Today’s missive asks how my show is going.
I wince, hating to disappoint him, especially since he was the only one who believed in me for so long. He was so proud when the network picked up my show. You’ll be on your way to an Emmy in no time, he’d said.
I’d laughed him off, telling him there was no way that would happen.
I believe in you. I always have.
I write back now: It’s great! I have a fantastic new idea for a storyline. I’m busy tap, tap, tapping away on the keyboard. How are you? How’s Mister Dog? What’s for lunch? Back soon—need to go hit the daily mileage quota!
Our emails aren’t War and Peace, but the focus on the mundane details seems to help him stay positive, so there’s no need for me to share my negatives.
I pull on a pair of running shorts and sneakers and head for the nearby trails to run with my bestie, Christine. We’re training for a triathlon, so I FaceTime her as I hit the path.
“Question,” I say, diving straight into the thick of it, as we usually do.
“Answer . . . maybe,” she says, already pounding the pavement in Golden Gate Park. Since we live an hour apart, we train together through FaceTime. This sometimes makes me feel like I’m thirteen, talking to my best friend via an app while I work out—yet my bills very much remind me I’m not a teenager.
I fire off my question. “Is it considered spying on someone if I’m sharing information gleaned simply by noticing the things around me?”
She laughs, her freckled face and big brown eyes bouncing around on the screen as she jogs. “You realize that’s the kind of question that if you’re asking it, the answer is probably yes? Now, fess up. Who are you spying on and what dirt have you dug up?”
“I had a feeling that was what you were going to say. But in my defense, it was sort of a fruitless mission. I learned nada.”
“As you should when spying. What’s this mission all about though?”
As we run, I tell her about the angel that the muses dropped on my front lawn last night.
“He sounds like one determined camper, and if he’d have come to me beforehand, I’d have said maybe call the woman first,” she says, the therapist in her doling out advice from afar. I love her therapist advice and the fact that she gives it to me for free instead of one hundred dollars an hour. Like when she helped me come to terms over how my relationship with my ex-boyfriend Anthony ended. That was a bit of a bummer since, well, I was madly in love, and he was . . . not.
“I know, but she must be something special for him to go all out like this. I want to help him.”
She lifts a brow. “Be honest. You’re going to use him as inspiration for your show. This is a two-way street kind of thing?”
I gasp. “Use him? How could you think such a thing?”
She laughs, rolling her eyes. “Because you are like a sponge. Anything remotely funny, interesting, quirky, bizarre, or unusual that someone says, you file it away and break it out later on an episode. Like that time you were writing for the late-night comedy show, and David was dipping carrots in hummus and moaning in pleasure, and you asked if he wanted to marry the hummus, and he said, ‘I just want to fill a bathtub with it.’ And there was a bathtub full of hummus in your next sketch.”
I point at her. “And the bathtub hummus line was a huge hit with the audience.”
“I found it amusing too,” she admits. “So you’re going to mentally record every funny moment while taking on this guy’s romance rehab?”
I smile as I round a switchback, my breath coming faster. “Exactly. Seems like a fair trade. I think I can help him in the love department.”
She nods. “You’ve always been good at relationship advice. Like that time you told me to surprise David at dinner wearing a trench coat, heels, and La Perla.”
I laugh, remembering when she surprised the hell out of her then fiancé. “Was that relationship advice or sex advice?”
“Sometimes they’re one and the same,” she quips.
“True that.”
“Are you giving this guy sex advice?”
I scoff. That would be the height of irony since I’m no expert in that field, despite my avid reading interest in it. “No way. But honestly, he’s so clueless it’s endearing. Sort of like how David was when you first met him.”
“The sheer woman-hours needed to deprogram a man after attending an all-boys school can be exhausting.” Christine met her husband their senior year of college, and she said you can always tell the guys who went to an all-boys school because they don’t know how to act around women. They are all sex talk, sports comments, and grunts.
“But you liked it,” I point out as I run past a morning warrior, a woman practically sprinting along the trail. She shoots me a look of disdain, which I suspect is due to my use of a cell phone while exercising. What can I say? Running is Capital D Dull if you don’t have someone to talk to or a great album to sing along with. Since I can’t hit a single note, the running warrior ought to be grateful I’m gabbing instead.
“He was my lovable buffoon. And he still is. So what’s the deal with your Dobler?”
“He’s kind of making me think about new directions for my show. Maybe a touch of romance isn’t such a bad idea. It worked on Kiss and Tell,” I say, mentioning the online series I wrote for a few years ago—it was one of those limited-run shows with an ensemble cast where the viewer is left guessing till the last episode as to who winds up with who.
“I loved Kiss and Tell. But then again, I’m a devotee of all things kissing, especially ‘Times They Should Have Kissed.’”
“You’re such a romantic,” I say, laughing when she mentions her favorite Tumblr feed, detailing fictional on-screen and literary couples that fans think should be together.
“Seriously, Watson and Holmes should absolutely kiss and so should Harry and Hermione.”
I shake my head. “Nope. Ginny is perfect for Harry.”
“But you do agree Watson is perfect for Holmes?”
I smile, conceding that point. “You won’t get any argument from me on that.”
As Christine jogs beside a field of flowers, her expression turns more thoughtful. “But I do think it’s a good direction for your show. After all, people generally are looking for love. That’s kind of why I have a job.”
I arch a brow at her small-screen face. “I figured you had a job because people have mommy issues, like me.”
“You do have mommy issues, but your mom was wrong. Also, don’t forget about daddy issues. Those are a big thing too.”
We chat more as we run, virtual-training together till we’re done. “Have fun with your science experiment,” she says as we say goodbye.
“Have fun fixing all those mommy and daddy issues.”
When I return home, I down a glass of water and jot out some notes for my next scene after the Speedo bit.
I picture a glasses-wearing hottie showing up at a girl’s door and trying to win her heart.
Carrying poster boards.
On them, he confesses his love.
Wait.
That doesn’t feel quite right.
Because my character isn’t a creepy stalker. Yet, there are fan fiction sites dedicated to Mark and Juliet from Love Actually. What if they were together? What if they kissed more deeply on Christmas? What if she left her husband? I hop on over to Christine’s favorite Tumblr page where fan fiction enthusiasts have imagined their favorite silver- and small-screen couples lip-locking.
I peer at the images. Scully and Mulder. Duckie and Andie. Jack and Liz. I cringe at the last one, a reminder that some shows don’t need romance to work.
But my show isn’t working as is.
What if Tom and Cassie were together? What if I wrote them in as characters?
I imagine Cassie, the yoga queen, serenely turning her body into a warrior, holding that pose when Tom shows up with his placards.
He’s about to profess his true heart. But before he launches into his re-enactment of Love Actually, his trusty gal pal grabs him by the hem of his shirt and reminds him that the guy holding the placards always loses.