The Rom-Commers

by Katherine Center

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.

Not to mention why it was extra-douchey for Charlie to refer lightly to my “failed career” as if his hot take was the only possible read on it. As if a cursory glance at anything could ever be the whole story. As if my life—my sorrow, my grief, my sacrifices—was something some ill-informed casual observer had any right to judge.

When Charlie Yates is scared of something, he pretends it doesn’t matter.

Nonchalance as a weapon. Disinterest as a weapon. Aerosol cheese as a weapon.

I thought about Charlie’s tell—how good he was at pretending the things that mattered didn’t matter. I felt tempted to hope he was pretending. But the thing was, he just didn’t seem like he was. More important: What was more likely—that I was important to Charlie? Or that I would engage in complex emotional gymnastics to wrongly convince

you can’t write them if you can’t feel them. This screenplay is a chance for you. You can make anything good”—I was almost pleading now—“but you can’t make it good without believing in it. You can’t bring this story to life without coming to life yourself.”

“Whatever story you tell yourself about your life, that’s the one that’ll be true.” I lifted my head to give that idea my full attention. 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.”

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.

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. There is no version of human life that doesn’t involve reams of it. The question is what we do in the face of it all.

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.”