On the other hand, being totally cynical about love has thrown me for a loop too. I don’t feel like myself; I feel like a version of me that’s consistently seeing the world through a smear of Vaseline. Nothing is clear and I can hardly trust any of my own senses. That’s no way to live, especially for a New Yorker who needs to be constantly vigilant lest they sit on something unidentifiable and sticky on a suspiciously open subway seat.

I join Dylan on the couch and he offers me a chip, which I take, trying to chew above the tray so that I don’t add crumbs to the aggravation of my interminable stay.

“I think Barbara is going to snatch this guy up,” Dylan says, gesturing to the TV.

“Maybe. Or Kevin,” I reply.

“Ugh. I hope not. He deserves better.” Dylan has obviously bought into the villainous portrayal of the investor nicknamed Mr. Wonderful.

Maybe that’s the answer. I can be a Shark—an investor in the game of love, but not personally involved. I have the perfect job for it too. I’m not just constantly on the sidelines watching other people’s great romances; I’m a real architect of them. I provide the seed money, so to speak. And if I do my job and tend to it properly, I can watch something blossom without being in personal danger if the crop fails.

I don’t need to be Regular Miles. I can be Miles 2.0.

And I think that Bree and Jude are the perfect couple to have a stake in.

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 10

ZOEY

I think Bree ghosted me.

It’s been three days since her date with Jude, and she hasn’t responded to a single message I sent asking her about it. I’m freaking out.

If the job interview I had on the phone yesterday for a script coverage position had gone better, I wouldn’t care so much, but it ended with the ultimate backhanded compliment: “We’re just afraid you’re overqualified and wouldn’t be happy here.”

I’m not sure what I could have done to convince them I don’t mind running errands and answering phones. I mean, I did it for eight years just fine; I don’t see why I can’t keep doing it.

Then this morning I got a reply to a résumé I sent out six weeks ago. No greeting, no reminder of which company it was. Just:

When I sent back an explanation of the term, I got this in return:

I’m so flustered by the brush-off and lack of money coming in that I can’t focus on the script I’m supposed to be writing. I’ve been stalled on page two for weeks, changing the main characters’ names and redoing their opening dialogue until I don’t even know what the story’s about anymore, assuming I ever did.