Chapter 1 1
INT. A MESSY MANHATTAN APARTMENT—DAY
We SWEEP over an orange couch lit with brightening morning light, revealing a collection of crumpled tissues and empty pints of ice cream, until we reach a pair of hands scribbling LIAR in marker on the cover of a romance novel, then melodramatically tossing the paperback across the room. We PULL BACK to see the owner of the hands—she’s Latina, in pajamas and a fuzzy robe, the mascara smeared under her eyes evidence of an all-night crying session. This is MARIA, 26.
MARIA (into her phone)
I’m done dating. Forever. And I’m going to tell you exactly why, because everyone loves ten minutes of exposition at the beginning of every romcom.
I deleted the whole thing with a groan of frustration, resisting the urge to toss my laptop across the room like Maria had the romance novel. Okay, so that sucked. Big deal—I could always start again. It wasn’t like this was my eleventh attempt to write the beginning of my screenplay or anything.
I let out another groan, this one tinged with panic.
Kicking a pile of clean laundry off my bed, I stretched out my legs and transferred my laptop from the flower-shaped cushion it had been resting on to my lap. Big mistake, I discovered, as its underside just about burned the skin off my thighs.
Clearly, the problem wasn’t my screenplay—or my inability to put together a coherent sentence. It was just that my apartment was too hot. All I had to do to get the words flowing was move somewhere with a working air conditioner. And a little treat. What had I been thinking, trying to write without a little treat to keep me going?
As if she’d heard the sizzle of searing flesh from all the way in Miami, my phone buzzed with an incoming call from my cousin Yazmin.
“I know exactly what you’re going to ask,” I said into the phone. “If Regency romance is so popular as a genre, how come there’s no Regency porn?”
I wasn’t exactly trying to distract her from asking about my screenplay again—or from last night’s date, which hadn’t even had a chance to crash and burn since I’d gotten ghosted before it even began. But… Oh, who was I kidding? I was absolutely trying to distract her. And it was working.
Yaz cackled. Softly. She may have had no compunction about being on the phone with me while at work, but she was an attorney, if a newly minted one, and it wasn’t like she was dying to get dirty looks from the overworked second year associate she shared her fancy office with.
“No, really, think about it. A guy on Fling who cosplays as a duke—the Duke of Harding,” I added with a burst of inspiration. “Making videos in, like, skintight buckskins and Hessian boots where he tells whoever’s watching what a dirty governess they are.”
This time, her laugh exploded into the receiver. “You’re definitely going to get me fired today. Is Fling that app for romance readers you were telling me about before my boss cut us off?”
“Yeah. Maybe I should find someone to go into partnership with. Write them scripts or whatever.”
“So this is how you’re procrastinating on your screenplay today. Why don’t you try getting some words in instead of… whatever this is?”
Flipping my laptop closed, I blew a raspberry into the phone. “Let me stop you right there. I have no need for your sensible advice this early in the morning.”
Yaz and I had been practically raised as sisters when our mothers, actual sisters, moved in together to help each other care for their respective kids. That must have been why Yaz often sounded like the harassed older sibling when talking to me. “First of all, it’s almost noon. Second—you quit your job to finish writing this screenplay.”
“Allegedly,” I muttered, my heart thudding with guilt as it did every time I came face-to-face with the fact that I’d lied to Yaz—and everyone else—about quitting when I had actually gotten fired. Shoving my laptop aside, I hustled out of my pajama shorts and into a dress, talking mostly to keep Yaz from hearing the guilt in my voice. “No, really. Think about it. Do you know how many porn scripts I could knock out in the time it takes me to write one scene in my screenplay? It’s actually not a bad idea. I wonder if it’s a category on Fiverr.”
“Come on, be serious. You have a real opportunity here that you can’t squander with endless procrastination. Do you know how many people quit their jobs to write a screenplay and actually succeed?”
She wasn’t wrong. Not about that part of it. When I ran into Grace Hong, one of my old college classmates, the last thing I’d expected was for her to remember the script I’d written for the one class we’d had together before she leveraged her award-winning short into a real job in Hollywood. Or that she’d offer to get me a meeting with a producer friend when they both returned from a few weeks in L.A., after I’d shown her a couple of scenes I had written and told her I was close to finishing the screenplay—not a lie, just an exaggeration.
The truth was, even though I did open my writing software every once in a while to add a few lines of dialogue to the romcom I had started while still in school, I’d spent the four years since graduation elbows deep in Excel sheets, having opted at the last minute to go the practical route and major in project management instead of film like I’d originally intended to.
That was the one and only act of practicality I’d committed in my entire life, and I wasn’t sure I’d made the right choice.
Stifling a sigh, I scooped up my purse, my sunglasses, and… And after a moment of hesitation, left my laptop on the bed. Maybe what I really needed was a break. To get away for a couple of hours and come back to the script with fresh eyes.
Although, let’s face it—what I really needed was to keep filling out applications. None of the two dozen jobs I’d applied for since getting fired had led to anything concrete, but at this point I’d settle for any solid gig that would let me make rent at the end of summer when my savings ran out.
