I'm wedged between Nigel and Daniel on their shoddy mustard yellow couch. One of its green pillows is the only thing stopping my overheating laptop from roasting the tops of my legs. To Daniel's right sits Kirby—making it so that we have just enough people on the sofa that we're all shoulder to shoulder.

I'd come back after work this afternoon to find my bedding folded and tucked beneath the coffee table, along with a Post-It note from Kirby politely reminding me to please fold my bedding when I'm done sleeping on the couch. I do feel bad about him having to remind me—I've been here over a month now, yet somehow, I keep forgetting. It's not intentional. I'd like to remember. I just ... don't. Not most mornings, at least. I feel terrible about it.

Initially, I had come here to write. Now, my laptop sits in my lap, fiery hot against the pillow laid atop my thighs, its lid tilted shut. The thought of anyone's eyes falling on my unfinished manuscript—especially right now, as I'm reluctantly dragging myself through the conflict resolution scene—gives me this slightly pukey sensation.

Daniel has his laptop on the coffee table. All three of them are completely focused on it, because they all missed Wednesday's episode of Survivor. The brain break is nice, because I don't know how to make this ending happen. I can't think of an argument for why Isabella should be with Robin. What is Robin getting out of being with her? Isabella describes herself as being "scraping the barrel of 'average,'" whereas Robin is "the most effortlessly beautiful creature" she's ever laid eyes upon. But it's not just looks that Isabella wouldn't be bringing to the table—she's no one's personality hire.

She's a drab push-over. Her only real traits are being awkward, and being a mess. It's not her that's interesting—although her voice is fun to write—but the situations she keeps finding herself in that make her intriguing. Which is new for me, because I tend to prefer character-driven stories.

I had to throw in a subplot where she has an intense, burning desire to become a therapist because she has daddy issues. She's got a shitty car and an old dog back home with a quirky name and nervous habits—as well as a severe peanut allergy that I'll probably edit out, because Robin rescuing Isabella with an epipen was only romantic for about half an hour, before I realized that it's actually maybe a little bit strange. (I am not a romance writer. I never claimed to be a romance writer.)

It's driving me insane. I can't figure out why it's not working. Robin and Isabella have had some great sex and some great banter, but great sex and banter a relationship does not make. What's drawing them together? What does Robin see in her? What could Robin see in her? What if, maybe, she—

"Woah, Marcie?" I glance over at Daniel. His forehead is lined with worry. "You good? You look like you're going to poop your pants."

"Oh, I'm, uh, I'm fine." I smile tersely. "Just really, really honed in on this, uh, impunity challenge."

"It's an immunity challenge," Nigel says. I don't have to look to know he's rolling his eyes. He does that a lot. He's like a sassy girl from a Tumblr-era webnovel. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"Ooookay," Daniel says, "it's fine. Cool your jets, Tintin."

"What? Tintin is French, fuckwit."

"Oh, really? Okay. Then, cool your jets, Sheriff of Nottingham."

Nigel sniffs casually. "I'm not even ginger."

All three of us turn our heads to look at him.

"So?" Kirby asks.

"Tintin is ginger," Nigel says slowly, like it's obvious. His arms are crossed; his chin juts out defensively.

"Oh. In our defense, you just bring this twink-like Tintin kinda energy to the function."

"We could call you Gordon Ramsey," Daniel offers.

I tilt my head, leaning back into him. "I think Simon Cowell actually works better."

Kirby barks a laugh and says, "The evil rat from The Great Mouse Detective."

"Ratigan," Daniel hisses. They high five, with a crack so loud that I involuntarily wince and shy away, pushing Nigel with me.

"Can we not just watch the fucking immunity challenge?" Nigel says with a scowl, shoving me off him and gesturing to the laptop with his other arm. "I don't need any fucking commentary on what fucking villains you think I fucking look like."

"Is Gordon Ramsey a villain?" Kirby asks as he props his feet up on the coffee table.

"Is Tintin?" I ask, squinting over at him. He shrugs in response.

