Borrow-A-Bridesmaid by Anne Wagener Page B

it’s happening so fast. I feel comfortable one second, scared the next—a freaky combination. Like I’m strapped into a roller coaster, nice and cozy, the sun on my face and the wind in my hair, but little do I know I’m about to be dangled off the edge of a cliff and accelerated from zero to eighty in the next second.”
    I hold out my arms to him and he obediently curls himself into them. “This isn’t Ryan,” I remind him. “And it’s okay to let yourself fall.”
    As we pull apart, he peers into my face and pushes aside more strands of hair to reveal the redness around my eyes. “Oh dear Lord. What happened? Did you get in a girl fight?”
    I sigh. “Long story. I’ll tell you in the morning. I’m taking a quick rest before I read Charlie’s screenplay.”
    Lin grins at me like an idiot. “Nice.”
    I grin back and fall onto the purple pillows, suddenly feeling very awake despite my seventeen-hour day. “It’s my homework before we meet up tomorrow.” I pop off the pillows again. “But what am I thinking, right? He’s only here for another week, then he’s going to fly back west, like—”
    Lin puts a finger over my lips. “This isn’t Scott. And it’s okay to let yourself fall.”
    Try as I might to worry about the future, the thought of diving into Charlie’s words makes me loopy with joy and anticipation.
    Lin leans over to kiss me on the forehead. “Look at the two of us, all starstruck and goofy.” He wraps his arms around me. “Well, don’t let me keep you. Happy reading, Muse.”
    After Lin goes to bed, I print the entire screenplay on the laser printer my parents gave me as a graduation gift, and despite the small fortune in ink I’m using, there’s something visceral about holding someone’s manuscript. It sits before me in a perfect stack, white pages lined up at the corners.
    Lin has left a glass of merlot next to me—the house wine at Steve’s restaurant. I take a sip and begin to read.
    THE LIFT
    Charlie Bell
    I run my finger across the Courier font. I picture his fingers dancing across the keyboard, the story unfolding before his eyes.
    To the soundtrack of cicadas and the occasional lazy honk from the Beltway, I begin to read.
    And read and read.
    I’m following the story on two levels: One, I’m seeing flashes of the scenes unfold in my mind’s eye; two, I’m seeing Charlie’s fingers at home on the keys, hammering out letters in parallel lines while his brown eyes tick back and forth, left to right, line break, repeat. He twists his lips to the left in thought, engaging that ever-loving dimple.
    Most of the action takes place in the elevator of a thirty-six-story office building in L.A. The first scene opens as JOHN ARMSTRONG, 22, steps onto the elevator, heading to the seventeenth floor for a job interview with a recording executive.
    JOHN adjusts his tie, his face a sunrise lit with optimism, hope. Next to him, ELENA VARGAS, 37, watches him, the left corner of her mouth pulled slightly upward in amusement.
    JOHN and ELENA form an unlikely friendship while their respective work situations unravel—JOHN’s optimism faltering under the weight of corporate corruption and ELENA losing the battle against sexual harassment as she strives for the company’s hotly contested vice presidency.
    At one point, while the elevator is stopped during a power outage, JOHN takes a long look at ELENA.
    JOHN
    Truth or dare?
    ELENA
    Truth.
    JOHN
    Tell me a secret.
    ELENA
    What kind of secret?
    Her black pumps, long ago kicked off, sit beside her—one upright, one resting on its side.
    JOHN looks at her, expectant.
    ELENA
    (continuing)
    Oh, fine. I’m not wearing any underwear. Is that what you want to know? Perv.
    JOHN grins.
    JOHN
    Nice. But I meant a real secret. Something no one else knows.
    The emergency lights wink down