#transboyswitchytales

Gene Fowler’s described it best: “Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.”

You bit the end of your pen, - you were camped out at this hipster cafe. Their outdoor seating was next to a water feature and tiny pond.  You had three drinks, one notebook - eight pens - and your traitor of a macbook. The notebook and supplies did nothing to help the writers block. No matter how many different liquids or colors of pens you had today. The words did not come

You stare at the blank page for so long now that you think the blinking cursor may be attempting to communicate with you. Like the planchette of an Ouija board. The cursor blinked offensively at you. Maybe it was a sort of Morse code SOS. Gene Fowler and Charlotte Brontë try to tell you things from the spirit realm. If they had any words of wisdom, you might offer your firstborn for it. 

You sigh and go back to your method of self-flagellation. A hypnotic cycle of self hate, caffinie and this highly abused pen between your teeth. 

Continental Studios had done a test group of people to view the rough cut of your film, specifically the climax and ending. Not completely true though -  as there was a debate now on the beginning too. And now you wondered if the whole side character plot and underlying talk about a capitalistic society - would get scrubbed next. You were positive Matt wouldn’t get the philosophical teachings you tried to lay into the film, he probably couldn’t even be able to spell stoicism if it was written on the PornHubs menu screen. 

Well, the screening people loved the plot, loved the romance, and adored Kathryn Hahn. Because who the fuck wouldn’t. 

But everyone hated the ending - figures.

Fucking of course they did. It was simple and cruel - you hadn’t let them live happily ever after. No great final word. That important final ‘everything is good’ and the ‘guy got the girl’ thing.

You could see all those films playing in your head.  

“What took you so long?” Timothy Olyphant says to a gorgeous Colorado chique Jennifer Gardener in ‘Catch and Release’. Susannah Grant deserved a fucking beach house herself for that one. 

“Why do you wanna marry me for anyhow?” Josh Lucas asks - bringin a whole new demographic of people who want to ride a cowboy. 

“So I can kiss you anytime I want.” A rain-drenched Reece tells him. Cue the jukebox for Sweet Home Alabama and let those credits roll like the wads of cash for Andy Tennant. 

“You’re a Wanker Number 9!” 

Thank fuck for Piper Perabo.

You took a big sip of your overpriced iced cinnamon dolce latte - convincing yourself it didn’t have too much ice because the barista didn’t like that you had cast Lashana Lynch and not Salma Hayek. Which is what the internet was debating over a year and some months ago.  You tipped the barista and hoped that would be enough to be forgiven but knew better than to believe it. 

Fuck you needed a good ending. You bang the ice in your plastic cup around a few times hoping it would be cathartic and it just isn’t doing it for you. 

So you reflect on more lines - wishing you could simply disassociate in the hall of fame for great cinema. 

Great lines weren’t made - they were accidents, right?

Good Will Hunting was the perfect and best known example of this. The late and great Robin Williams with his iconic “Son of a bitch. Stole my line,"

Yeah - a great line and a great last word. Fuck - you grabbed your second drink of some sort of overpriced lemonade tea bullshit and started to chug. 

Dialog was important - though not if you asked Raymond Carter or…. Margaret Mitchell! 

You slam the cup down and feel victorious in your own internal argument. 

Now that was a great point. Because ‘Gone With The Wind’ didn’t have a ‘happy’ ending or a ‘happy last line.’ 

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Out of Rhett Butler was so jarring. Clark Gable changed the game for fucking romance. 

Your phone vibrated and you ignored it. 

No phone policy was possibly the hardest thing about writing. 

Even in public setting - but doom scroll tendencies wouldn’t help you write. No nothing would help you but staring at this obnoxious blank page until you turned Titanic Rose type of old and then just maybe you’d finish this god damn movie. 

Your phone vibrated again. 

No you must show self-restraint. 

But what if there was a natural disaster, what if a politician abolished a basic human right - again? You caved faster than Matt did in defunding poor Martin Scorsese on that deal. 

Picking up your phone to see a text from a number you don’t know. 

Unknown Number : ‘Viola Davis finally run out of lube using her giant strap on inside your holes?’

Unknown Number : Austen, I bet you are somewhere feeling sorry for yourself about that test screening.’ 

You scoff in irritation at her assumption; she was wrong. You weren’t feeling sorry for yourself. But you were feeling sorry for Rhett Butler, because he put up with too much. Sorta like you right now actually. 

Another vibration and you couldn’t resist reading it. 

Unknown number: Got Writers Block?

She wrote and you growled and went back to your MacBook. 

You typed out F. U. C. K. Just to see something else on the page. Your phone started to vibrate fast and loud, indicating an incoming call and you jolted. 

Your hand jerked to grab the phone - only for you to knock over your third drink of a sticky carmel something all down your acid wash jeans. You scowl at your phone’s interruption.  

You swipe the screen and yell a ‘what!’ into it. 

“Easy Austen, you really shouldn’t look at your phone when you are trying to write. Interruptions aren’t great for that.” Maya says casually and you hear noises in the background but can’t believe Maya Mason is actually lecturing you on writing now. 

“How the fuck did you get this number?” You ask angrily, wondering who broke the legal agreement about releasing your phone number. Even if it was just to Maya. 

