Page 24 of Falling Off Script

“Right,” I say, sitting up. “Of course. You can work wherever you want. I just... didn’t think it would behim.”

Jessie is quiet. Then: “Neither did I. But he’s not who I expected.”

I nod like she can see it. “Yeah. That’s what scares me.”

There’s nothing left to say, so I wrap it in a tight bow of emotional repression.

“Anyway,” I say brightly. “Good luck with your... brand synergy.”

“I’ll let you know if he starts quoting Brené Brown.”

“Please do. I’ll add it to the war crimes spreadsheet.”

We hang up.

I toss my phone onto the nightstand, then flop back on my pillow, staring at the ceiling like it owes me an explanation.

She’s allowed to like people. I’m allowed to be paranoid.

Those two things can coexist... right?

My ceiling fan spins silently, refusing to answer.

10. Adrian

When I was twenty, the game was about winning.

Get her number. Get her upstairs. Get her to forget you didn’t know who you were.

Confidence was a volume knob. You turned it up, said something borderline clever, and hoped she laughed before she noticed the emotional vacancy sign blinking behind your eyes.

It worked. More than it should have.

Now?

Now the game’s about beingchosen—not just wanted.

It’s about showing up with your whole self, minus the armor.

Telling the truth and hoping it’s still attractive.

Making room for someone else’s fear without disappearing inside your own.

And yeah—

That scares the shit out of me.

But none of that matters right now, because fifty guys just paid three grand each to sit in a Marriott conference room and listen to me tell them how to be a fucking man.

The room smells like three brands of deodorant fighting for dominance. Folded chairs, scuffed mirrors, a giant flip chart with the words"ATTRACTION ISN’T AN ACCIDENT”in all caps. Chairs creak. Someone’s bouncing a leg like they’re revving a motorcycle.

I don’t even call it a session. I call itfloor time.Because these guys don’t want to feel like they’re in a classroom. They want to feel like they’re part of something.

A pack.

They didn’t come for structure. They came for initiation.

“Alright,” I say, standing at the front, arms folded like I’m about to hand out mission orders. “Who’s got balls today?”

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