The Rom-Commers

by Katherine Center

So what if I was wearing the same hoop earrings I’d worn at my high school graduation? They were sterling silver.

“But this screenplay,” I went on, “is a crime against humanity.” Charlie frowned. “Still sure about doing this?” I asked, one last time. “You’ve already put that check in your bra,” Charlie said, gesturing in that direction before abruptly deciding that was a bad idea. “Buckle up, then,” I said, with a shrug.

“Just for an overview,” I said, “when I say this screenplay is ‘apocalyptically shitty,’ I mean that it has no tension, no character growth, no longing, no buildup, no anticipation, no banter, no fun, no play, and no shimmer.” “No shimmer?” Charlie said. But I was just getting started. “It is a romantic comedy that is neither funny nor romantic. It doesn’t do any—any—of the things that a rom-com is supposed to do.” “What’s a rom-com supposed to do?”

“The job of a rom-com,” I said, “is to give you a simulated feeling of falling in love.”

“A great rom-com,” I said, “is just like sex. If you’re surprised by the ending, somebody wasn’t doing their job. We all know where it’s headed. The fun is how we get there. Seriously—have you ever had fantastic sex that culminated in an epic orgasm and then said to yourself, God, that was so cliché. It should’ve had a different ending?”

🫣😂

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

“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.”

“You want to know why you shouldn’t be worried right now?” “Why?” “Because the bad thing you’re worried about is never the bad thing that happens.” I took that in. “It’s always some other bad thing you’re not expecting. Right? So the fact that you’re worried we’re going to plunge to our deaths off the side of this road means that there’ll definitely be an earthquake instead. Or a drone strike. Or Godzilla.”

I love Katherine Center.

“I got propositioned by a hillbilly at a wedding once, and he had a very different vibe.” Charlie eyed me. “Did you?” “A groomsman,” I confirmed, with a nod. “Want to know what he said?” Charlie squinted. “Do I?” “He invited me to his hotel room and said, ‘Red in the head—fire in the bed.’” “Please tell me that didn’t work.”

#relatable

“Unbelievable,” Charlie said. “Didn’t we just agree no cowboys?” “Look,” I said. “I didn’t request a…” I glanced back to the instructor for reference and then got stuck. “A six-foot-three backwoodsman with a butt like a quarterback wearing a longhorn belt buckle and ostrich boots. But it happened. What am I supposed to do?” “My opinion of you is plummeting,” Charlie said. “This is your type?”

“I have lots of types, thank you. Sexy cowboys. Sexy lumberjacks. Sexy werewolves with tragic pasts. Sexy ghosts.” “Sexy ghosts?” “That’s the only kind of ghost I like.”

😂

Charlie nodded. “We were out of coffee this morning, so I had to hit the store.” “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.”

Sylvie was still crying, but I didn’t care. “I would’ve given anything to go to the beach! But I didn’t! Because I knew that I—I alone—was the only thing standing between the only parent we’ve got left and this exact situation! You knew that, too. You couldn’t have not known. But I must’ve ruined you. I killed myself to give you everything you ever wanted and I guess I taught you that’s how life is. But I was lying the whole time. That’s the opposite of how life is. You don’t get everything you want! You get a few tiny, broken pieces of what you thought you wanted and you tell yourself over and over it’s more than enough!” “I’m sorry,” Sylvie whispered.

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.”

MY FATHER DIDN’T die. Maybe that’s a spoiler—but we’ve all been through a lot so far. If you were anywhere near as worried as I was, I thought you might need some good news as soon as possible.

“You’re dating? You’re, like, boyfriend-and-girlfriend?” “More like late-in-life companions,” he said, “but that’s the basic gist.” “When did this happen?”

The next day, after Sylvie relieved me of my shift, I was heading home to change clothes after more hours than I cared to count, when I arrived at our apartment door to see someone sitting beside it, elbows resting on knees, head bent, like he’d been there a while. Charlie.

🥲

“There is absolutely no way to predict the infinite random forces in the world any of our choices will expose us to. How paralyzing would it be to even try?”

Was that what I’d been doing? Trying desperately to predict the unpredictable and avoid the unavoidable? Was that why I’d been so willing—or, if I’m really honest, relieved—to stay home all this time? Had I decided in some place deep below my consciousness that the best way to avoid disaster was to just never do anything? “You can’t live like that, Em,” my dad said.

Then he said, “Things were very dark for me after Mom died. But I knew you and Sylvie needed me to find the light somehow.” “I didn’t know things got dark for you. You always seemed … okay.” “It was my job to seem okay.” “You didn’t want to talk to me about it?” “You were a kid.” “Sylvie was a kid,” I said. “I was—” “A girl who’d just lost her mom.”

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

🙌🏼

My dad went on, “So if I say, ‘This terrible thing happened, and it ruined my life’—then that’s true. But if I say, ‘This terrible thing happened, but, as crazy as it sounds, it made me better,’ then that’s what’s true.” “You believe you’re better? Since the rockfall?” “I know I am,” my dad said, with so much conviction I had to believe him. “I’m wiser, I’m kinder, I’m funnier, I’m more compassionate. I can play at least ten instruments one-handed.” He held up his good hand for us both to look at. “I’m more aware of how fragile and precious it all is. I’m more thankful, too—for every little blessing. A ladybug on the windowsill. A succulent sprouting a flower. A pear so ripe it just dissolves into juicy sweetness in your mouth.”

This dad 🥹

Maybe this wasn’t polite, but I really wanted to understand him. “But don’t you miss Mom?” My dad gave me a sad smile. “I do. Of course. And would I give up all this personal growth to see her again for even an hour and just clamp her into my arms? In a second. But that’s not a choice. All we have is what we have.” “I miss her, too,” I whispered. My dad squeezed my hand. “It’s okay,” he said then. “Here’s another thing I accidentally figured out: happiness is always better with a little bit of sadness.”

“Fine,” I said. “I forgive you.” And as soon as I said the words, I felt them. Sylvie threw her arms around me. “But if you ever say anything like that to me again, I’m moving to Alaska. And I’m taking Dad.” It was that easy. Because she was the only baby sister I had.

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

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

“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.

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

😭😭😭

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

My dad went on, “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.

When we read love stories, we get to see kindness in action. And human compassion. And connection made visible. And people choosing to be the best versions of themselves in the face of it all. Love stories show us people getting better at love—in real time.