“You know what Fowler said about writer's block, right?” She says seriously. Not trying to make fun of you - but genuinely thinking of your situation. 

“No one has this number.” You don’t know why you feel the need to tell her that but you do. Like she’s broken some sort of sacred calm you once had and now don’t. Like it was all her fault. But you were also a tad impressed. 

“I can see you now. Probably at some sad ass spot hoping no one recognizes you. A bunch of drinks - probably bad caffeine. You lectured me about cheap stimulus! You know what you need? A good meal.” You can tell that Maya is putting on a show now - and you can’t help but feel swallowed whole by her. 

“Maya, I’m hanging up and blocking you.” Your voice is mean, but you aren’t sure if you would actually do it. 

“Nah! It’s too late now, I know you check your phone while you write.” 

Your jaw drops open in upset - like she had just outed you for a cardinal sign of writing. 

“I don’t!”

“Your read receipts are on, sweetheart. Now the question is which coffee shop are you holed up in. Hmmm, I bet it’s one where three out of five of the people have genital piercings.”

Your irritation is quickly overshadowed by your own snort at the idea. But also how right she was. L.A emo hipsters kept the coffee shops open, thank god for John Mayer music and Burning Man. 

“I’ll order something, thank you for your concern.” You say, throwing your pen down onto the notebook. Now you can hear a click of heels and you wonder if it’s wishful thinking or someone who might carry themselves with the big dick energy Maya does. 

“Let’s see my little Nancy Drew. I think that narrows it down - a coffee shop with: genital piercings, overpriced drinks, and a menu. Is that…..a cliché waterfall?”

Your eyes snapped to the not so quiet water fountain into the pond. Yoga zen shit the owner put in to be unique. 

“Maya?” You question, unsure of what exactly you are asking. 

The line clicks, and you turn around to see Maya standing there and she’s got a devilish look on her face. You stand up and you can’t tell if you are upset or excited to see her but whatever the feeling, it’s intense. 

“I wish I knew how to quit you.” Maya tries to deepen her voice in true Broke Back Mountain fashion, and you hate how much you want to laugh at her quote. But you are still trying to grapple with the fact that she’s really here in front of you right now. 

“Stalker!” Is all you can say, luckily the only other person in the area sees you both and goes back into the coffee shop. Understanding that this is some gay drama not to be interrupted. 

Maya dismisses you with an ‘on god!’ and uses her phone still in hand to point at the cafe. 

“You are in the worst cafe in all of L.A, it’s not my fault I was in the area.” She shrugs and walks over to you, eyeing your laptop. 

She clocks the blank page before you snap your MacBook closed. 

“That’s what a stalker says.” You only half mean it. Because you still aren’t sure if she’s a welcome part of your day or an intruder in your inner sanctum of bad writing.         

“Seems like you are having a hard time coming up with a better ending.” Maya muses, and you wish you had any liquid left to throw in her face. But she eyes your pant leg now. And now you must lash out harder - she did not just judge you.

“You know what, as fun as this has been - I have an afternoon to get back to and I’m sure you have a lot of personal assistants to make cry. Rumor is Justin Bieber is a Christian now! Wanna see if Tom Cruise can convert him to Scientology and you can market it with a religious trauma group? Or even better - find out if one of the Jonas Brothers uses a Fleshlight or prefers prostate stimulation? Adam and Eve is low in sales these days!” 

Maya’s lips perk up like she finds you hilarious and wonders how you haven’t hit the comedy club yet. 

“So you haven’t eaten.” Maya ignores all of your pointed insults, and you release a puff of annoyance.

“You are interrupting-”

“Your page was blank, you are cranky, you are covered in sticky corn syrup. I think I may just have come in the nick of time.” Maya declares but you’ve seen Jimminy Cricket enough times to know he has never worn Maya’s Prada Heels. 

“Maya I’m trying to write here.” You point to the closed laptop, and Madame Mason hums and looks down at it. 

“Hows that going for you?” She shows her teeth in a challenge manor. 

“Worse now that you are here.”

“How about a trade? You let me buy you lunch, get you a new outfit and sit with me. And I’ll tell you a secret about what the people said about your ending.” Maya offers and you can’t deny that peaks your interest. 

“You’d tell me-”

“Insider info, but only if you let me do all of the following.”

You stare at her, as she tries to hide the smile that threatens to break through from a triumph not yet won. 

And Maya waits still, her gorgeous outfit fits her like a glove and you try not to look down her shirt to see the plump clevage that awaits.

You focus instead on her perfect eyebrows and adorable nose. 

“You aren’t taking me to some paparazzi hot spot, right? Movie writer sleeps with marketing head and can’t get a movie deal ever again?”

“Where do you think we’ll eat that I’ll be allowed to eat you at the table, dear? No, I’m only going to feed you like i’ve been trying to do for months. If you can’t resist me after dessert then we can reconsider how sturdy the lunch table is and go from there. ” Maya answers faster than you’d like. You look down at your tote bag and wonder if she’s taking you somewhere too fancy. 

“You aren’t buying my outfit or picking it out.”

