain knows. “And I’m not sure if you remember this about me or not, but I don’t tend to handle these situations all that well.”