The Rom-Commers

by Katherine Center

LOGAN SCOTT CALLED just as I was making dinner, and I almost didn’t answer because my dad and I were singing along to ABBA’s greatest hits. There were not too many people I’d interrupt ABBA for—but yes, fine, Logan Scott was one of them.

pancakes-for-dinner

lizzy mcalpine reference??

“Charlie Yates?” I asked, like he might mean another Charlie. Then, “Charlie Yates?” like he might mean another Yates.

Everything had a bright new shimmer.

i can still make the whole place shimmer

I DID NOT tell Sylvie at dinner.

YOU STUPID MORON

He mutilated it. He besmirched it. He desecrated it.

strong verb warrior

“But he’s your client?” “He’s everything that’s wrong with the world,” Logan said. “But, yes. He’s my client.”

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

hopefully charlie is hot

“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.

LMAO SO HES HOT

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

She’s obsessed. And she’s got nothing else in her life. No relationship. No kids. Nothing at all. This is all she does. Imaginary love is the only thing she’s got.”

oh my gosh brl

“Please! Just! Fuck! Off!” “Really?” a guy’s voice said. A guy who wasn’t Logan. I turned, and instead of Logan Scott in a Beemer, it was Charlie Yates in a Chevy Blazer.

SCREAMING

Although not like that sentence implies.

unfortunate

I love you more”—and this felt so sacrilegious, like I might be smote by lightning at the words, but I had to make my point—“than Nora Ephron.” Charlie held kind of still. Too much?

strong statement

“Because last night, when I was reading your stuff, I wanted to work with you. And I haven’t wanted anything—anything at all—in a very, very long time.”

And having brunch—I’m so sorry: if you happen to be holding a can of supplemental oxygen, please take a puff—with Meryl Streep.

WATWWTAHETHHEHEHWHWHAT

“Anyway, it’s not a romance.” “What?” Logan said. Charlie nodded, like Yeah. “Learned that yesterday,” he said, cocking his head at me. Then, looking mischievous, he said, “It’s not a romance unless everyone has an orgasm.” “That’s not—” I started. But Logan said, “Oh, I think that movie’s got plenty of orgasms.”

HELP ME IM DEAD

I fell in love all the time. Just … nobody fell in love with me back. Fiction really kind of was all I had in the romance department. But that wasn’t a weakness. That was a strength. 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.

“Oh,” I said, like we were just learning vocabulary.

I SNORTED LMAOOO

“Not writing at all?” I asked. “I’ve written one thing since I got sick four years ago,” Charlie said, by way of an answer. Then he added: “The screenplay you’re here to fix.” So … not writing at all.

“He’s lost his mojo.” “It’s not lost,” Charlie said, rapping on his sternum with his knuckles. “I just can’t find it.” “Yeah,” Logan said. “That’s what ‘lost’ means.” “Right,” Charlie said, “I was thinking of the ‘dead’ meaning of ‘lost.’ Like, ‘lost at sea,’ or ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’” Logan shook his head and said, “Writers.”

Impostor syndrome solved. Charlie Yates, screenwriting god, had just used a curse word as a modifier to describe how funny I was.

Oh, no. Best day of my life canceled.

“The men in these stories?” Charlie went on. “They keep crying.” “Crying?” Logan asked. “They cry a lot. Like, a lot. It’s so weird, right? Men don’t cry.” “I cry sometimes,” Logan said. “Do you?” Charlie said, like he was changing his opinion of Logan. “I can’t stand these guys. I’m like, Pull it together, man. Go chop something with an axe.”

“Crying is good for you,” Logan said. “It’s cleansing. There’s even a crying yoga now.” Long silence.

“I just want to ask you a question.” Charlie sighed. “What?” I gave it a beat, and then I asked, “Why did your wife leave you?”

“My wife left me on the day I found out I had cancer.”

i gasped

Charlie opened it a few minutes later with one elastic cuff of his sweatpants up above his calf, his T-shirt on backward, his hair pointing up and out every direction, and one eye closed like a sea captain.

ME

“Are you trying to put frozen peas on my ass?” “It’s julienned mixed vegetables,” I said, like I beg your pardon.

By that point, we were basically wrestling for access to Charlie’s butt,

“You did all this on purpose, didn’t you?” On purpose? “No, I—” I looked around. “I tripped on a grocery bag.” I pointed at it, for evidence, but Charlie didn’t even look. I was still square on top of him, my arm pinned under his side. Charlie closed his eyes. Then he opened them and looked straight into mine. “Or maybe you just wanted to prove that there’s nothing romantic about people falling on top of each other.”

chemical reaction

LET DOWN AND HANGING AROUNDDDD

“She’s nobody. Just a writer. A failed writer, in fact. A person with a tragic past who Logan asked me to work with. Briefly. As a personal favor. She has no job, no money, and absolutely nothing going for her. She’s leaving as soon as we’re done, and I’ll never see her again. So don’t turn this into a whole thing, okay?”

wow.

Except we never made it to the farmers market.

what

“Mary Marino. She had,

and I say this with so much reverence, legendary boobs.”

Weirdly, it worked. Charlie’s eyes went dark. “Don’t you dare.” “Try and stop me,”

And then, before I could decide if I should thank him or hit him again, he opened his eyes, leaned in close, pointed at me, and said, “No six-foot cowboys for you.”

“This guy’s not an actor,” Charlie said. “He’s somebody’s inbred cousin.”

“Did he just get handsomer?” I asked, looking around at all the women in the room who were asking themselves the same question.

“Don’t keep looking backward,” Charlie said. “I’m a visual learner.” “Just watch me. I’m right here.” “But he’s the instructor,” I said. “And he’s Italian.”

Then he said, “You should tie your shoelaces,” in a voice that made me feel pretty certain I’d never think about shoelaces in the same way again.

For a half second, I wondered if Lorenzo Ferrari, line-dancing Adonis, might actually kneel down and tie them for me. But that’s when I looked down to realize Charlie was already there. Charlie Yates. Had dropped down on one knee. In front of me. On the floor of a honky-tonk. And was now tying my sneaker laces

in double knots with gruff but unmistakable affection. Not gonna lie. As much as our instructor was objectively, legitimately, inescapably sexy, and as much as I’d enjoyed teasing Charlie about it … No amount of ogling Lorenzo Ferrari did even a fraction of...

Actually, it’s mostly only Marvel movies that are blockbusters these days.

“You look,” Charlie started, and then he reached out to tuck a little curlicue behind my ear before finishing with “lovely, actually.”

“Whoa—whoa—whoa—are you okay?” Charlie was peering in now, touching at my hands, nudging them to move so he could get a better look. “I’m fine,” I said, head down. “It’s fine.” “Show me,” Charlie said, his voice soft, like there was no one else there.

“You’re famous, and dashing, and beloved.” “Did you just call me dashing?”

“I googled it,” Charlie continued, “and I’m not.”

OH MY GOSH HES THE CUTEST PSYCHO EVER

“There is nothing sexier than a man starting a kiss with his hands in his pockets,” I said, like Hello?