“I’ll do both things, and I’ll give you an exclusive on what Matt wants to do for your next film budget. Because he is already poking around and having legal start a rough draft.”

You grind your teeth and stare at her. 

No one has ever tried this hard to spend time with you and you don’t know how to feel about this. But Maya stands there in her heels and power stance and you work very hard not to picture her in a strap on and nothing else. 

“This is not a date.” You declare.

“If it makes you feel better.” Maya winks, and you groan but bend down and put everything in your tote bag. Maya takes the bag from you and you throw out your drinks and she makes a grossed out face at your caffeine spiral. 

“You live off of stanley cups.”

“They have water inside them, and I’m not anti coffee. I’m anti self hate in the form over cafiniteling yourself.” She declares like a trendy influencer. 

“Don’t judge me.” You can’t help but notice your angry tone is coming off more and more like grump flirtation. Like you and Maya had been speaking a different language than the rest of this town. But now that you found each other - and it was all clicking into place. You scowled and Maya understood instantly what brand of scowl you were giving. 

The two of you walked for a minute before you spoke. 

“Please tell me you aren’t taking me somewhere gaudy that is going to cost an arm and a leg.” You softly beg and Maya scoffs and lifts the tote bag up her shoulder and walks towards her car. 

“Wait what?” You stopped in your tracks. 

“We are going to get you changed-”

“There’s overpriced stores here, why do we have to get in your car?”

Maya stopped now and really looked you over. 

“You got a lot of secrets, huh?”

You gulp and check over your shoulder and then back to Maya. 

“Not one for trust,” Maya contemplates - holding you gently in her stare. As though you might run and she’d have to chase you. As she had done time and time again since the day you two had met. 

“Yeah, well…trauma dumping doesn’t exactly seem like your thing.” You, barb, trying to push her away. 

“So many assumptions,” Maya whispers and then looks from her Range Rover back to you. 

“You promise you won’t….” You stop yourself and hear it now - that small girl inside of you wanting to not have your heart broken. And you feel so disney princess you want to gag. 

“I won’t hurt you, Austen. Sometimes a little leap of faith isn’t such a bad thing?”

You imagine Indiana Jones stepping out and you hesitate for a second longer. 

“And if we need to go slower, we can go slower. I’d eat out of a taco truck if it meant you relaxing a little around me.” Maya laughs self deprecating at the last bit of that. 

“I don’t- I mean I don’t hate you.” You say and it is meant as a compliment, but Maya doesn’t seem mollified, and you can’t blame her. As far as compliments go that wasn’t exactly a Pulitzer prize-winning declaration of love. 

You scrunch your hand into a fist and let it go before walking around to the side of her big black SUV and pulling the door open for yourself. 

Maya is taken aback for a moment before she climbs into the driver's side. Eyeing you from the corner but not saying anything. Not until you start touching her dash. 

“Whoa, whatcha doin' there, Little Lady Ephron?”

You roll your eyes at Maya’s nickname that she’d stolen from the tabloids. 

“Of course you’d read that shit.”

“You can’t just come in and touch someone’s music like that.” Maya is sounding offended and rude. But you realize she really is all bark. 

She starts the engine, and you scroll through her playlists. 

“You listen to Starship and Pat Benatar?” You bite your bottom lip and turn to judge the head of the biggest studio in L.A.’s brains of marketing. 

Maya slows the car from backing out to meet your eyes now. 

“Is this you calling me old right now?” She lifts an eyebrow and you can’t help but let out a small laugh and Maya grins and backs the rest of the way out of her parking spot. 

At a stoplight, you finally get to the playlist that feels the most like Maya. Seeing Björk and Fiona Apple this helps you settle on Chemtrails Over The Country Club by Lana Del Rey. 

And Maya didn’t comment, but her shoulders relaxed, seeing that you weren’t actually attacking her music. Maya drove like a butch 50-year-old lesbian - one hand on the steering wheel. Legs spread gently, hair effortlessly curling around her shoulder. She smelled amazing - a little earthy, and you wanted to understand this woman. 

 You stared openly at her instead of playing over your own anxiety about being in a car. 

It seemed less scary now that you got an excuse to watch Maya. And she did her best not to twitch under your gaze. She held firm - like a model would as an artist chipped away at the bit of marble to cast them in likeness. 

You wondered what it would be like to reach out to Maya. 

What being in love with her was like, or even more interesting what being loved by Maya was like. Your eyes traced her jaw line and small indent in her chin, then the dip of her throat, that gorgeous throat that would be too easy to kiss and whimper into.

Was Maya the kind of lover who liked domesticity? 

If you two were in a different universe, could you have been Maya’s brand of girl? She’d have asked you out - and you wouldn’t have been so nasty. And then love would have spiraled with those flowers and gifts. Nights spent watching films instead of getting them as presents. 

Would Maya let you stay the night? Give you a drawer? Give you her time, give you her world?

Lana Del Rey sings and you sink into that feeling of beig a main character:

Baby, what's your sign?

My moon's in Leo, my Cancer is sun

You won't play, you're no fun

Well, I don't care what they think

Drag racing my little red sports car

I'm not unhinged or unhappy, I'm just wild

I'm on the run with you, my sweet love

You shoot this scene in your head - write it, and block it like the author you wish you were. 

