Page 19 of Flipping the Script
"Six months. That's apparently my expiration date. Right around the time they realize I'm not going to suddenly become spontaneous and easy-going." Quinn's voice carried years of rejection disguised as self-acceptance. "I had one ex tell me that dating me felt like being constantly evaluated for a performance review."
"God, that's awful." Solen shifted closer on the couch, drawn by Quinn's vulnerability. "For what it's worth, I find your intensity fascinating. Watching your mind work is like... seeing someone totally passionate about understanding how everything fits together. It's not exhausting. It's electric."
Quinn stared at her, something shifting behind her green eyes. "You say things like that so easily."
"Because they're true."
"But how do you know what's true? How do you trust your instincts when people can just... leave?"
Solen considered the question seriously, recognizing the fear underneath Quinn's analytical exterior. "I guess I decided that being alone because I was authentically myself was better than being alone because I was performing someone else's idea of loveable."
"I became a screenwriter because I could control every word my characters said," Quinn admitted quietly. "In my scripts, people never abandon each other for being too complicated. They work through problems instead of just... disappearing when things get difficult."
"But that's the thing about improvisation," Solen said, her voice growing animated. "When you let go of the script, people surprise you. Sometimes they're more beautiful and complex than anything you could have written."
Quinn was quiet for a long moment, her analytical mind clearly working through the implications. "What if they surprise you in terrible ways?"
"Then at least you know the truth. And you can choose what to do with it."
The conversation continued as the wine bottle emptied and the city lights twinkled beyond Quinn's windows. They talked about everything and nothing—Quinn's secret addiction to terrible reality television, Solen's habit of reading poetry in bookstore aisles, their shared terror of networking events and mutual admiration for directors who remembered their crew members' names.
Somewhere around midnight, Solen realized Quinn hadn't checked her phone or reached for her notebook once in four hours. She was completely present, engaged in the kind of moment-to-moment discovery that terrified and thrilled her in equal measure.
"I should probably head home," Solen murmured, though she made no move to leave the comfortable nest they'd created on Quinn's couch.
"Probably," Quinn agreed, her voice already thick with exhaustion and wine-induced honesty.
But neither of them moved. The vulnerability of the evening had created its own gravity, keeping them anchored in the soft lamplight and shared confessions. Solen's head found its way to Quinn's shoulder, fitting there with surprising naturalness, while Quinn's hand settled unconsciously in Solen's hair.
"This isn't for the cameras," Quinn whispered, half to herself.
"No," Solen agreed, her breathing already evening out into sleep. "This is just for us."
For once, Quinn didn't analyze or question or plan the next strategic move. She simply closed her eyes and let herself exist in this unscripted moment, Solen's warmth pressed against her side, both of them finally too tired to perform anything but honest connection.
When morning light filtered through Quinn's precisely hung curtains, they would have to return to the careful choreography of their public relationship. But for now, tangled together on the couch like teenagers who'd stayed up too late sharing secrets, they allowed themselves the luxury of being genuinely, imperfectly real.
9
UNDER THE LIGHTS
The three dresses laid across Quinn's bed looked like evidence of a crime she couldn't solve. Each hung perfectly pressed on its respective hanger—a midnight blue sheath that screamed "safe choice," a burgundy number with dangerous cutouts that whispered "completely out of character," and a forest green wrap dress that fell somewhere between professional and "please don't let me trip on live television."
Quinn's phone buzzed for the fourteenth time in ten minutes. Social media notifications, reminders from Iris, a text from her mother asking if she'd remembered to eat lunch. Nothing from Solen, who should have arrived twenty minutes ago for their coordinated prep session.
The Golden Horizon Theater premiere started in exactly ninety-seven minutes. Quinn's internal timeline, color-coded and cross-referenced with traffic patterns, had already shifted from green to yellow to a concerning shade of orange that made her palms sweat.
She picked up the forest green dress, held it against her body in the full-length mirror, and immediately put it back down.The burgundy felt too bold, too much like someone else entirely. The midnight blue looked like what Quinn Virelle would wear—which was either perfect or completely missing the point.
A knock at her apartment door sent relief flooding through her chest. Finally.
"I know, I know, I'm late and you probably have a color-coordinated schedule that I've completely destroyed." Solen burst through the doorway carrying what appeared to be half a boutique's worth of garment bags. "My stylist had a family emergency, but I raided three different closets and brought backup options that'll work with whatever you choose."
She paused in Quinn's living room, taking in the precisely arranged space with its clean lines and carefully curated book collection. "This is so beautifully you. Like if organization and good taste had a baby."
"Did you just compliment my apartment's reproductive potential?"
"I'm nervous and saying weird things. Also, you look stunning already." Solen gestured at Quinn's perfectly applied base makeup and half-finished hair. "Are we doing romantic glamour or power couple chic tonight?"
