I felt a burst of relief. The confusion on his face was proof of some kind of mix-up. Soon it was all going to make perfect sense.
Ben leaned forward. “It’s notyourscreenplay. That’s what I mean. There’s no wayyouwrote it. Come on, Marnie. You don’t know how to do this.”
This man was the love of my life. My future husband. My future fucking husband.
“The name on the title page, Charlotte Clark, I made it up,” I said, willing myself to stay calm.
Ben let out an irritated sigh. “What are you talking about? This isn’t funny.”
Had he always been such a pretentious asshole? If so, what did it say about me that I’d never noticed before?
“What happened, Ben? Why did you take it? Why are you pretending this screenplay is yours?”
Ben recoiled. “You make it sound like—”
“I make it sound like exactly what it is. Look, I’ll take some responsibility for my part in it. I should have told you I was writing a screenplay. I was just worried that would hurt your feelings.”
“Hurt my feelings?”
“It’s been your dream all along. I never meant to step on your toes or, like, compete with you. I felt inspired and I didn’t think I’d actually finish it. I feel bad that I hid that from you.”
I stopped there. I couldn’t exactly blurt out that I was ashamed of the fact that my perfect boyfriend was so bad at the thing he loved the most.
But that wasn’t the whole problem. Ben was a great guy. He was smart and handsome. Secure and loving. I always felt like he was a catch. Always wondered why he’d pickedme. So, from day one, I showed him the Marnie I wanted him to see. The gainfully employed Marnie who cooked most of her meals from scratch with organic produce. The practical Marnie who shopped sales and wore sensible shoes. The fit one, the career-focused one, the domestic goddess, the funny, the sexy, the savvy girl. I texted with his mother about gatherings and birthday presents and a dozen other little things, because I needed to be great in every single way.
Ben’s lips were zipped up in a thin line.
“Where do we go from here?” I asked, feeling small, like I was begging him to fix us.
Ben inhaled sharply. What he said next nearly knocked me over.
“Everyone in town is reading the screenplay. Withmyname on it.Mytitle.”
“But it’s not yours.”
“I made it better.”
“But it’s not yours,” I repeated, feeling like the walls were closing in on me. “Even if you thought you’d found some random stranger’s work on my computer, why would you take it?”
He wasn’t denying it. He wasn’t giving me a plausible explanation. The man in front of me seemed like a complete stranger.
“It’s too late.”
He sounded so cold and calculated.
I opened my mouth to respond, but he barged in first. “This is what I’ve been working toward foryears. Mornings, evenings, weekends. You saw me. I did the work. And I’m finally there.Finally. Do you think that you canwhip out some half-baked idea and declare yourself a professional writer? I’m not going to let you take this away from me.”
“Who are you?”
“I’mthe writer here. You have a job you love. Your boss adores you. Your life is full. What else do you want, Marnie? Why are you so fucking greedy?” When I didn’t respond, he continued. “Forget it. Miss Fucking Perfect will never understand.”
He shook his head in disgust, got up, and walked away without ever stopping to look back at me.
I felt like I’d been cut open, my heart ripped out. Angry, too. For so many reasons. Mostly angry at myself. And so I didn’t take any time to think. I took out my phone and flicked through my emails until I found the one from the producer who’d been so eager to speak to me. Ben hadn’t mentioned that part. He didn’t know I’d already sentmyscreenplay out. The producer’s last message was from five days ago. Just like with the others, I’d never responded to her.
I tapped on the cell number in her signature. It was still early morning in LA, but I couldn’t wait another moment. The phone rang and rang and rang. My palm grew clammy around my phone.
“Hello?” she finally said, groggily.