In your fantasy, Maya would reach her hand out into the center console and you’d easily let your warm palm meet hers. She’d smile and ask you questions about your day, about your dreams. 

And the golden hour would hit and it would be perfect.....but you would never be Maya’s. And most romance was harder to write now. Now that you knew what it was like to be touched and hurt over and over. So when Maya finally turns to look at you - you avoid her gaze. 

Knowing what those blue eyes will tell you. Unable to give her what she wants. When Maya makes three more lefts and pulls up to an unmarked building. 

“Stalker turned killer?’ You try to lighten the mood - Lana Del Rey was a bad choice and you should have known that with two gays in the car. You both walk up to the building and Maya flips some keys until she finds the right one and opens it - holding the door for you. You have no more jokes, too curious now. 

Walking in it’s a giant movie like costume lot. Except as you walk closer you notice that it is all vintage designer. Your hand goes out to touch and you stop yourself. 

“You won’t break it Austen. It’s okay.” Maya whispers just behind your ear and you gasp. But now you can’t move, and so Maya reaches from behind you out to the hanger you were trying not to touch. 

She takes it and loops her pinky into yours. Like two schoolyard girls sharing a secret. Or two lovers meeting again for the first time. 

She drags you to a corner with a small changing room and pushes you in and drapes the designer outfit over the small door. 

You change and hold your breath the whole time - your senses betray you. But you take off your sticky jeans and pull the maroon dress pants and white cream shirt. And then the vest and jacket. You don’t have a mirror but you are sure you feel a foot taller. 

“Come on out, little Shakespeare - let me see you,” Maya says in a sing-song voice, and you open the door to rip the bandaid off, and she can’t contain the gasp. Maya’s smile breaks you open and rebuilds you over and over. 

“I -”

“It was made for you.” Maya declares - not compliments. No, she says it like the fates wove this outfit for you and you alone. And you couldn’t help glow under Maya’s appreciation - it was a drug. 

“I can’t, it’s-” You say, but turn to see yourself in the full-length mirror now, and your heart explodes. This person you are looking at, you haven’t met before. 

“It’s already yours. I will take care of it. I’m rethinking that lunch spot now.” Maya states confidently and you don’t like that one bit. 

“I can’-” You countered, knowing this outfit must cost a fortune. But Maya wouldn’t hear it. Flicking her long dark hair over her shoulder like this was a fine print issue, and she was big money. 

“I’ll leave the note and the money. It’s all taken care of. Now - the big question.”

You are distracted by this, and it’s exactly how Maya meant it, but you can’t help but wonder what she’d do next. As you watch her reflection in the mirror. 

Maya moves tantalizingly slow, her heels don’t click evenly, she’s too deliberate. Mason circles you - and you now understand what romance writers mean when they talk about a maiden resembling prey. 

“Do you get it now?” She says innocently, though Maya has never once been innocent in a question. 

“What?” You feel dumb. 

“How you stood a little straighter, shoulder back, head held high. I sell things all day long to people. An idea of something or a fantasy thatmakes them believe an aesthetic is achievable. When we met you made a remark about my clothes. But you saw that outfit and knew it was for you. And now wearing it - you feel it. Nothing can touch you.” Maya states and shakes her head like this is the law of her kingdom. 

You lick your lips and Maya’s face softens as though she can read your mind. 

And maybe she was the first who ever could. 

“I understand why you said it. I just think an artist of your caliber…You should know in the movies when the girl gets a makeover. It appears to be silly -  as if taking off her glasses and a little lip gloss makes people see her for the first time. But maybe that’s not the narrative, maybe she see’s herself differently. You’ve always been beautiful - and these clothes are simply armor.”

You think Maya may be a better writer than you. Not sure if you could have written a better line if you tried. 

“I don’t know what to say.” You admit honestly and Maya seems to like that. 

“Speechless says the author.” Her gentle teasing only warms parts of you long forgotten. 

“I’m not an author.” You correct her, and she tilts her head to the side. 

“Then what are you?” Maya inquires - but not to you. No it’s like she’s a snake charmer for your soul. Her question is meant to stir something deep, she wants the truth - even if you don’t. 

“Should I um-” You dodge her cross-examination and point towards the changing room. Then shuffle away before she can answer and grab your clothes. Maya is writing one last thing on a sticky note and pressing it against the mirror. That’s when you see the initials. 

Holy shit, this was Bob Mackie’s collection. Holy shit! Maya was really pulling out all the stops. Though it was interesting that she didn’t take you to some big fancy store and parade you around. No Pretty Woman shopping spree movie moment. She took you somewhere private, somewhere you didn’t feel salespeople's eyes. Or were able to look at a tag and second-guess the outfit. As Maya finished her sticky note with a kiss at the bottom. 

You study the yellow paper, wondering if you could be jealous of inanimate objects or if it was too cliché. 

Maya is caping the pen, and you blink back to this realm, but your observer doesn’t seem to need you to make up false reasons for zoning out. Or there is an easier - but much scarier idea, which is that Maya knows your fits of daydreams are around her. 

And that would be too revealing. Maya seeing you down to the bone like that could never end well. 