We spend a few minutes watching the immunity challenge unfold, still uncomfortably shoulder-to-shoulder. It's disconcertingly sardine-like. I wait until the last person slides down their massive wooden pole (which is not as sexual as it sounds, astoundingly) to turn back to Daniel and Kirby and ask, "So why is no one sitting in the arm chair?"

"Oh," Kirby and Daniel say at the same time.

There's a beat of silence. Which is eventually broken by Daniel—

"It's haunted."

"Jesus fuck. It's not fucking haunted," Nigel says. "They're just being assholes. We can't all watch Survivor if one of us is in the chair."

Daniel groans, stretching one arm up and behind the back of the couch. I have to squeeze out of the way and into Nigel's shoulder once more. "Spoilsport."

"Oh." I rub the back of my neck. All this proximity is starting to get to me. Across from the couch, it even feels like the movie posters are staring at me. Ottilie Le Blanc's uncanny 2D gaze feels particularly piercing. "I can move over to the armchair then."

"Wait, wait." Nigel elbows me away from him. "You don't want to watch Survivor?" He sounds almost offended.

I'm already picking my laptop and pillow up and trying to step over Daniel and Kirby's extended legs as elegantly as possible. "Yeah, I'm just in the way. It's fine."

"Aw, Marcie." Kirby pats my thigh as I cross in front of him. "You could never be in the—oh my god, MOVE, did Martin from Butu just—"

"He did, he did, he did, he did." I'm already making my way to the chair as Daniel leans forward to peer closely at the laptop screen. His voice is significantly higher—and louder—than usual. "Oh my god. If he wins immunity again—"

"He can't! They'll have to vote Jarvis out!"

"Oh no. Not Jarvis," Nigel says, pointedly dry.

"Shut up, lobsterback," Kirby hisses, throwing a pillow at his head.

All three of the guys have their feet propped up on the coffee table, three pairs of crossed ankles in a row, complete with three pairs of different colored socks. Across from them, I mimic their posture, stretching my legs out before me and carefully settling my ancient Chromebook atop my thighs. It hums slightly when its screen comes back to life—a sound that, it being as old as it is, is more so comforting than anything else.

And then it's back to pouring over the scene.

I plug my earbuds in (when will I charge my other headphones?) and put my book playlist on shuffle. I find myself cracking my knuckles before I delete the last two paragraphs I'd written in this chapter. I take out Robin saying, "I love how passionate you are," and "You're gorgeous, Isabella," and replace it with, "I feel seen when I'm with you. You ground me. I don't know what this is, this pull I feel towards you. But I want it to be something. I need it to be something."

I go through the rest of the scene and feel great for about ten seconds, until I scroll back up to Robin's dialogue.

It's still not right.

In my head, I grab Robin by the shoulders and shake her violently. Like, why do you refuse to cooperate with me, mostly fictional woman currently occupying space inside my consciousness?

I check my word count for the book. It's seventy-four thousand words right now, which isn't too terrible. I think I probably have a chapter or two left to write—one to show that Isabella has completed her character arc, and one to show the couple being cute and happy together. I'll probably wrap this up at thirty-five chapters, a satisfyingly odd number.

I need to finish. Once I'm done, I can start revisions. I can fix this dumpsterfire of a self-involved confession.

My cheek pressed into my fist, I scroll through this chapter once more, trying my best not to wince. Somehow, Robin and Isabella seem entirely out of character. It's like I forgot how to write them. It's actually worse than the last direction I took it.

I'm never writing again, I swear to god.

"Marcie?" I glance up. Daniel is alone on the couch—I didn't even notice Nigel leaving, or Kirby heading into the kitchen and putting on Daniel's apron. I guess I was too focused.

"Yeah?" I pull out my earbuds, even though they're not playing anything.

"You okay?" He's leaning forward and pulling his laptop toward him, shutting the lid as he goes. "You're staring at your computer like it murdered your childhood dog."

"Oh. Yeah, sorry, I'm good."

"That's just her writing face. She's fine," Kirby says from the kitchen. Down the hallway, I hear a semi-recognizable opera begin to build, right before the shower screeches to life.

I now know where Nigel went.

"Yeah," I tell Daniel, fake smiling through the sudden exhaustion and sense of defeat currently weighing down my shoulders, "it's my writing face."