“I’m getting worried, Mariel,” Yaz continued, her thoughts as always eerily on par with mine. “Your savings aren’t going to last forever.”
The pressure of it all filled me with so much anxiety that for a couple of seconds, I was almost breathless with it.
There was a slight pause on Yaz’s side, as if she could feel my impending heart attack. The thing about my cousin is that she puts up a hard front, but she’s all soft and gooey inside. As soon as she realized how far over my own head I was, she was going to start offering everything from rent money to her couch. Her fiancée, Amal, was already annoyed at how much Yaz had helped me out over the years, and with their wedding fast approaching, I couldn’t ask Yaz to bail me out yet again. Not that I wanted her to—I needed to get through this on my own, if only to prove to myself that I could.
I’m not sure how I did it, but I managed to draw in enough breath to force a lighter tone in my voice, shooting for casual but ending up somewhere north of flippant. “Eh, there’s always credit card debt.”
I winced.
“Not that you’re not making a good point,” I hurried to add as I closed the door to my studio behind me, “but porn is probably five million times more profitable than romcoms. Maybe this is the pivot I—”
“No more pivots,” Yaz said firmly. “You are finishing your screenplay and reaching out to Grace by the end of August at the latest. Or I will a hundred percent stop being your friend.”
I let myself out of my building and turned into Tenth Avenue, oh so elegantly using the ruffled sleeve of my sundress to wipe the droplets beading on my top lip. There wasn’t much I could do about the way my hair had grown three sizes, like the Grinch’s heart. New York City is as humid as a concrete rainforest in the summer, and not even the hairdresser in The Princess Diaries could de-frizz the tower of curls sprouting from my head. At least it made for a good backdrop for the heart-shaped earrings I had just spent far too much on, considering I was no longer employed. The purse slung over my shoulder was also heart-shaped, because if there’s anything you should know about me, it’s that I never shy away from committing to a theme.
“You’re my cousin,” I scoffed, pleased at how normal my voice sounded after a couple of deep breaths. “Being my friend is in your contract.”
“I’m also a corporate lawyer with plenty of experience in breaking contracts,” she countered. Which, you know. Good point.
I heaved out a sigh. “Fine, fine, I’ll get some work done today. I’m literally walking into a coffee shop as we speak.”
For an iced matcha and a muffin, but she didn’t need to know that.
The walk to the cafe from my apartment was a short one, but I was a sweaty swamp monster when I pushed open the door and joined the line. Luckily, the tiny place was air-conditioned and there was a free table under one of the vents, right next to the speaker that was blasting the latest Lady Cerulean album.
Let me tell you, I snagged that table like it was the last Coca-Cola in the desert. I set down my drink and muffin and pulled a romance novel out of my purse, daydreaming idly about the Duke of Harding. I could practically see him in my mind. He’d be charming and courteous, but with a rakish glint in his eye that promised a wild time. He’d have the kind of smile that made your knees quiver. And forearms—he’d definitely have strong forearms.
I was still rooting in my purse—the heart shape was cute but things tended to get lost in the pointy bottom—when someone jostled my chair so hard, my book flew right off the table.
This was New York, and a crowded coffee shop to boot—getting jostled came with the territory. I wouldn’t have even looked up if the person who’d bumped into me hadn’t leaned over at the same time I did to pick up my book.
He got to it first, and held it out to me. I took it from him, a smile at the ready—which instantly withered when I saw his face.
Milo still wore the button-down shirts and bow ties that I’d always thought made him look adorably like a third grade math teacher. That was one of the first things I noticed. Then, as my gaze raked hungrily over him as if I hadn’t seen him in years instead of just a couple months, I saw dozens of other little things that made my heart squeeze inside my chest.
Like the slightly disheveled hair that I used to love running my fingers through. And the deep tan across the bridge of his nose and the peek of gold-framed glasses in his shirt pocket. That one little freckle right where his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The ink stains on his pale blue cuffs from his collection of fountain pens.
In the months since our breakup, I had almost convinced myself that the next time I saw him, he would be looking haggard and haunted, with dark circles under his eyes and the realization that life without me was meaningless written all over his face. How was it fair that he looked exactly the same as always when I felt like I’d gone through a wringer and come out all twisted and inside out?
“Mariel.” My name popped out of his mouth like he was as surprised as I was.
“Milo, hi. What…” I cleared my throat. “What brings you to the neighborhood?”
“I have a meeting in that building,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the large pane of glass separating us from the sidewalk. Or, I guess, at one of the buildings beyond it.
I didn’t exactly care, because I had just been blinded by the sunshine glinting off his wedding ring, a brief flash of light that felt like a knife to the guts. To my credit, I didn’t hyperventilate. Mostly because I couldn’t quite seem to catch my breath.
“I had a break in between classes,” Milo continued.
“Classes?” I echoed, clutching the paperback for all I was worth.
“I got into the doctoral program at Columbia.”