You clear your throat,  holding your dirty clothes in one hand and chewing on the inside of your cheek. 

“So you take all the girls here?” It sounds self-conscious, and it isn’t what you had planned. Not that any of this was. 

Maya seems momentarily offended, but a counter thought hits her like a brick and so she makes a noise at your distrust. 

“Only 8 people have ever been inside this lot, Bob of course, me, Steisand, Elton, Dolly, Cher, Marilyn, Carol Bernette, and now-” Maya lets the names hit your chest one at a time. Names fly like bullets and they fill your meaty body. Each one staying inside of you. You try to breathe like you aren’t starstruck, as though this isn’t your first day on L.A lot. But that wasn’t an everyday lineup. 

“-and now you.” Maya tells you before walking to the door, your feet moved you but you still weren’t breathing. When Maya takes your dirty clothes from your hand and throws them in the back and opens the door for you, you try to not seem in a daze. 

But when she gets into the range rover and turns to buckle you don’t move. 

“Austen, the faster you realize you aren’t a game to me, the easier this will be for you.”

“For me?” You gawk in defense. 

Maya grabs a pair of Chopard sunglasses that cost more than most people's rent. Pushing them onto her face, to anyone else they might have seemed 70’s Dahmer-inspired. But she pulled them off effortlessly. 

“Just let me Woo you,” Maya says it so offhandedly as she backs out that you aren’t sure if you want to kiss her or get out of the car and get an Uber. 

“I’m not asking you to!” You shout, and she turns the wheel and blasts out of the parking lot. 

“No one said you did. That’s not howing Wooing works, Mrs. RomCom.” Maya’s lip curls, and you realize she’s actually irritated. 

“Take the clothes back - I don’t want to owe you a thing.”

Maya’s chin jerks to you and then back to the road. Her hands tighten around the wheel before she releases it, like she’s got something that keeps holding her back from getting mad at you. 

“No.”

“No?”

“You write enough dialogue you should know what the word means.” Maya counters and it’s not kind and you like this better - a fight. You could get her to kick you out of the car and this could all end. 

“You s-” 

Maya holds up her hand before dropping it back on the wheel. 

“You are about to say something cutting - something you think  will piss me off. Then I’ll retaliate or take the clothes back or kick you out of my car or some shit. But I’m telling you right now - I’m not that easy to manipulate.” Maya words flitter so calmly you feel yourself go pale. 

“Manipulate I-”

“I get it, you like me too.” It should sound juvenile but it makes you blush as a full grown adult. 

“Like you! Why on earth would I ev-”

“You’ve been writing about love for so long you forgot what it’s like when it hits you. But I’m it for you, baby girl. I’m your match.” Maya stops at a red light and turns to look at you, letting her head bend back and showing her smile - her canines taunt you. 

“I’m not your baby- how dare you!” You shout, and Maya just laughs like you are hilarious. 

“I’ve never been known as particularly patient. But for you - “ Maya gives you a grin before hitting the gas and weaving in traffic. “-I’ll wait. You are worth the wait.” 

“I already told you I’m not some notch on your belt! I won’t be bought and I-”

“I know all of that. I’m not just trying to sleep with you. And I already read up on intimacy. Being bought or big declarations isn’t your thing.” Maya says and it sounds like an alien has replaced her. 

“You read about intimacy? You? TikTok queen? You sure it wasn’t a four-second video about oral sex?” You retort. 

Maya lets her hand fall back behind the center console and she snatches a book from the backseat with little page markers. Then she hands it to you and you take it like it’s either a dead fish or Nicholas Cage holding the Declaration of Independence. 

“You read this?” You challenge and Maya nods before putting one hand over the other to turn. Her car moves around the streets of L.A while you are convinced time has stopped. 

“I don’t believe you.”

“My Dad is not from Cypres - I was raised by a mafia boss. I was born in Ohio and passed around from one family member to the next. State to state - until my uncle got married to this woman who worked in Hollywood. I was twelve and she said she’d take care of me. I didn’t learn until I was twenty that my uncle killed my parents. They tried to talk to the FBI., I see them every thanksgiving but besides that - not often.”

You open and close your mouth as Maya speaks. 

“I was a secretary for two weeks when I was twenty-one. And I hated being talked down to. I wanted power - but without the blood shed. I started to go to an anger management group on thursdays down at Westfield Topanga. I needed it to be far away. I use a different name and dress in joggers when I go. I listened to Starship the week I dropped out of highschool to get my G.E.D. When I turned thirty I was already running half of this studio with Patty. But I wanted more - so I went back to school. Got my Bachelors in Marketing and minored in Business Studies and Film. I could work any camera on that lot.”

Maya paused as you both hit a bit of traffic, she pulled the sunglasses up to her forehead and turns to see you struggling to process all of this. 

“An actor on the lot didn’t like that I had told Patty he was a liability and a wife-beater. So he tried to hit me, and I broke his jaw. He spent the six months it took after they wired his jaw back together in bum-fuck Iowa. Twenty years later and he still cannot get a job. I have a wide reach. The only reason he isn’t dead is because I like that he was to watch his career circle the drain. Every few months I send him an assortment of high-end cheeses to let him know I still remember him and he is a rat.”