"Okay." And he shrugs, accepting it.

Kirby glances over his shoulder as he fiddles with the stovetop knob. "We were just gonna ask. If Mallory doesn't come back and pay her rent next week, we're giving her the boot. Which means, if you want her room, it's yours."

My mouth draws into a tight line. "What's rent like?" I'm paying them eighty a week to let me sleep on their couch—they tried to refuse, but I insisted. Kirby seemed legitimately surprised. I guess it was a slightly out of character action for me—which I'm okay with. I think I'm beginning to enjoy feeling as if I'm doing the right thing, instead of feeling victorious for getting out of situations with as little responsibility as possible.

"It's 3,100 a month," Kirby says, moving to wash his hands quickly in the sink. "But we split it four ways, so it's 775."

"Which is pretty standard for the Heights," Daniel adds. "Only thing is...."

"You'd have to pay three month's rent upfront." Kirby pats his hands dry on the front of his apron. "We could give you a small grace period to get things sorted out, but we're gonna have to fill that room sooner rather than later."

Mindlessly, I rub my thumb around the scratched corner of my laptop. I shouldn't pass this up—this is probably the best deal I'll come across. I should be able to afford it. I mean, I make more than that in a week. But I was really hoping to start building up my savings. Pretty sure that paying rent can't be avoided, though—I can't couch surf forever.

"Let me know when I can move in," I tell them.

"Will do," Kirby says, as Daniel flashes a thumbs up. "Happy to have a normal roommate."

I manage a tight smile, right as my phone buzzes. I'm quick to pull it out of my pocket—I feel like anyone who would text me casually is sitting in this room with me.

It's a text from Roz.

I've become more and more accustomed to texts from Roz. Not all of them are even work related—she'll text me about how she's nervous about the finalized All Hail Mary cast, or the author drama she's overheard, or about movies she thinks I should remind her she wants to watch. Sometimes she texts me about something as simple as a good sandwich she ate.

We have actual conversations though, which is nice. I'll send writing memes her way on occasion—something she instigated, thank you very much—and I'll even rant about something Nigel did, or something Kirby said. There have been a couple nights, weeknights, where we'll both be in our own apartments with a glass of wine each, and she'll ask me to tell her more about my personal life.

We've had multiple conversations about writing we did for Professor Kestler in university, about what it was like moving to New York, about our first experiences with girls. The latter topic has led to plenty of sessions about me and Gina—conversations that go a lot deeper than me and Roz, drunk in the Book Burrow & Bar. It's insane to have someone to speak to like this. It's not even that I can't remember the last time I was able to speak so freely with someone. I don't think I've ever had this before.

Despite my becoming accustomed to Roz's increasingly frequent messages, her texts still manage to send a little anticipatory thrill up my spine. Especially the following: Just texting you to let you know that I apparently have a cute surprise "gala" to attend a few Saturdays from tomorrow, to celebrate AHM's movie adaptation. Are you available?

Available? Am I available?

Yes, I text back immediately. When do I ever have plans? To attend, or to help you get ready?

To attend, she texts. Provided you're comfortable enjoying free food and booze.

I find myself smiling, even though she's not here to see it. How could I say no to free food and booze?

That's my girl, she says. I might die. Although, I'm afraid you'll have to enjoy the free booze off the clock this time, as I'll have no work for you to do at this party. Unless you count basking in my presence and rubbing shoulders with some of the industry's oldest professionals "work."

It does sound remarkably tedious, I tell her. But for free booze, anything.

You're wise beyond your years, Marcella, she says. Even just seeing her spell my name out like that fills me with this inexplicable sense of giddiness.

I don't know what else to say aside from: Thank you, I try. And then: What's the dress code?

Don't worry about it. Catalina is treating us. ;)

I think I love your agent, I tell her.

That makes two of us.

Which, of course, she doesn't send anything else after. Which, duh, of course. It's a Friday night. She's usually getting drunk with and/or sleeping with random beautiful women around this time—her "womanizing" reputation holds up, evidently. Our conversations are often reserved for weekends during the day, and Monday thru Thursday during the evening.

