by Kim Karr
Fangirl is the kind of modern love story that although on trend, isn’t what people might expect, and that is what I love about it.
My thoughts begin to wander to how to make this screenplay stand out even more, make the viewer feel an entire range of emotions, when my phone rings.
“Hello,” I answer, looking at the page and not paying attention to the caller ID.
“Brooklyn, it’s Ryan Gerhardt from next door.”
I tuck my pencil behind my ear to pay better attention. “Hey, Mr. Gerhardt, how are you?”
“Listen, that’s why I’m calling. Not so well. My mother took a fall, and Pam and I need to go to Florida tomorrow.”
Leaving my manuscript on the coffee table, I walk into the kitchen and decide I should probably eat something. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there something I can do to help?”
“Actually, yes. Pam and I were hoping you might be able to stay at our house for the weekend and take care of Romeo and Juliet.”
Looking out the kitchen window, I glance next door at Mr. Gerhardt’s giant, ultramodern beach house. “You want me to dog-sit your Yorkies?”
He laughs. “I know it’s last minute and definitely not the most glamorous request you’ll receive, but our normal dog sitter is out of town, and Pam doesn’t trust anyone else. Would you be able to spend the weekend over here and take care of them? We’ll return on Monday.”
“Sure, I can do that.” Stepping over to the refrigerator, I open it and sigh. It is practically bare, except for Maggie’s vegan items, which seem to have an unnaturally long shelf life. I really need to get my shit together and go grocery shopping on a weekly basis, and maybe even start cooking.
“That’s great,” he says. “Pam and I would really appreciate it. By the way, how’s that screenplay coming along?”
I grab the container of pasta Makayla sent home with me on Sunday. “Much better than it was last time we talked.”
“When you think it’s ready, I’d like to read it.”
A smile cracks across my face as I close the refrigerator door. “Are you serious?”
The dogs bark in the background like someone just got home, probably Mrs. Gerhardt. “Yes, I am,” he tells me. “You’ve been writing that story of yours for over two years. In a way I feel like it’s a part of me, the way I’ve watched you slaving over it on the beach day after day.”
“I just might hold you to it,” I answer, and then pop the lid off the container to stick it in the microwave.
“You’d better,” he says. “Now, about this weekend, do you have time to come over tonight so I can show you where I keep the booze and how to use the hot tub?”
Before I can answer, I hear Mrs. Gerhardt talking in the background. I give him a second to respond to her, and hit the reheat button in the meantime.
“Yes, dear,” he says. “Yes, of course I’ll give Brooklyn instructions on how to care for Romeo and Juliet. I’ll ask him to come over right now. No, my love, that shouldn’t be a problem,” he adds. “Did you hear all that, Brooklyn?” he asks.
With a laugh, I pull the leftovers out and set them on the counter. They can wait. Besides, if I know Mrs. Gerhardt, she’ll have something much better than leftovers on the stove. “Yes, sir, I did. And I’m on my way.”
Fist-pumping the air, I look over at his house through the kitchen window.
Hot tub.
Booze.
And a secret getaway for Amelia and me.
Looks like my weekend just got a whole lot sweeter.
27
Annie Hall
Amelia
Paris and Helen, Dante and Beatrice, and yes, even Han Solo and Princess Leia—these are romances that have become legends.
And for the most part television shows aren’t shy about recreating romances that walk similar paths, ranging from harmonious to downright rocky.
I think I learned the most about love from watching Ross and Rachel on Friends when I was younger. Their back-and-forth love interest in each other proved a powerful pull, one I couldn’t step away from. The angst sometimes was enough to drive me over the edge, but through the comedy I persevered and always rooted for them to come together and stay together.
Yes, I’m a romance buff through and through.
And no, The Walking Dead is definitely not my kind of television show. I think I might even prefer one of those obstacle-course game shows to it, and that isn’t saying much at all, considering I think they are boring.
My brother, though, he loves that show, and of course wants to start Season Two, since he made me watch Season One over the past three nights. “So that’s a no to watching it?” he asks, stretching his long arms and linking his hands behind his head as he tips the chair back.
“Help me clear the table, and we can discuss it.”
Cam looks around at the mess in the kitchen, and then groans. “You are still the messiest cook I know.”
“Thanks.” I wipe my mouth with a napkin and contemplate another forkful of lasagna.
“It wasn’t meant as a compliment,” he smirks, setting the chair on all fours.
Rising to my feet, I grab the casserole dish, which is still more than half full. “Haven’t you heard—all the best chefs are messy? It’s what makes the food so good.”
“Right, whatever makes you sleep better,” he laughs.
I shrug. There is no rebuttal. It’s just simply true.
“You should have let me invite Brooklyn over.” He points to the dish in my hand. “He would have polished that off.”
The slight blush that creeps up my neck at the sound of Brooklyn’s name is one I want to conceal, so I quickly turn and step toward the island. “I wanted to spend some time alone with my brother, is that a crime? But I’ll bring the leftovers over to him later, if that makes you feel better.”