“Oh, that’s—good for you, congrats.” My smile could not have been more strained if I’d pulled an actual muscle on my cheek.
“I’m actually taking a summer intensive,” he told me, without the slightest trace of awkwardness. “You remember that course on Byzantine aesthetics I used to talk about?”
Vividly. Milo had finished his master’s in Classics the spring before. I couldn’t count the number of times I had listened to him fret over his PhD applications, or geek out over that one course taught by the professor he wanted to TA for.
“Yeah, sure,” I replied, aiming for enthusiastic and falling not just short, but flat on my face. “Oh wow, that’s great that you got in. Love that for you.”
At that point in my life, I had given up on the idea that I could ever be a cool, calm, collected ice queen. Did I have to actually babble, though?
Milo rested a hand on my table. The hand with the wedding ring, because of course it was. “Listen, Mariel, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
That short phrase was all it took for my stomach to begin sinking. I probably would have up and run away if I hadn’t been hemmed in by overly caffeinated people on all sides. I held up a hand so forcefully that if I’d been directing traffic, cars would have been screeching to a halt around me.
Not Milo. You’d think someone that smart would find it impossible to be so completely oblivious to the utter panic flashing on his ex’s face. I didn’t want to hear about him getting married. Or his wife. Or how they were probably living in perfect bliss.
He was earnestly pushing his hair off his forehead and leaning even closer. “I know we didn’t exactly end on a good note, and I know that’s entirely on me.”
Understatement of the millennium, seeing as the reason we were no longer together was because the previous fall, he had pretended to move to Greece to work on a dig when all along he had been in Jersey City with another woman. Not just that—he’d gone radio silent for weeks, ignoring every single one of my texts and calls so that I spiraled so hard that Yaz had to talk me out of booking a flight to Athens because I was convinced that something terrible had happened. Mostly because I wouldn’t have been able to find him if I’d gone, since I didn’t have an address for him—oh, and also, he wasn’t there.
I was no stranger to being ghosted, but what Milo had done was so much worse. He’d made plans for the future, knowing the whole time that he was with someone else. He’d cooked for me and bought me flowers and trekked all over the city helping me find whatever unhinged object my interior designer boss wanted for one of her clients.
He’d made me believe that what we had was real.
Apparently oblivious to all the warning signs flashing over my face, Milo continued, “I could not be more sorry about how things worked out and I’ve been wanting to apologize—”
“Oh, fuck off,” I snapped, barely noticing the flash of motion as about half the people in line at the counter turned to look at us. “You lied to my face every day for weeks about being in Europe. Then you disappeared on me. And when I finally confronted you about it, you chose to tell me that it was my fault you lied in the first place. You kept telling me I took up too much space, just to make me feel small. I’m so done with you.”
“Mariel,” he began, and just the way he said my name, with that air of long-suffering patience, made something in me snap. “You have every right to—”
“No,” I said, scrabbling for my things and starting to stuff them haphazardly into my purse. Even my muffin. Thankfully, I wasn’t so far gone that I tried to do the same thing with my iced matcha but, you know, it was a close call. “You don’t get to make yourself feel like some kind of good guy by shooting your apology all over my face when I was miserable for weeks thanks to you being the worst kind of garbage human. So, yes. Fuck you, fuck your I’m so sorry things didn’t work out, and fuck you ever feeling anything but shitty about the way you treated me.”
My words were met with a round of applause from what felt like everyone in the coffee shop.
I had daydreamed about a moment like this ever since I caught him and his girlfriend—his real girlfriend, which I clearly wasn’t—kissing with their hands linked at the opening of an exhibition on art from Ancient Greece. Which I’d only gone to because I was so desperately worried about Milo that I was seeking out anything that reminded me of him. It had been months of me fantasizing about telling him off to his face the way I hadn’t been able to back then.
And now that it was actually happening, I was horrified to feel the sting of tears behind my eyes.
I was still sitting down, and Milo was standing there next to me looking all solemn and brave and like he expected a medal for letting me yell at him in the middle of a crowded cafe. It was laughable and unfair that I still knew him so well—knew he wasn’t going to push the apology, but he wasn’t going to slink back to his seat, either. He was going to stand there and take whatever I flung at him, all the while feeling virtuous about letting me have my little tantrum.
So I finished shoving things into my bag, not caring that I was mashing the paperback into my muffin. And then I stood, intending to walk out without saying another word.
But I must have scraped back my chair too hard, because it toppled over. Right into the person who’d just started squeezing behind me with two full cup holders balanced on top of each other.
If this had happened in the romcom I was writing, all eight glasses of whipped cream-festooned iced coffee would have splashed all over the woman at the next table, setting off a chain reaction that would end with Milo getting a pie to the face.
Unfortunately, this was real life, and the only one who ended up covered in whipped cream—and coffee—was me.
“Goodbye, Milo,” I said, trying not to let the icy mess dribbling down my cleavage rob me of whatever dignity I had left. “Enjoy summer school.”
