First Draft Romance

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Roz sits in her desk chair with her legs drawn to her chest, jutting out her chin awkwardly so that she can rest it on her knees. Her arms are fully extended before her so that she can reach her typewriter-inspired keyboard. Her eyes squint as she alternates between glaring at the screen before her and at the thick stack of pages next to her right hand.

I dust the shelf of writing awards behind her and try not to stare.

Then Roz murmurs something, and I glance over in a slight panic, heart hammering in my chest. I don't want to be in her way, or for her to think that I want to distract her, or for her to lose her train of thought. I'm frozen in place, terrified of the thought that I've disturbed her.

But all she says is, "This dialogue sounds so jilted. My god, Mauro, were you high?" Then she shakes her head, rubs the back of her neck tiredly, and goes right back to her considerably unergonomic sitting position.

When Roz had asked me to clean her office, I'd expected she'd use it as an opportunity to take a little break—maybe go for a walk, stretch her legs, breathe in something other than the stale office air—but, nope. She's in here with me, still clad in her silk pajamas, and she seems so focused on the script in front of her that I'm worried she'd bite me if I suggested she take a breather.

It seems like a break would be good for her, though. This week has been even worse than the one prior. Day in and day out, she's done nothing but sit, awkwardly folded in that chair, as she toils over Mauro's apparently lacking script. The most I've seen of her has been when she's opened her office door and called out for more coffee, or—my favorite—when she's marched out into the living room in her tattered pajamas/greasy bun combo and shoved the printed copy of the script in my face, jabbing angrily at some section with her index finger. She typed so hard that, at one point, she literally broke that nail. I didn't know that was even possible.

Honestly? I think Catalina's right. She's going a little crazy.

When I came in here to clean, I'd started with the office's half-bath, because I'd wanted to stay out of Roz's way. Nearly half an hour later, and I'm close to done with cleaning the entirety of her office. The only thing left to do is the desk. And, since I value my safety, I plan on leaving that alone.

Roz's desk is full of disorderly piles of papers—the notes I gave her for It May Take Two; edits she printed out from Catalina; several different versions of Mauro's script as he continues to send along revision after revision, based on Roz's biting critiques. Because I know what it's like to have your entire life be precariously organized chaos, I refuse to touch it. Further disordering her mess feels like a nightmare waiting to happen.

She's been so preoccupied with Mauro's script that I've been scared to ask her for new tasks. I've done my typical chores of keeping her inbox in-check and calming down an occasionally over-zealous, over-involved Catalina, who is becoming increasingly convinced that Roz is going to run herself into the ground and/or starve to death.

I've also been making sure I have everything together for next Saturday's formal banquet—a congratulatory soirée, jointly thrown by Roz's publisher and the studio. I've spent the past two weeks making sure it's all coordinated, from the limo (Catalina's insistence), to the stylists (Catalina's treat), to the food (Catalina's suggestion). With how startlingly last minute making arrangements has felt, Catalina has been hugely helpful—telling me which people and companies to contact, where to haggle, what prices are fair—without taking complete control. It fills me with this weird sense of longing that I can't quite explain. She came with me and Roz to our dress fittings, which was an entirely surreal experience. I can't believe I'm working with my dream agent to plan a pre-party.