The Rom-Commers

by Katherine Center

Taking care of my dad wasn’t an art—it was a science, and it sure as hell wasn’t for amateurs. Sylvie was a smart girl, sure, but she’d never had any training for this, and I felt like an astronaut handing over the keys to the space shuttle to a chimpanzee.

Was it fear? Was I afraid to fly? Afraid to leave my dad? Afraid of changing my narrow little life? Sure. Yes. All of the above. But more than that: I was going to miss him. My dad wasn’t just a dad. He was my favorite person. He was everybody’s favorite person. He was a delight.

“Why are we even having this conversation?” “You’re lonely. He’s lonely. It’s like an incubator for fornicating.”

And then, before she let go, she gave my hand a warm squeeze, pulled me close for a kiss on the cheek, and whispered, “Don’t break his heart, okay? He’s much sweeter than he seems.”

“Donna Cole,” he went on, “is brilliant, and accomplished, and at the top of her game—and she also won’t think twice about ripping out your beating heart and squeezing it like a sponge in front of you before you die.” “Really?” I said. She’d always seemed so supportive in the red carpet photo on my vision board.

“You got that Warner Bros. internship and you didn’t even go.” “I didn’t not go because I didn’t know how to hustle,” I said. “I couldn’t go. Because we found out right after I won that my dad needed another surgery that nobody had seen coming, and there was no one else to look after him.”

“Look at how he leans in,” I said, as Ji Chang Wook bent his head lower. “Pretty sure that’s the exact geometrical angle of maximum yearning.” “How many times have you watched this clip?” But this wasn’t about me. This was about the craft of writing—capturing human emotion. Did Charlie not care about craft?

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.

Because just as I turned to him, unsure of how to shift gears from whatever that just was to doing an ordinary thing like eating dinner … Charlie said, with a slow nod, “I get it now.” “Get what?” I asked. Charlie met my eyes. “Why we’re rewriting this story.”

“I think,” he said, surprisingly lucid for a moment, “that you’re my favorite person I’ve ever met.”

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.”

“But I know one thing for sure. If Dad dies? If your trip to the beach kills our father? You will never see me again—guaranteed.” But I guess Sylvie had had enough of being called a murderer for now. There was a funny half pause. And then Sylvie said, “If my trip to the beach kills our father,” Sylvie said, “we’ll be even. Because your trip to the mountains killed our mom.”

he said, “Emma Wheeler?” There was nowhere near enough air in my lungs for talking, but I forced out, “That’s me.” The captain nodded and said, “Let’s get you on board.” “Thank you so much, sir. I thought for sure I was too late.” He looked up at the DEPARTED sign, and then glanced out at the waiting plane on the runway. Then he passed my scourge of a carry-on bag to a waiting gate agent, gave me a nod, and said, “They weren’t taking off without me. And I wasn’t taking off without you.”

“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.”

I wept because my sister had found a genuinely good-hearted man, and because Mrs. Otsuka sensed halfway through that my dad was thirsty and slipped over to bring him some water.

“Not still in touch with the writer?” I shrugged. “He turned out to be disappointing.” My dad nodded. “Most people are.”

I’d taken the summer off from teaching when I got the Charlie Yates gig. So, when I wasn’t visiting and fussing over my dad … I binge-watched TV. I ate scoops of peanut butter straight out of the jar. I slumped by the window like an unwatered houseplant.

He just … lit me up. And I missed that light so much. But I guess this was a teachable moment. If you wait for other people to light you up, then I guess you’re at the mercy of darkness.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

Then she turned her attention to me, and said, “Don’t ever let Charlie write anything again without you.”

“Charlie agreed with you. He didn’t think you should have to see his face, either. So he worked from behind the scenes.” “Worked to do what?” Logan steeled himself to break a confidence. “To do nice things for you.” “Like what? What kind of nice things?” “You know,” Logan said. “Like upgrading your dad’s room.”

“That was all Charlie. He got a hotel room after you told him to get out of your sight, and he stayed close by until he knew your dad was okay.” “Why would he do that?” “Why do you think?” “I honestly have no idea.” “He also did the whole thing with the plants.” “The plants?” I demanded, like now this had gone too far. “Why are you so mad about this? Those plant studies are real. Charlie can recite the statistics all day.”

“It wasn’t his place to do that stuff.” “It wasn’t his place?” “Yes,” I said, doubling down. “That’s totally inappropriate behavior. Would you secretly upgrade a work colleague’s father to a VIP room?” “If I were in love with her, I would.”

“It’s a video for you. To you. From Charlie.” “For me?” “It’s a video he sent me to send to you—but not yet. Only later.” “Only later when?” “Later…” Logan said—and then finished: “After he’s dead.” Dead? “Logan!” I said, like What the hell? “What are you talking about?” “Just watch it,” Logan said. “Go up to your room right now and watch it. And when you’re done, I suspect you’ll have a change of heart. I suspect you’ll want to see Charlie, after all. If I’m right, come down to the ballroom. I’ll save you a seat.”

but if you’re watching this, then I’m already dead.” He nodded, like he was letting the idea sink in. “I don’t know why it’s so weird to say that. Everybody winds up dead eventually. What’s actually weird is the way we all think we’re gonna last forever.”

“I would have liked some more time, though. To be honest. I barely found you. I just found you. Right?” Charlie closed his eyes and made a fist in his hair before going on.

“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.”

When he looked up again, he peered straight into the lens. “I’m so sorry, Emma,” he said then. “I would write a hundred happy endings for us if I could.”