You laugh at this, and Maya relaxes a tad - glad you aren’t afraid of her. And the truth is - you really aren’t. In fact, this whole drive, even as she’s been very Los Angeles in her driving, you’ve never felt safer. 

“Keep going?” You try. And Maya puts her glasses back on and flips a U-turn so she doesn’t have to sit in traffic. People honk at her and she gives them the bird as she speeds off in the opposite direction. 

“I had my heart broken twice - never been married. I tell Matt I have a kid but it’s a lie so I can get out of their stupid meetups after work. I’ll go to the parties but I’m not joining Matt, Sal, Danny Boyle,  and Tarantino in the world's longest Geek-jerk-off session of Dungeons and Dragons.”

You laugh fully now, head thrown back, and Maya likes it so much she just stops herself from swerving. As she grins at your giggle fit, not paying as close attention to the road. 

How could she? When you laughed at her jokes like that.

When you finished your laughter, you wiped the tears away and nodded for her to keep going. 

“I live alone, I want a pet but I’m terrified of…”

You wait, and she clears her throat. 

“What? Litterboxes?” You joke, and she smirks and then shakes her head. 

“That good things won’t want me back.” She admits and your face drops. 

Maya was being far more honest than you thought possible. And she’d just admitted a nuclear bomb type of weight to you. And you wanted to comfort her - but you just didn’t know what to say to that. So she continued to speak. 

“I have been through 5 personal assistants this month. I’m hard to be around. Matt has over 74 HR complaints from me being rude or violent this quarter.” Maya shares, and you see her body start to get more tense as she tries her best to hold the steering wheel without her white knuckles showing. 

“What was your favorite movie as a kid?” You interrupt her, realizing she’s telling you all of the worst stuff about herself in the hopes you’ll understand her better. Not scare you off, but know who you are spending time with. And she looked over at you and then back at the road. 

“Dirty Dancing,” Maya admits and you laugh so hard you might pee yourself. 

“No fucking way - that's the first lie you’ve told me!” You shout and laugh again and Maya’s smile is enough to send L.A’s tectonic plates into an earthquake.

“I haven’t lied to you once! Why would I start now!” Maya laughs too. And the harder you laugh - the more Maya is sure of you. 

You were worth the wait. All those years of fear and fighting for an inch in this industry. You were what Maya wanted. 

_______

The restaurant was outdoors, discreet, no one to snap photos of you two as you ate. It had twinkling lights strung from above, loads of big plants, and felt a little like a fairy garden. Something Tolkien would have enjoyed in modern day. 

Maya pulled the chair out for you and you eyed her skeptically.

“I’m being a gentleman.” She whispers not caring that the host is standing there with your menus waiting. 

“I’m just not used to it.” You shrug - missing the host gives you both a ‘me neither’ vibe. 

“Stop looking so scared, I’m not gonna pull a Charlie Brown.” Maya scolds at you but you see she’s feeling vulnerable and your hand squeezes her arm in a thank you. And Maya’s ears turn redder than the napkins on the table. 

You sit and the host appears to have enjoyed both of your antics as she sets down the menus. Maya rounds the tabel and sits. Practically hiding behind the menu. 

Until she hears you giggle again and puts it down. 

“What?” She asks feeling on edge now - like maybe you were laughing at her attempts at a nice meal. But you put a hand over your mouth. And Maya doesn’t love that, whoever taught you to quiet yourself. To make yourself smaller so they could appear bigger. 

“I just - you really do like romcoms? You weren’t lying when you said you watched all of my movies.” You set the menu down and lean in towards Maya like it was a secret. 

This terrifying head of marketing. This ex-mafia baby with blood on her hands. Her long manicured fingernails and thousand dollars outfit on a normal weekday. 

Maya was a big softie. 

“Yeah, who doesn’t?” Maya shrugged but watched you carefully now. 

“Oh, plenty of people just read the reviews.”

“No, come on. They love you, they just want a happy ending.”

Your face sours as you look down at the menu to hide your clear displeasure. 

“Well, happy endings aren’t for everyone.”

A man comes over to fill your water and you both fall quiet. But he eyes you and smiles and you don’t notice as you are brooding over the ending of your story. But Maya does and she reaches over and takes the water jug. 

“We’re good here Mr. Spunk Bubble - go beat your chode to your own headshots. The adults are talking.” She says and you bite your lip to not laugh at her amazing ability to slice a person down with that much ease. 

He runs off and she puts the water jug down now. 

“You didn’t need to make the poor guy cry.”

“It’s fine, kids in L.A need more reasons for their Daddy to pay for therapy. Now tell me - why can’t they have a happy ending?” Maya asks and you sigh and look over at a particularly large palm. 

“What’s so good about happy endings anyway?” Your whiney adolescent sounding answer doesn’t come out the way you intended it. Then a lightbulb goes off and you find a new topic.“Let’s talk about your newfound philosophical journey with intimacy.” 

Maya scoffs but leans back in her chair to study you - like you were Wendy speaking of mermaids and flying ships. 

“You think it’ll help your story?” Maya tries but you are too far into your own ideas. 

