Ellie is Cool Now

Chapter 6

"No. Jesus." He runs a hand through his wet hair. "Are you a serial killer?"

"Does fictional murder count?" I ask.

"I think maybe it does." He grins.

"Then yup."

"Lots of people die on Cooler Than You?" he asks.

I sink deeper into my seat and cross my arms over my chest with a frustrated sigh.

"Not really," I tell him. "We did almost have a school shooting episode, but the network scrapped it. Say, where are we going?"

Just as I ask the question, he turns into the parking lot of a Waffle House.

Oh, shit.

My eyes light up like Christmas trees at the sight of black block letters against a glowing yellow backdrop. "Stonybrook has a Waffle House?! Since when?!"

"Since over a year ago," he says. I'm graced with another sideways glance. "When was the last time you were home?"

I bite my lip. Not since last Christmas. And even then, I was only home a few days for the holiday before I had to head back to LA to finish up a deadline.

He's barely parked the car before I'm out of it and nearly skipping to the front door.

A few weary-eyed truck drivers sit alone at tables sipping coffee and eating melty sandwiches. I pop a squat at a table right in front of a waitress who looks like a former meth addict. She sets a menu in front of us, but I don't need it.

"All-Star Breakfast, please. Eggs over medium, bacon, white toast, coffee - extra cream."

"I'll have the same, eggs scrambled." Mark slides into the seat across from me.

The waitress disappears into the back.

I turn back to Mark. "Okay, spill it."

"What?" Genuine confusion flashes across his face.

"Dude, I live in Hollywood. Coffee is not just coffee anymore. Coffee is a meeting."

"But this is Waffle House."

"The point is, you want something. What is it?" I'm on my usual mean streak. Even with the double rum, my heart is pounding inside my chest, and none of it is tempered by the fact that Mark is a law school dropout with not-so-long-ago Hollywood ambitions of his own. For all intents and purposes, I'm his ticket in. Little does he know that my own ticket only gets us seats in the nosebleed section.

His gaze wanders off to where the waitress is pouring ancient coffee into classic diner mugs. There's a war happening behind his eyes. I sink down in my seat and groan.

"Fuck!" I shout over the sizzle of hash browns on the griddle. Everyone in the restaurant turns to stare, including the waitress, who nearly pours coffee down the front of her apron. Oops.

Mark's expectant eyebrows shoot way up.

I sigh audibly. "You have a script."

The look on Mark's face, like I'm a fucking mind reader, annoys me to no end. The mental war wages on until finally, we all lose.

"Yeah, okay," he says, leaning forward. "I wrote a screenplay."

"I knew it! I fucking knew it."

"I don't want you to read it or anything. I know you're busy. I was just wondering if you could give me a few tips - maybe name someone, anyone I could send it to?"

"Is it any good?" I ask him.

He hesitates. "I don't know. Probably not."

I roll my eyes. "Well, there's your first problem. You're gonna have to get some swagger if you want to make it in the land of egomania and grandiose delusions."

"Is it really that bad?" he asks. The hope in his eyes is sweet and a tad pathetic.

"It's a mix," I tell him. "Fortunately for us, LA transplants tend to do well because we're willing to do actual work to back up our unrealistic expectations."

The waitress sets trashy, carbalicious goodness in front of me and I'm instantly transported to hog heaven. I immediately get to work wrestling open a tiny individual tub of fake butter.

"You inspired me," Mark says, catching me mid-syrup pour. I nearly drop the syrup dispenser.

"I inspired you?" I shouldn't sound so incredulous, but I can't help it. My career has felt the exact opposite of inspiring thus far. I want to write about serial murderers and mob bosses and AI technology, and instead I'm writing about underage drinking and teenagers getting it on in the back of a Mercedes. I want to ask the big questions, like, What does it mean to be human? instead of, What does it take to be popular in high school?

"You're doing it, Ellie," Mark tells me. I like the way he says my name in his soft tenor. It matches him perfectly. I sublimate my swoon with a giant bite of hash browns. "You're in LA, writing for a living. I know it doesn't look exactly like you want it to, but it's impressive."

I set my fork and knife down. "Okay, fine. You've twisted my arm. I'll read your stupid script."

Mark sits up a little straighter and I can tell he's excited. My heart flutters.

"Wow, really? That would be amazing."

"Yeah, yeah, but I don't work for free," I tell him, shoving bacon into my face.

"Of course not," he says sheepishly. "Name your price."

Why, why, why is he being so sweet. Come on, man! Be a jerk! Don't do this to me! Don't make me start to like you again. I do not have time for romantic, nostalgic feelings.

But it's already too late. There's that familiar tugging on my heartstrings.

"I don't want your money," I say. He eyes me suspiciously, a half-grin on his face. Why. Is. He. So. Cute.

Damn it.

"But I do need help with a list."

His grin spreads wide.

My heart explodes.

And just like that, the crush is back.

A/N: 

Yeeeeikes!

OK, so inquiring minds want to know:

Who did you have a crush on in high school? Did anything ever come of it?

If you love Ellie as much as we do, give this chapter a VOTE (upper right corner, click the star)!

xo

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