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 pur.