Page 17 of Flipping the Script
During their break, Quinn retreated to her notebook, trying to analyze what had worked and what hadn't. Her systematic approach demanded documentation, patterns, replicable results. But every time she tried to reduce their successful moments to bullet points, something essential slipped through her analytical framework.
Solen appeared beside her with two cups of coffee from Iris's espresso machine—Quinn's prepared exactly how she liked it, which meant Solen had been paying attention during their dinner conversation.
"Hard to capture in notes?" Solen asked, settling into the chair beside her.
"I'm trying to identify the variables that led to authentic-appearing chemistry," Quinn said, then winced at how clinical that sounded.
"Maybe the authentic part is the problem with your approach."
Quinn looked up from her notebook. "Meaning?"
"You're trying to manufacture genuine moments. But the moments that worked happened when we forgot we were supposed to be performing."
The observation was annoyingly perceptive. Quinn had built her entire career on the premise that emotion could be structured, controlled, crafted with the same precision as a well-plotted screenplay. The idea that authenticity might require surrendering that control felt dangerous.
"I calculated our success rate based on this session," Quinn said, tapping her pen against the page. "At our current performance level, we have approximately a thirty percent chance of convincing industry insiders at the upcoming events."
Solen was quiet for a long moment, studying Quinn with an expression that felt uncomfortably penetrating. "What if we spent some time together outside of official training? Not practicing being fake girlfriends, just... getting to know each other as real people."
"That's not part of the agreed parameters?—"
"Quinn." Solen's voice was gentle but firm. "We can't build fake intimacy on top of being strangers. If you want this to work, we need some kind of actual foundation."
The logic was sound, even if the implications terrified Quinn. She looked at her notebook, filled with charts and timelines and strategic objectives, none of which addressed the fundamental problem: you couldn't fake genuine connection without having some genuine connection to fake.
Iris returned before Quinn could formulate a response, her expression suggesting the break was over and their performance scores still needed improvement.
"Round two," Iris announced. "This time we're working on casual physical affection. Hand-holding, brief touches, the kind of unconscious contact that suggests comfortable intimacy."
Quinn's instinctual response was to stiffen, but Solen's earlier words echoed in her mind. Maybe the resistance itself was the problem. Maybe authenticity required stepping outside her comfort zone instead of trying to control her way through it.
When Solen offered her hand, Quinn took it instead of pulling away. Solen's fingers were warm, her grip confident but not demanding. They practiced simple gestures—Solen adjusting a strand of Quinn's hair that had escaped her careful bun, Quinn brushing an imaginary piece of lint from Solen's shoulder, the kind of casual attentiveness that couples developed over time.
"Much better," Carmen observed, capturing their improved chemistry. "You're starting to look like you actually like each other."
"Shocking development," Solen said dryly, making Quinn smile despite herself.
As the session wound down, Iris scheduled additional coaching appointments for the following week, noting areas that still needed work—Quinn's tendency to overthink mid-gesture, Solen's occasional overcompensation when Quinn withdrew. The feedback was detailed and constructive, but Quinn couldn't shake the feeling that all their technical improvements were missing something fundamental.
"I think," Quinn said as they gathered their belongings, "we should have dinner tonight."
Both Solen and Iris looked at her in surprise.
"For strategic relationship building," Quinn added quickly, then forced herself to be more honest. "To work on creating the authentic foundation you mentioned. If we're going to convince anyone we're capable of genuine feelings, we should probably know basic facts about each other beyond our professional achievements."
Solen's smile was soft and genuinely pleased. "Strategic relationship building. I like it."
Quinn closed her notebook with more force than necessary, decisions crystallizing in her mind despite her better judgment. The analytical part of her brain recognized this as a calculated risk—trading some emotional safety for improved performance outcomes. But standing there in Iris's perfectly appointed office, watching Solen's face light up at the invitation, Quinn suspected her motivations were more complicated than simple strategy.
Which was, she reflected as they made plans for dinner, exactly what she'd been afraid of.
8
FINDING THE REAL
The Thai food containers balanced precariously in Solen's arms as she climbed the stairs to Quinn's apartment, the wine bottle tucked under her elbow threatening to slip with each step. She'd spent twenty minutes at the restaurant debating between pad thai and massaman curry before ordering both, along with spring rolls and mango sticky rice, because apparently her strategy for building authentic friendship involved carbohydrate overload.
Quinn opened the door before Solen could knock, her hair loose around her shoulders instead of its usual precise bun. The casual ponytail made her look younger, less armored somehow.
