The Rom-Commers

by Katherine Center

For my dad, Bill Pannill, who loves words as much as I do. Maybe more.

I wasn’t ruining all that by moving to LA. You had to maximize joy when it fluttered into your life. You had to honor it. And savor it. And not stomp it to death by reminding everyone of everything you’d lost.

“Real life doesn’t come with warnings,” Logan argued, half-assedly. “That’s why fiction,” I said, “is better than real life.”

I fell in love all the time. Just … nobody fell in love with me back.

I had a theory that we gravitate toward the stories we need in life. Whatever we’re longing for—adventure, excitement, emotion, connection—we turn to stories that help us find it. Whatever questions we’re struggling with—sometimes questions so deep, we don’t even really know we’re asking them—we look for answers in stories.

Bearing witness to the suffering of others? I don’t know if there’s anything kinder than that. And kindness is a form of emotional courage. And I’m not sure if this is common knowledge, but emotional courage is its own reward.

But it was one thing to live your dreams in theory—and it was absolutely another thing to clumsily, awkwardly, terrifiedly do it for real.

“Believing in things that aren’t real? Making something out of nothing? Connecting dots that don’t need or want to be connected? That’s what all the best writers do.”

For a second, I swear, Charlie had a look on his face like I was the most amazing woman who ever lived.

the bad thing you’re worried about is never the bad thing that happens.”

Something, instead, that was like … a sigh. Like my heart itself might be letting out a five-point-five-second breath. Something that was absolutely, undeniably romantic.

“The most vital thing you can learn to do is tell your own story”

“I’m not, by the way,” he added. “Not what?” “In love with you.” “Oh,” I said. Then, in case my voice sounded weird, I added, “Of course not!” “I googled it,” Charlie continued, “and I’m not.” “You googled whether or not you’re in love with me?” “I googled how long it takes to fall in love.” “And?” I asked. “How long does it take?” “Eighty-eight days,” Charlie answered, definitively. “And we’ve only known each other for thirty-one. So. Problem solved.” Why was Charlie googling this? And what nutty professor came up with that number? And what problem, exactly, were we solving? “I wish I’d known that back at the coffee shop,” I said then. “That would’ve been a great comeback.”

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

I reached up behind Charlie’s neck to pull him back. Had I been ragging on Charlie for forgetting what kissing was like? Because I’m not sure I ever knew in the first place.

He felt real. But more than that: he made me feel real. The kiss lit a warmth that spread through me like honey, softening everything tense, and soothing everything hurt, and enveloping everything lonely.

I’d dated other people before. I’d had a few mild relationships. But I’d never felt anything like this. And then a thought hit me: This might be love. Oh, god. This really might be love.

“I get it now.” “Get what?” I asked. Charlie met my eyes. “Why we’re rewriting this story.”

“Peonies are my favorite flower.” Charlie looked up at that. “Are they? I wondered.” “You wondered?” “Yeah. Because you always look at them longingly when we’re at the market, but then you never buy them.” I wrinkled my nose. “They’re like nine dollars a stem.” “So you want to buy them, but they’re too expensive?” “They’re just not the kind of flowers you buy for yourself.” Charlie was quiet a second, and I realized he was suppressing a smile. “I’m glad I bought them for you, then.”

“I think,” he said, surprisingly lucid for a moment, “that you’re my favorite person I’ve ever met.” “Oh,” I said, looking back down. “That’s very nice of you.” “And I’ve met”—and here, less lucid, he made a big, drunk gesture—“everybody. In the world. And you’re my favorite. Out of all seven billion.”

“How crazy is that?” Charlie asked, leaning closer to study my face, like he might find the answer there. “I’ve known you six weeks, and I already can’t imagine my life without you.” “Six weeks can be a long time,” I said. “Not quite six weeks,” Charlie corrected then. “Thirty-seven days.” “How do you know that?” “I just know.”

“Classic Emma,” he said. “Everything that you say is not romantic is romantic. You said it’s not romantic for people to fall on each other, but then you fell on me and it was. You said line dancing isn’t romantic, but then we went there and you ogled that Italian guy and I thought I was going to lose my mind. And here you are telling me to strip you down naked with my eyes closed, like if I can’t see you it’ll be PG-13, but instead I’m having to put my hands all over you—and it’s not better, it’s so much worse.”

None of those things were deal-breakers … but maybe the fact that he was listing them was. How fully, incontrovertibly, utterly uninterested in me must he be to construct a whole case against himself like that—to my face? I took a five-point-five-second breath. “Okay,” I said, nodding. “Okay, what?” “Okay, I get it.” “You do?” I nodded. “You really don’t like me.” I nodded some more. “I’ll stop bothering you. I got carried away. I’ve never had a writing partner before. Or lived with a guy. I must have”—and here I quoted him again—“connected dots that didn’t need or want to be connected.” Charlie glanced away. “I kept thinking we must be having a misunderstanding. But there is no misunderstanding. Is that right?” Charlie nodded and met my eyes again. “There is no misunderstanding.” “You know I like you, and you know I am propositioning you,” I said. “And any feeling I keep having that you like me, too, is just wishful thinking bending my perceptions—because you are clearly, plainly saying no.” Charlie nodded, like he was really sorry about it. Then he said, “I am clearly, plainly saying no.”