It’s not a lie, but not exactly the truth. Having Brooklyn over with just Cam at home would make it almost impossible to hide the insane connection that seems to be growing between us with each passing day. Brooklyn and I are so in tune with each other in the oddest way. I say, “I’m thirsty,” and he says, “How about we grab a hot chocolate?” and it is exactly what I’m craving. Or he says, “Let’s watch television,” and I put on the Me TV channel just in time to catch an episode of Batman with Adam West and Burt Ward, and he makes a playful comment, something like, “Pow! Bam! Zonk! I love this show.”
“Did you hear me?” Cam says, setting both of our dirty dishes near the sink.
Blinking away my thoughts, I look up from wrapping foil over the glass dish. “No, I’m sorry. What did you say?”
He turns the faucet on, and then looks over at me. “You cook like Mom.”
Sealing the edges tightly, I meet his gaze, and smile. “I know.”
Grabbing one of the pans I used to make the creamy red sauce, he starts to rinse it. “I spoke to her today. She told me you and she have been talking almost every day.”
Circling the island, I open the refrigerator and shove the dish inside. “We have, and things are going really well. When I get home, we’re going to go away for a weekend, just us, and work on trying to fix what I broke.”
Cam squeezes some soap into the pot and starts to wash it. “And what about Dad? Have you decided anything yet?”
He and I talked endlessly about this every night this week, but each time I have been left more and more confused. I walk over to the table. “I actually made a decision today while I was taking some pictures.”
“Oh yeah, I saw you were in Hollywood. I assume Brooklyn took you. I’ll have to thank him for that.”
While gathering the grated cheese, salt and pepper, and our empty water glasses, I look at him in shock, my heart going tickety-tock that he saw my Instagram post. “Since when are you on social media?”
With a shrug, he sets the clean pot on the counter and picks up one of the dirty dishes. “Since I decided to venture into online sales. Not only do I have an Instagram account, but I reopened my
Facebook page and am thinking of joining Twitter.”
“Wow,” I tell him, setting the things in my hand on the island. “I’m impressed.”
After rinsing the first plate, he opens the dishwasher. “Don’t be. You still won’t see me posting anything personal. I think it’s odd people want the whole world to know their business. Anyways, you were saying.”
Reaching across the counter, I grab the sponge from the sink and wipe the table. “That I’m going to quit my job and look into doing something with photography.”
The sound of a slap on the granite has me whirling around.
Cam is grinning at me.
“What?” I ask.
He’s back to the dishes, but his smile is still there. “I’ve been waiting so long for you to decide to do something you like. Not that I’m encouraging you to leave The Waters Group; I just think working as a photographer has been your dream for so long, and I hated that you weren’t pursuing it.”
Touched, I toss the sponge in the sink and slide the glasses his way. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
He looks at me, assessing. “I know you want to be independent. To show everyone that you are grown and can make your own decisions. Besides, you didn’t need another thing on your plate to make you feel like a failure.”
To most people that comment might have been offensive. To me it is anything but. To me it proves just how well Cam knows me. There are times my brother and I argue, there are times we get along better than most siblings, and there are times we are brutally honest with each other. This is the latter, and darn it if it doesn’t make me teary-eyed, because he is right. Before, I might not have been able to handle him judging me. Now, though, I don’t see it that way.
Closing up the dishwasher, he hits the start button, then walks around to where I’m standing getting ready to return the salt and pepper to the spice cupboard. Taking them from me, he sets them down and puts his hands on my shoulders. “It’s okay for you to be happy. Brandon would have wanted that for you, and for me.”
His comment surprises me. He doesn’t bring up Brandon often. Aside from the night he returned from Mexico, he hasn’t mentioned his name once. I look up at him. “I agree. He would want that for both of us.”
“Come on,” Cam suggests, “let’s collapse on the couch in a food coma and watch mindless television. I’ll even let you pick the show.”
I look around. There are a few more things that need attending in the kitchen. “Sounds like a plan. Go on in, and I’m right behind you.”
When he has gone, I finish cleaning up and just as I’m about to go join him, my phone buzzes. I pull it from my pocket. There is a text from Landon asking me if I am okay. I have not answered a single one of his texts since Monday, but I can’t just ignore him. That is rude. So I send him a text. A short one that says I am fine. And leave it at that.
Carter has been very vocal about my decision to accept Brooklyn’s ultimatum, as he calls it. In his words, “If you were a guy I’d say you are thinking with your dick and not your brain, but since you’re a girl, use your own words.”
That’s Carter for you.
Telling me to pick one, and then when I do, wondering why I picked the one I did.
In the living room, Cam is stretched out on the couch watching a rerun of Where’s My Latte? I flop on one of the chairs and look over at him. “I met Gigi Bennett the other night when Brooklyn took me to her and Chase Parker’s engagement party.”
And yes, I’m testing the waters, or I’m testing Waters, the second case meant to have a capital W.
With mild interest, he appears to give the flat-screen slightly more attention. “Yeah, I’ve met her too.”
“What did you think?”
He shrugs in that way of his when he’s not really interested in the conversation.
I glance at the scene on the screen and watch how bubbly and perky she is. “Honestly, I felt a little cheated.”
That gets me a laugh. “Why?”