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.” The crowd chuckled agreeably. “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.” More chuckles. “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.”

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.” Was this a whole speech about how I was right?

“There it is. That’s the call.” Then he looked up at the crowd. “I’m so sorry,” he said, holding up a finger. “I wasn’t kidding. I really do have to take this.” And then, in front of three hundred dinner guests, he picked up the phone, and, without thinking to step away from the podium—or the mic—put it to his ear and said, “Hello?” Then: “This is Charlie Yates. Yes.” Then a pause while he listened. Then: “Oh, god. How is that—” Then: “You’re saying—three weeks ago—?” Then: “I understand. Yes. Okay. Thank you.” And then Charlie turned off his phone, dropped it back into his pocket, put his head down on the podium, and cried. For a good while. Charlie Men-Don’t-Cry Yates … cried. At a podium. In a tuxedo. In front of three hundred people. Hands clutching either side of the dais, shoulders shaking, breaths and chokes and cries finding their way straight into the microphone and filling the room with the amplified sounds—making it feel strangely like it was happening to all of us, too. Like we were all crying, in a way. But only one of us knew why. I took a few steps closer to where Charlie was, entering an aisle between the tables that gave me a straight path to the podium. But I stopped when he finally lifted his head, remembered the crowd, rubbed the many tears off his face with his tuxedo sleeve, and then took a deep breath to say, “I have an announcement to make.” The whole room braced itself. Something real was happening here. “I, apparently…” Charlie said, taking in ano...

“Bronchitis,” he said next, shaking his head. “I’m not dying, after all.” Charlie took a deep, five-point-five-second breath. “And now I can’t even remember why I’m up on this stage. Or what I was talking about. Was it about how we should tell ourselves better stories about who we are? About how we shouldn’t rob ourselves of hope and possibility? About how light matters just as much as darkness—maybe more? Or was I maybe just rambling on about Emma Wheeler? Because, honestly, she’s—” Right then, I stepped into the reflected stage lights—close enough that he could see me. Our eyes met. And Charlie lost his train of thought. Charlie just stood there staring down at me, and I just stood there staring up right back.

It took him about ten strides to reach me, and when he got there, he let his award hang forgotten in one hand, like the coolest of cool guys. The whole room was watching, and now flashes were going off. I glanced down at the award. “Another award for the drawer?” But Charlie, never taking his eyes off mine, shook his head. “There is no more awards drawer.” I waited for clarification. “I took them all out, one by one, and polished them, and apologized to them, and put them on a shelf, like a person determined to be grateful for his blessings. And I even glued the angel’s broken wing back on.”

“Did you hear the other thing I said up there, too?” “What other thing?” “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.” At that, Charlie put both of his hands in his pockets. I looked down at one, then the other, then back up. “Are you Ji Chang Wook–ing me right now?” “I don’t know who that is.” “The guy in the turtleneck. Who perfected the pockets kiss.” Charlie smiled in that way that made his nostrils dimple. “Then I guess I must be.” “Did I ever tell you,” I said then before I could stop myself, “that I really love your nostrils?” Oh, god. It had to happen, I guess. A Chekhov’s gun moment: You can’t forbid yourself from mentioning someone’s nostrils in Act One without finally doing it by Act Three. Or wait. Maybe this was Act One—and we were only just getting started? As if to answer, Charlie stepped closer, hands still in his pockets like a champion, and completely closed the gap between us—pressing his thighs to my thighs, and his chest to my chest. Then he tilted his head until his mouth was just breaths away from mine. “How’s my angle?” he asked, like he really wanted to know. “You’re a remarkable student,” I said. “Are you kidding me?” Charlie said. “I’m the best.” And then he pressed his mouth to mine, and as he did, he slid his hands out of his pockets so they could skim around my waist to hold me right there. Not that I was trying to...

Was this a happy ending? Of course. And also only a beginning. In the way that beginnings and endings are always kind of the same thing.

I had no idea where we’d go from here, or how we’d manage it all, or where the future would take us. But it was okay. We don’t get to know the whole story all at once. And where we’re headed matters so much less than how we get there.

“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.”

But what does okay even mean? Life is always full of worries and struggles, losses and disappointments, late-night googling of bizarre symptoms—all tumbling endlessly over one another like clothes in the dryer. It’s not like any of us ever gets to a place where we’ve solved everything forever and we never have another problem. That’s not how life works. But that’s not what a happily ever after is, anyway. Poor happy endings. They’re so aggressively misunderstood. We act like “and they lived happily ever after” is trying to con us into thinking that nothing bad ever happened to anyone ever again. But that’s never the way I read those words. I read them as “and they built a life together, and looked after each other, and made the absolute best of their lives.” That’s possible, right? That’s not ridiculous. Tragedy is a given.

and Mrs. Otsuka didn’t even have to put foam cushions on her sharp corners, because by that point, my dad had been spending so much time at her place that she’d already done it. She took on a lot of caregiving, marrying my dad. But she told me once that it’s worth it. He cures her loneliness. He shines light on her shadows. He makes her laugh all day long and into the night. That’s how she sees it: she takes care of him, but he takes care of her, too. And it’s so plain to see that they have much more fun together than they’d ever have apart.

It was my first time living alone in my life, and I did some hard-core nesting—amassing a block-printed cloth napkin collection, stocking up on kooky coffee mugs, and diving full-immersion into a throw-pillow lifestyle.

“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.”

And here’s how you do it.” He let go of his walker to signal he meant business: “Appreciate your person.” He looked around. “That’s it,” he said,