Increasingly, however, our in-person banter has felt lacking. I've missed it. I've missed her, which is probably silly. We haven't spoken much face-to-face since Café Crotchety a few weeks ago—she's been more and more caught up with Mauro's script. She's been spending the majority of her time in her office, cutting the time we spend talking down to practically nothing. The increased texts barely compensate.

Not that I blame her. The script is starting to send her into a bit of a tizzy, I can tell. Our recent in-person conversations revolve pretty much entirely around the script and how Mauro is "butchering" it.

I don't have much of an opinion. All I know is, it's fascinating to see the AHM movie happening in real time. Fourteen-year-old me would die if she knew that we spent our days virtually locked inside a luxury apartment with Rosalind Lindbergh while she dutifully crafted an adaptation of our favorite thing on the face of the earth.

It's also somewhat concerning, though. I've already had one call and multiple texts from Catalina this week, telling me to make sure that Roz is eating, sleeping, bathing—the works. "She won't answer my texts," Catalina told me. "I get it. She's insanely devoted. I love her, but she needs brain breaks outside of...." It's not like I could ask, Outside of sleeping with every super model in the Upper East Side? I think we both knew it.

It's impossible to ignore, though—the obsession seeping in through the cracks of Roz's usually carefully crafted facade. She seems to be eating less and less, and only showers because she's having an overnight guest (an increasing occurrence). But it's fine. I'm here to make sure she takes care of herself. And I'm happy to do it.

My phone buzzes. Roz again. Just: Have a good weekend, Marcie.

"Marcie, you have the easiest face to read that I've ever seen," Kirby says from the kitchen.

I look up from my phone. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, don't go to Vegas, because you'll lose everything." He's closing the oven and setting the timer on the microwave above the stovetop, but he spares me a brief (exasperated) glance. "You're like an open book."

"He's right." Daniel adjusts the flimsy couch cushion beneath him. "You went from 'someone killed my childhood dog' to 'someone revived my dead childhood dog.' What's got you so happy? Is it Rosalind again?"

"Stop, it's nothing," I say. I'm almost sure I mean it, too—until I see the looks on both of their faces. "What?"

Kirby's eye roll is potent. Having Nigel for a roommate and coworker must be rubbing off on him. "You look like you're about to combust."

"Happy 'splode," Daniel adds. "Happy lil' 'splode."

"Okay, Daniel? Can we promise to never say 'happy lil' 'splode' ever again?" I fiddle with my phone case, prying it back in one corner. "And, it's really nothing. Just was texting Roz about a work thing."

"'A work thing,'" Kirby echoes. "Not a love confession?"

My laugh is achingly dry. "You're so funny."

"You should have seen her in high school," he says, walking up to the couch and leaning against its back while Daniel looks up at him. "At the start of freshman year, she was always carrying around that Hailing Mary or whatever book. And then every year after that, it was always one of Roz's other books. Our teachers eventually gave up on confiscating them."

"Okay? Valid. I still can't believe you've never read one," Daniel says. "We had to read the airplane one for the common read freshman year of college. And it's good. Even virtually illiterate assholes enjoy Rosalind Lindbergh."

"Thank you," I tell him, glaring pointedly at Kirby. "Somebody thinks they're quirky and different for not partaking. Just think, Kirby, you could be one of those virtually illiterate assholes who enjoy Rosalind Lindbergh."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." He rolls his eyes. "Next time I'm bored in an airport, I'll go to the bookstore and buy one."

"You? At an airport?" Daniel reaches up and nudges his fingers playfully. "How you gonna afford that, brokeass?"

"I'd like to think my feet pics would fly off the press."

"Awww. Daddy's little entrepreneur." He smiles. "You know, if I was getting texts from Rosalind Lindbergh, I would also be making that face."

"I'm not making a face!" I insist. "I just have, like, resting smile face."

Kirby unties his apron and winks. Which is significantly worse than the eye rolling. "Sure, bud."

"Whatever." I readjust my laptop's screen and slip one of my earbuds back in. "I gotta work."

I spend the next two hours staring at a blank screen and wondering just what I'm doing with my life.

Ending this book is literal torture.