hadn’t said my name, or offered to reciprocate in any way, or how he hadn’t even tried to kiss me. We were a couple. The sex—such as it was—proved it. Now we could launch our future together, our brilliant and funny future as writing partners and partners in life.
That was not what happened. What happened was that Robdidn’t show up at my grandma’s party the night our episode debuted. When I got to work the next day, the showrunner called me into his office and asked if I’d heard the happy news. Rob and Taryn had eloped the day before . . . and Taryn, Steve told me as gently as he could, was pregnant.
I sat there, stunned, speechless, reeling, ashamed beyond comprehension. I had never suspected that Rob and Taryn had shared so much as a sandwich. (Not that Taryn ate sandwiches. Not that Taryn, as far as I could tell, ate anything—she was slim as a ribbon, with long arms and coltish legs and not a single ripple of cellulite.) “But he hates her,” I’d said, thinking of the hours upon hours, the days upon days that Rob had spent making fun of Taryn: her complete ignorance of world history and current events, her inability to memorize any speech more than two lines long, the way she acted mostly with her hair and her cleavage, her default pose of breasts sticking east and ass jutting west.
“I guess maybe he doesn’t hate her that much,” Steve had said. The way he’d spoken, the look he’d given me, all of it announced, as clearly as if he’d said it out loud, that everyone in the office knew the way I felt about Rob. Maybe they even knew what had happened between us the night we’d both stayed late after the read-through of the script we’d written together.
I’d made my way back to my desk, trying to convince myself that it couldn’t be true. It had to be some kind of elaborate writers’ room prank, like the time Steve had told the writers that Trojan was giving away ten-thousand-dollar prizes to the person who made the best video about his first time using what he referred to solemnly as “the product.” Steve had generously agreed to let the writers use his flipcam to tape their entries. Then, after they’d emailed their submissions to an in-box he’d set up, he’d compiled them all and posted them on YouTube under the headline “There Is Hope,” with a note that read, “Attention,geeks of America. As this video clearly reveals, geeks grow up and have sex, too!” The writers had responded by having Steve’s Bentley bronzed like a pair of baby shoes (the bronze was a special-effects shell that peeled right off, but when Steve saw his car, he fell to his knees in the parking lot, wailing, “My baby! My baby!” . . . a moment that the writers, of course, had captured on camera and posted on YouTube). Maybe it was finally my turn to get pranked. In five minutes, the door would swing open, and there would be Rob, with a pie box in his hands and a delighted grin on his face. “Fooled ya! Fooled ya!” he’d chant, and then he’d take me by the hand to a room at the Regent Beverly Wilshire and do to me what I’d done to him. I waited five minutes. I waited an hour. I waited all morning. The door never opened. Rob never came back.
FOUR
S o tell me the timeline,” my boyfriend, Gary, said as he walked out of the parking garage on Camden Street, on our way to the kickoff dinner the network was throwing for The Next Best Thing . I reached for his hand and was pleased and a little relieved when he let me take it and gave me a reassuring squeeze. When we stopped at the light, I looked at him, marveling, as I often did, that he was actually interested in me, that we were actually a couple. Gary had pale skin, dark hair and dark eyes, and a cleft in his chin that I would jokingly suggest filling with various dips and toppings for my snacking pleasure. He’d gotten dressed up—or at least his version of dressed up—for the occasion, wearing a belt with his jeans, black leather
That was not what happened. What happened was that Robdidn’t show up at my grandma’s party the night our episode debuted. When I got to work the next day, the showrunner called me into his office and asked if I’d heard the happy news. Rob and Taryn had eloped the day before . . . and Taryn, Steve told me as gently as he could, was pregnant.
I sat there, stunned, speechless, reeling, ashamed beyond comprehension. I had never suspected that Rob and Taryn had shared so much as a sandwich. (Not that Taryn ate sandwiches. Not that Taryn, as far as I could tell, ate anything—she was slim as a ribbon, with long arms and coltish legs and not a single ripple of cellulite.) “But he hates her,” I’d said, thinking of the hours upon hours, the days upon days that Rob had spent making fun of Taryn: her complete ignorance of world history and current events, her inability to memorize any speech more than two lines long, the way she acted mostly with her hair and her cleavage, her default pose of breasts sticking east and ass jutting west.
“I guess maybe he doesn’t hate her that much,” Steve had said. The way he’d spoken, the look he’d given me, all of it announced, as clearly as if he’d said it out loud, that everyone in the office knew the way I felt about Rob. Maybe they even knew what had happened between us the night we’d both stayed late after the read-through of the script we’d written together.
I’d made my way back to my desk, trying to convince myself that it couldn’t be true. It had to be some kind of elaborate writers’ room prank, like the time Steve had told the writers that Trojan was giving away ten-thousand-dollar prizes to the person who made the best video about his first time using what he referred to solemnly as “the product.” Steve had generously agreed to let the writers use his flipcam to tape their entries. Then, after they’d emailed their submissions to an in-box he’d set up, he’d compiled them all and posted them on YouTube under the headline “There Is Hope,” with a note that read, “Attention,geeks of America. As this video clearly reveals, geeks grow up and have sex, too!” The writers had responded by having Steve’s Bentley bronzed like a pair of baby shoes (the bronze was a special-effects shell that peeled right off, but when Steve saw his car, he fell to his knees in the parking lot, wailing, “My baby! My baby!” . . . a moment that the writers, of course, had captured on camera and posted on YouTube). Maybe it was finally my turn to get pranked. In five minutes, the door would swing open, and there would be Rob, with a pie box in his hands and a delighted grin on his face. “Fooled ya! Fooled ya!” he’d chant, and then he’d take me by the hand to a room at the Regent Beverly Wilshire and do to me what I’d done to him. I waited five minutes. I waited an hour. I waited all morning. The door never opened. Rob never came back.
FOUR
S o tell me the timeline,” my boyfriend, Gary, said as he walked out of the parking garage on Camden Street, on our way to the kickoff dinner the network was throwing for The Next Best Thing . I reached for his hand and was pleased and a little relieved when he let me take it and gave me a reassuring squeeze. When we stopped at the light, I looked at him, marveling, as I often did, that he was actually interested in me, that we were actually a couple. Gary had pale skin, dark hair and dark eyes, and a cleft in his chin that I would jokingly suggest filling with various dips and toppings for my snacking pleasure. He’d gotten dressed up—or at least his version of dressed up—for the occasion, wearing a belt with his jeans, black leather
Similar Books