“She was nothing like her character on the show. And I don’t know, I just thought she would be.”
“That’s Hollywood for you,” he says.
I guess he’s right, but still, something about Chase and her just seemed off. Their wedding is next weekend, though, and so far it’s still on. This is the perfect time to bring up Brooklyn’s invitation for me to attend the wedding with him. Casually, I throw out, “Brooklyn said I could go to the wedding with him, if I want.” He hadn’t been quite so nonchalant about it. He’d requested that I join him when he had his face in my pussy. When I seemed reluctant, like it was too much like a date, he told me to dress fuck-hot and skip the panties; he’d make it a night I’d never forget. How could I turn that down?
“Oh, yeah,” Cam says, now doing something on his phone. “You should go. It’s not every day you get to attend an up-and-coming actress’s wedding.”
Looking at the return text from Landon on my phone, I quickly respond with an “I’m sure,” to his question, “Are you sure you are okay?” and then move past it to the one from Carter, before answering Cam with, “Yes, maybe I will.” My response is offered lightly, as a second thought, but on the inside I’m screaming in delight.
Cam, not in the least bit suspicious, sets his own phone beside him on the couch and stares steadfastly at the sitcom. By the time it comes to an end, I notice his lids appear to be closing. It’s only eight thirty, but he looks tired. I know he got up really early this morning. I wonder if he’ll fall asleep out here, and if he does, if I’ll have to sneak out the window again.
God, I hope not.
“Here,” he says, tossing me the remote. “You can watch anything you want.”
Quickly setting my phone on the chair, I catch the remote and hold it in my hands. “Do you mind if we skip TV watching tonight? I think I might read for a bit,” I tell him, giving him the option to bow out.
Cam sits up and runs his hands over his face. “No, not all. I’m pretty wiped out, and I have to call Makayla anyway. Will you be okay by yourself?”
At the question, I feel that guilt come tumbling back. I hate keeping what is going on between Brooklyn and me from him. I can’t do it for much longer. I swear I’m about to break. The answer is simple. If I can’t tell him, then I need to leave. “I’ll be fine,” I say.
Walking toward the hallway that leads to his bedroom, he stops at the entranceway and turns around. “You know, Simon Warren could use a photographer. Right now we’re subcontracting out the work for the fall line and it’s costing us a bundle.”
I shift a little in my chair to fold my legs up under me. “Cam, stop trying to take care of me. I’ll be fine.”
His expression changes. “I’m serious, Amelia. Keen and I have been discussing bringing a photographer in-house for the past couple of months. You’d be doing us a favor.”
Unable to stop myself, I roll my eyes.
He laughs, but not quite his usual hearty chortle. “If you don’t believe me, ask him.”
Laying the remote next to my phone, I reach for the book I’ve been reading on the side table. I can’t say I haven’t thought about moving out here. “I think I need to quit my current job and settle things with Dad before I figure out what comes next, but I appreciate the offer.”
Although I know there is no way he is giving up, it is so not his nature, he shrugs nonchalantly as if he is. “Well, if you change your mind and decide being close to your brother is where you want to be, the offer stands,” he pauses, “until I hire someone, that is.”
“Playing the brother card. That’s not fair.”
With a raised brow, he laughs, and this time it sounds better. “Had to give it a try.”
I wave my hand at him. “Good night, Cam. Tell Makayla I said hi, and if I don’t see you in the morning, have a good day.”
“You too.” Turning around, he starts down the hall and pulls out his phone before he even makes it to his bedroom.
The coast should be clear.
>
I’m so out of here.
28
Good Will Hunting
Brooklyn
We are officially in the Age of the Bromance.
Celebrating the deep, platonic love between two or more male characters is what viewers are gravitating toward these days.
The men involved in the bromance often have nicknames for each other, share a history, and have a seemingly infinite capacity for ball-busting humor.
Nevertheless, they’re always there for each other with a commendable loyalty. Even when things aren’t going well, you can usually count on them to find their way back to each other.
Adding the bromance element to Fangirl will likely broaden my audience and, at the same time, give this screenplay the jolt of humor it needs.
Giving Kellan’s male friend, Colton, more screen time is easy enough. Like my buddy Chase and me, Kellan and Colton grew up together deep in the trenches of the 90210 zip code, which is established early on in my manuscript.
Carrying their interactions through on the page comes naturally. I even assign Colton the nickname my brother has given me, Pantydropper.
Leaning back in my chair at my desk, I take the pencil from behind my ear and begin to tap my pencil on the piece of paper in front of me. My imagination starts to soar as I immerse myself in their lines of dialogue. I mix in some wit and zingers with fuck yous and other insults. It’s more than a little fun. I’m careful to put a more sophisticated gloss on their relationship than my real one has.
Time passes as I busy myself with my manuscript, but soon enough I find that I’m keeping an eye on the time on my phone. Close to nine. Each minute that ticks by is another minute sooner that she’ll be arriving.
Way too eager to see her, I find my mind drifting from my task at hand to visions of bending her over this desk, or taking her up against the door before she even crosses the threshold. Or perhaps…there is so much more.
