First Draft Romance

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I'm wedged between Nigel and Daniel on their shoddy mustard yellow couch. One of its green pillows is the only thing stopping my overheating laptop from roasting the tops of my legs. To Daniel's right sits Kirby—making it so that we have just enough people on the sofa that we're all shoulder to shoulder.

I'd come back after work this afternoon to find my bedding folded and tucked beneath the coffee table, along with a Post-It note from Kirby politely reminding me to please fold my bedding when I'm done sleeping on the couch. I do feel bad about him having to remind me—I've been here over a month now, yet somehow, I keep forgetting. It's not intentional. I'd like to remember. I just ... don't. Not most mornings, at least. I feel terrible about it.

Initially, I had come here to write. Now, my laptop sits in my lap, fiery hot against the pillow laid atop my thighs, its lid tilted shut. The thought of anyone's eyes falling on my unfinished manuscript—especially right now, as I'm reluctantly dragging myself through the conflict resolution scene—gives me this slightly pukey sensation.

Daniel has his laptop on the coffee table. All three of them are completely focused on it, because they all missed Wednesday's episode of Survivor. The brain break is nice, because I don't know how to make this ending happen. I can't think of an argument for why Isabella should be with Robin. What is Robin getting out of being with her? Isabella describes herself as being "scraping the barrel of 'average,'" whereas Robin is "the most effortlessly beautiful creature" she's ever laid eyes upon. But it's not just looks that Isabella wouldn't be bringing to the table—she's no one's personality hire.

She's a drab push-over. Her only real traits are being awkward, and being a mess. It's not her that's interesting—although her voice is fun to write—but the situations she keeps finding herself in that make her intriguing. Which is new for me, because I tend to prefer character-driven stories.

I had to throw in a subplot where she has an intense, burning desire to become a therapist because she has daddy issues. She's got a shitty car and an old dog back home with a quirky name and nervous habits—as well as a severe peanut allergy that I'll probably edit out, because Robin rescuing Isabella with an epipen was only romantic for about half an hour, before I realized that it's actually maybe a little bit strange. (I am not a romance writer. I never claimed to be a romance writer.)

It's driving me insane. I can't figure out why it's not working. Robin and Isabella have had some great sex and some great banter, but great sex and banter a relationship does not make. What's drawing them together? What does Robin see in her? What could Robin see in her? What if, maybe, she—

"Woah, Marcie?" I glance over at Daniel. His forehead is lined with worry. "You good? You look like you're going to poop your pants."

"Oh, I'm, uh, I'm fine." I smile tersely. "Just really, really honed in on this, uh, impunity challenge."

"It's an immunity challenge," Nigel says. I don't have to look to know he's rolling his eyes. He does that a lot. He's like a sassy girl from a Tumblr-era webnovel. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"Ooookay," Daniel says, "it's fine. Cool your jets, Tintin."

"What? Tintin is French, fuckwit."

"Oh, really? Okay. Then, cool your jets, Sheriff of Nottingham."

Nigel sniffs casually. "I'm not even ginger."

All three of us turn our heads to look at him.

"So?" Kirby asks.

"Tintin is ginger," Nigel says slowly, like it's obvious. His arms are crossed; his chin juts out defensively.

"Oh. In our defense, you just bring this twink-like Tintin kinda energy to the function."