“Have you ever truly experienced a level of intimacy with another person where you aren’t using them and you can be a thousand percent sure they aren’t using you?” You aim for her liver and draw back your bow. Maya doesn’t react - but her breathing changes just enough that you know she’s an animal in a cage. And you were sticking your sticky finges inside her enclosure. Asking for something - not sure if it was to pet or for her to gnaw at your flesh. But Maya makes her own decision before you can reach back. 

“People think that intimacy is about sex. But intimacy is about truth. When you realize you can tell someone your truth, when you can show yourself to them, when you stand in front of them bare and their response is 'you're safe with me'- that's intimacy.” Maya retaliates by quoting as though it a stronger move than one you had attempted. You roll your eyes and lean on your knuckles - elbow on the table. A display of ease in front of Maya that she eats up, even if you are trying to antagonize her. 

Maya’s many necklaces shine in the light and you think she could appear like a king at this tabel now - something so beautifully fictional. A fairytale of sorts, with these large plants, and her rings and jewlery, the confidence and power. Something about Maya felt etherial to you. But you wouldn’t get lost in writing here. 

You sigh dramatically at her, but Maya just allows you to play your game. 

So she let out a laugh at your antics. 

At this point, you couldn’t admit it still, but Maya held the indisputable knowledge like a badge of honor - you were flirting with her. And that was worth your sticky fingers and attempt at rudeness. 

“You can’t just quote a book.”

“Oh because you don’t? Besides, I think Taylor Jenkins Reid would be proud. ” You’d love to pull a Fleabag moment - break the scene. Kiss her and admit that Maya Mason turns you the fuck on. But y ou would be lying if you said you could be that brave - you still couldn’t admit it to yourself. 

“No because you are using a book we both enjoy against me and i won’t have it!” You pout but your face displays that you are having fun now. Fuck Mason. 

“Is it a fear of intimacy that has you giving our poor main character such a lackluster ending? Is it Hahns character supposed to not end up with the dreamboat guy because of some lingering intimacy issues?” Maya is confident that isn’t it. But she also knows a few soft, slow ball’s may warm you up with a bat. 

So you in turn you chew on your lip. Like this is an interesting thought now. But you don’t speak so Maya is nervous and fills in the gap. 

“I mean, Rhett Butler didn’t give in, and he craved intimacy. Where Scarlet wouldn’t give him any. And millions loved that ending.” Maya smiles at your apparent awe that she knows the character. 

“You’ve watched Gone With The Wind?” You don’t give her the credit of reading it, and you ponder why that is. 

“I do work in the film industry, or did you think I just walk around with my Stanley Cup and yell at people all day?” Maya asks, putting her elbow on the table to match yours, one finger pressing against her cheek, and her chin sitting on her own fingers. 

God, she was a sight to be seen. If only you could delete the memory of her like this. A picture that will haunt you for the rest of your days now. 

“The thought did cross my mind until I saw all of the ads for my film every three seconds.” You compliment - and you mean it as one. And Maya gives a poker face - then she bites her acrylic nail and leans back in her chair - like she’s made up her mind about something. But she uses the nail to point at your menu. 

“If you flip to the drink section, you’ll see Kathryn Hahn in fact.”

You belly laugh and Maya’s whole body responds every time you do now. Like you are waking her from the words' longest loneliest of sleep. 

A waitress comes over with a small notepad and introduces herself and asks if she can get you anything besides water. 

“Um-” You panic awkwardly, having not looked at the menu. Maya takes a second to study you. 

“Would it be anti-everything you’ve worked as a feministic writer in this town if you let me order for you?” Maya doesn’t mean it sarcastically; she genuinely wants to take care of you. But also won’t do it if it’s not wanted. And you’d given in a few times to her whims, and now she wanted you to give into her freely. Because you wanted it. And Maya for the first time in she doesn’t know how long, just wants what you want. Your laughter is better than any Hermès bag. Life looked like cheap stimuli now in comparison to the warmth you exuded around her. -

“I’m curious, actually.” You scoop up your menu and hand it to the waitress who seems impressed by both of you. And Maya puffs her chest out just enough that you are glad you said yes. 

Maya orders too much food and the waitress smiles at you both and takes Maya’s menus and leaves.

“Is the rest of the studio coming for lunch too?” You ask, but Maya takes a sip of her water and then answers the real question you are poking for. 

“Healthy fats help brain function, brain function helps you write - I’m just helping a starving artist.” Maya jokes, knowing exactly how much you were getting paid. And you weren’t exactly a starving artist anymore. 

“So this is purely work then?” It’s said a little too embarrassingly, but Maya won’t let that fear stay in your mind. 

“Of course not, I don’t take Sal to vintage clothing lots. And I’ve never bought Matt food a day in my life. This is my favorite restaurant. But I’ve never actually taken the time to sit here - I usually order for pick up and eat it in front of a movie at home.”

“Now that I can picture. You in the world’s softest matching pjs yelling as someone attempts to put baby in a corner.” You get too much joy out of imagining Maya as Patrick Swayze. And the studio head snorts at your joke. 

“Oh my god did you just snort? The Maya Mason actually snorts?” You squeal in delight. 