“Whatever story you tell yourself about your life, that’s the one that’ll be true.”

“Here’s another thing I accidentally figured out: happiness is always better with a little bit of sadness.”

If you wait for other people to light you up, then I guess you’re at the mercy of darkness.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Charlie went on, “but I knew on that first day that I was going to fall for you. You hadn’t been yelling at Logan in my front yard for even sixty seconds before I knew. I felt it. I called it! It was so predictable.”

“I like you like crazy, Emma. I didn’t even know it was possible to like another person this much.” He shook his head. “And up until today, I wanted nothing more than to make you like me, too.” He frowned, like he was thinking. “Maybe this is my punishment. Maybe you were right about self-fulfilling prophecies. All I know is, I really don’t want to die. And the reason I don’t want to die is because I just want more time with you.”

I’m going to push you away for your own good while I’m still strong enough to do it. And you know why—and you know I’m right. If I don’t, you’ll take care of me just like you did with your dad—and I refuse to be another thing that stops you. You need somebody in your life who lifts you up—not drags you down. Trust me on this. I’ve been through it all before. It’s shitty, I know. But every option I have is shitty. At least this one sets you free.”

“I’m so sorry, Emma,” he said then. “I would write a hundred happy endings for us if I could.”

He was here. He was alive. He was just across the room. Charlie, you astonishing dummy. How could you ever think that pushing me away was a good idea?

“Eight weeks ago, I was one of those douchey guys who thought love was made up by Hallmark to sell greeting cards. I thought it was an emotional Ponzi scheme. I thought it was a fiction we’d been tricked into believing by the animators at Disney. And I thought our only hope of escape was to unplug from the Love Matrix and see our true dystopic loveless hellscape for exactly what it was.” Charlie looked around while the room waited. “And then,” he went on, “I met a woman who disagreed. Really disagreed. Loudly—and often. Like, she made me watch a TED Talk about it.”

“She argued with me,” Charlie went on, “and she made fun of me, and she told me I was wrong so relentlessly … that of course I had no choice but to fall in love with her.”

“Her name is Emma Wheeler, by the way. And she’s about to be a very successful screenwriter. And before I met her, I thought the only stories worth telling were the realistic ones. You know—like ones about zombies.”

“I don’t know how I let myself get so cynical,” Charlie went on. “I’ve been wondering about that a lot. All I can figure is this: it hurts to be disappointed. It hurts so much, we’d rather never get our hopes up. And it’s humiliating, too—right? How foolish are you to hope for the best? How pathetic is it to try to win after you’ve already lost? How naive must you be if you don’t know that humanity is dark and vicious and totally irredeemable? But the argument Emma’s been making this whole time—and I’m paraphrasing here—is this: If those are the only stories we tell about ourselves, then those are the only stories we have.” Nods and murmurs from the crowd. “And that’s kind of where I’ve landed, after taking her crash course in why love matters. Humanity at its worst is an easy story to tell—but it’s not the only story. Because the more we can imagine our better selves, the more we can become them.” Charlie nodded, like he was really siding with himself now. “It’s cooler to be jaded. It’s more badass to not care. But I just can’t stop thinking that it’s kind of chicken, too. If you try to write stories about love and kindness, you really are risking being ridiculed. Which might be the worst form of social death. But my friend Emma kept insisting that it was really important to be brave and try. And I’m here to say, after arguing with her from every single angle, I’ve decided at last that she’s right.”

“The part about how I’m in love with you.” “That does sound familiar.” “Is that okay?” I nodded. “It’s okay.” Then I added, “Better than okay, in fact. Because now we’re even.”

And that was enough for now. “I’m so in love with you,” Charlie said then, his breath against my ear. “It’s terrible.” And so I said, “We’re gonna need a better word for terrible.”

Charlie fully supported my commitment to independence. But, even still, every single day … he asked me to marry him. Which I loved. Even though, every day, I also evaded the question.

I did eventually give in and marry Charlie, by the way. And I did transfer my mug collection to his mansion. But I am still, to this day, not allowed to touch the coffee maker.

AND THAT’S HOW this story comes to an end: with a total of not one, not two, but three weddings. Do you have to get married in life to be happy? Of course not. But it’s certainly one way to go.

“But I disagree. I don’t think marriage is hard. I think, in fact, if you do it right, marriage is the thing that makes everything else easier.”

“Choose a good, imperfect person who leaves the cap off the toothpaste, and puts the toilet paper roll on upside down, and loads the dishwasher like a ferret on steroids—and then appreciate the hell out of that person. Train yourself to see their best, most delightful, most charming qualities. Focus on everything they’re getting right. Be grateful—all the time—and laugh the rest off.”

“There it is. The whole trick to life. Be aggressively, loudly, unapologetically grateful.”

It’s all about the details you notice. And the joys you savor. And the hope you refuse to give up on. It’s all about writing the very best story of your life. Not just how you live it—but how you choose to tell it.