Page 111 of The Perfect Rom-Com

I honestly didn’t know how I would be able to face him.

The man swings open another door, and our little troop follows him up one hallway and down the next. Door after door after door opens until at last we are at a humble-looking little brown door and he grasps the knob. He pauses, turns and gives us a “shh” sound with his finger pressed to his lips, and opens the door.

I take in a breath.

The room is massive.

Back door to a shining stage in the distance. People are already seated for the live event. Melinda May is already sitting on a teal couch with somebody, one shiny pointy heel crossed over the other. We wait a few seconds as she speaks some inaudible words, and then a laugh ripples around the room.

He motions for us to walk ahead.

It seems impossible for anyone to hear us, really. Not unless somebody in a moment of leaning into intrusive thoughts let out a scream or something.

People in black T-shirts are hovering at various points in the background, moving spotlights, shifting cameras. Flipping pages. Everybody is concentrated on the conversation occurring between Melinda and her guest. Everyone painfully focused while Melinda herself leans back and takes a sip of coffee. Like none of this is really around her. Like she’s actually sitting in a little nook at a breakfast table somewhere fabulous like Cape Cod, having a chat with her little friend.

Wait.

I squint. And correct myself. A little friend named Anna Kendrick.

“You sit here.” The man points to Amelia—who looks even more aggravated that he didn’t refer to her by name. In fact, he’s acting like he doesn’t know who she is at all—though to be fair, Anna Kendrick is onstage, and from the weekly lineup I read in the receptionist area, Tim Tebow is coming on tomorrow.

Amelia finds her way to the black chair and motions to a woman nearby, who jumps into action beside the man with a string of electronic devices. She’s already pushing back Amelia’s hair to clip the mic onto her blouse as he says, “She’s going to get you set up and tell you everything you need to know. Now you.” He points at me now. “You come with me.”

“Oh. Okay.” I admit I become a little nervous under his direct stare.

Of course I know I have a job to do, but the reality is, there’s a 99 percent chance this is a marshmallow interview. It’s a casual, fun-loving television program for the population of America just cracking open their eyes and settling down to a show while the eggs simmer. Cute little mugs of coffee are involved. Half the time somebody is called to do the Hokey Pokey blindfolded. Pranks with people popping out of couches. Surprise station-wide gifts of vehicles and hot tubs with two hundred screaming, out-of-control participants.

This isn’t an intelligent bookstore interview where a fight breaks out among two teams trying to decide whether the protagonist was “alluding to something deeper with the disposable straw on page 112.” This is pure, easy entertainment.

Amelia’s specialty.

My work here is just to suffer in silence and avoid ending up in court.

The man flips his hand over and beckons me toward him.

Penny and Susanna start to walk behind me, but he holds up his hand. “Just her.”

“O . . . kay,” I say feebly. “See you on the other side.” I toss a little smile over my shoulder toward Penny and Susanna.

“Have fun!” Penny says, her hands in little excited balls at her sides.

It’s an entirely out-of-place comment given the situation, but at least I’m acknowledged here.

“Step lightly,” he says as we move around lights and cords snaking along the concrete floor and various shadowy figures all quietly doing their jobs. Everybody is listening intently to the interview. There’s a focus here like none other.

Finally we come to a little door. Unpainted. Something someone in passing would easily take for a storage closet full of mops and buckets. But no buckets are inside. Just an empty room. And a single metal folding chair.

Okay. I’m definitely dying here. Amelia has hired a hit man.

“Here you go,” he says and I turn to him. He’s trying to usher me in with his hand. There’s even a little flicker of a friendly smile attached that in this lighting looks very much like a horror movie.

“I’m not . . . sure,” I say tentatively.

I don’t want to be rude here, even in the face of apparent death, it seems, so I find myself negotiating politely with my kidnapper. “It’s just a little . . . lonely looking. What about . . . um . . . one of those other rooms? I’m sure I could sit in the receptionist area where we came in?”

“Mics here.” He ignores me and steps inside. “The room is soundproof—”

Not, for the record, something I’d recommend a kidnapper announce in a pro-con list for why his victim should come inside.