“Who are you gonna tell? Quinn?” The idea settles for a second before it is clear that it would break the poor woman. 

Now you both cackle, and she snorts again and again, feeding you both to keep sniggering. And then your waitress comes back to put down four drinks for you, and you stop and give Maya a look. 

“How thirsty am I?” You challenge her - trying to get a hold of yourself.  

“They’re non-alcoholic, and you need to up your electrolytes and get all that sugar and caffeine out of your system. Now drink up.” Maya words it and you never thought this woman could come off as nurturing but she really does.  

You pick the one with lemons on it first and drink and moan at how good it is. 

“I know, now tell me about the ending,” Maya says as the waitress comes back with two drinks for your date. Not that this was a date. 

“They don’t get together in the end. That’s the ending I wrote.” You say it like a mic drop. Like the lore is the lore, and you didn’t create it. The characters did it without you - but you weren’t the one holding the puppets. Maya considered that for a second before deciding that it was more for another time. 

“Yeah, I know I saw it, why?”

“Because love doesn’t always prevail. And bad things happen to good people. And…” You trail off and Maya cuts off that scary thought, whatever it was. 

“And “Frankly my dear….”

“I know, the studio wants a happy ending. I get it. But…maybe we need some bad endings?”

“Yeah you are drop dead gorgeous but I’m still the head of marketing and I’m gonna tell you that isn’t gonna work.”

You scoff but grin at her antics all the same. 

“So what? Hahn falls for him and everything's great and we get a cartoon mouse endinging and it’s all fine?”

“You know, Mitchell didn’t write Frankly. She wrote about poor Butler not giving a damn. But maybe you can keep your capitalist deeper meaning. Even that little quote on stoicism I know you worked hard to weave in. But you gotta compromise Austen. Why doesn’t our leading lady get her happy ending?”

“Because I’m tired of writing about love.” You finally give up and lean back in your chair feeling shame wash over you. 

Maya waits for a second, before leaning forward like before. 

“Who did this to you?”

Your head turns fast to assess Mason. 

“What?”

“You wrote love in the most raw truthful way. Even now with Hahn, I liked your ending. It’s sad as fuck, but I felt it deeply. You are a fantastic writer. And I’ve read a lot of scripts over the years. This kind of yearning and adoration can’t be faked.”

“Sure it can.” You lie.

“No, my adorable author. It just can’t. You loved someone. And they hurt you…..and you made rules on how love was. And you won’t let anyone in. But as much as you’d love to wear the skin of a cynic…”

You look away from Maya and she hesitates but can’t seem to stop herself now. 

“You write love still…Because part of you still wants to be wrong. Wants to believe there’s someone out there who will love you how you crave.” Maya stops herself now and you want to slap her. 

You want to retaliate and tell her shes wrong. You take a shaky breath. 

“You get all of that from my movies? No, Mason, you stalked me. What did you ask your uncle to do a background check or did Matt pay for it? Is that how you knew the books? How to find me today?” You seethe, and Maya doesn’t react, just watches you. 

As you display the traits of a rabbid fox willing to bite it’s own foot off to get out of the trap. Metal teeth snapping your limbs, blood soaking in, fear pumping in your veins.

“I’ll write your shitty ending. But I don’t want you and I don’t know why I agreed to this.”

“Austen, stop fighting me.” Maya tries weakly but you get your phone out to get an Uber. 

“I should have never come.” You chastise yourself and her with one shot.  

“Why can’t you just have a moment of intimacy with me without running for the hills? Let me help you!” Maya argues but she’s working hard to keep her tone away from angry. 

“I don’t need fixing.” You correct her but Maya looks depleted you believed that is what she meant. 

“I never thought for a second you did.” She failed to reason with you. 

“You think I’ll what? Fall in love with you and be able to write an ending that makes you money?” You twist this beautiful day as hard as you can. Twist it until you can find the bad - the evil. But the image of her in front of the cafe, in the car with her shades, in the reflection of the mirror as you felt like a princess. It all was so hard to twist - even for your fevered fictional fabrications. 

You couldn’t write your way out of the feelings at this table - the clear love that bloomed in both of you. 

“That’s not what this is about and you know it.” Maya’s face contorts in distress. Yet you must go in for another shot, twist the knife, the kill. 

“Do I?” You oppose.

Maya bites her lip in clear hurt but tries not to not lash out at you, knowing you’d want that. 

“Now, you'll hurt me if you don't trust me, all right?” Maya quotes Dirty Dancing and your heart aches. Maya Mason would make a great line on a beach looking in love. But you wouldn’t help her write it. 

“You don’t give a shit about me. You just want the movie.” You wish you could believe something so sinister about her. But Maya’s voice raises because she can’t help it. 

“You can lie to yourself all you want. But my intentions have been clear since the moment we met. And I’ve told you more about myself today than -”

“Maya you cannot love me.” You cut her off - not wanting to hear her declaration. Jump to the end, no monologue needed for this. 

A minute passes and she collects herself in front of you once more. 

“Why not?” Maya challenges and she looks sure of herself now. Romeo didn’t hold this much confidence in his love. But you won’t fall for it. 

You stand up and say the worst last line ever. 

“Because we can’t.”