Page 7 of Flipping the Script
Quinn blinked, startled by the unexpected shift to professional territory. "It's a romantic comedy. Two women who meet through a dating app malfunction that keeps matchingthem with each other despite their completely incompatible profiles."
"So they're opposites who attract?" Solen's smile held genuine warmth. "What makes them incompatible?"
"One's a museum curator who plans everything six months in advance. The other's a food truck owner who decides her route based on daily horoscopes." Quinn found herself relaxing slightly as she discussed her work. "The curator thinks the food truck owner is chaos incarnate. The food truck owner thinks the curator has confused living with scheduling."
"But they keep getting matched because the algorithm sees something they can't see themselves." Solen nodded thoughtfully. "There's something beautiful about technology understanding human connection better than humans do."
Quinn stared at Solen, surprised by the insight. She'd expected superficial interest, maybe some questions about her character's motivation. Instead, Solen had immediately grasped the story's central theme about finding love in unexpected places with supposedly wrong people.
"You actually read scripts before you audition?" The question emerged before Quinn could stop it, carrying more curiosity than accusation.
Solen's expression shifted, vulnerability flickering across her features like candlelight. "I know my reputation suggests otherwise, but I care about story. Sometimes I suggest changes because I see something that could be stronger, not because I think writers don't know their business."
The admission hung between them, honest and slightly raw. Quinn felt something soften in her chest, a recognition that perhaps her assumptions about Solen's creative process had been both unfair and incomplete. Her notebook lay forgotten as she studied Solen's face, noting the intelligence behind thosewarm brown eyes and the way she unconsciously worried her compass necklace between her fingers.
"The improvisation thing," Quinn began carefully, "is that about making scenes more authentic?"
"Sometimes." Solen's fingers stilled on her necklace. "Sometimes it's about finding truth that wasn't there on the page. Not because the writing is bad, but because acting means bringing your own truth to someone else's words."
Iris watched this exchange with the satisfied expression of someone whose strategic instincts had been validated. She cleared her throat gently, drawing both women's attention back to the business at hand.
"This is exactly what I'm talking about," Iris said. "Genuine conversation, intellectual connection, the kind of chemistry that translates beautifully to photographs and interviews."
Quinn felt heat rise in her cheeks as she realized they'd been performing the very thing Iris hoped to manufacture. Worse, it hadn't felt like performing at all—it had felt like discovery, like finding unexpected common ground with someone she'd written off as professionally incompatible.
"The timeline remains non-negotiable," Iris continued. "Thirty days, beginning with low-key public appearances and building to the Golden Horizon Awards. The studio needs sustained buzz to offset the project's rocky start, and both your careers need immediate rehabilitation."
Solen reached across the table again, this time stopping just short of Quinn's notebook. "May I?"
Quinn hesitated, then slowly slid the notebook toward Solen. Watching someone else read her private thoughts felt like voluntary surgery without anesthesia, but something about Solen's earlier vulnerability made the gesture feel necessary.
Solen's eyes moved across Quinn's careful calculations, her expression growing thoughtful rather than mocking. "You've really thought through every possible disaster scenario."
"It's what I do." Quinn's voice came out smaller than intended. "I try to control variables so nothing unexpected can destroy everything I've worked for."
"But what if unexpected things make everything better?" Solen's question was gentle, without judgment. "What if improvisation leads somewhere beautiful that all the planning in the world couldn't have found?"
Quinn felt her fundamental worldview tilt slightly, like a building learning to trust a new foundation. Everything in her professional and personal life had taught her that control meant safety, that planning prevented disaster, that spontaneity was just chaos wearing a prettier name. But sitting across from Solen, seeing her screenplay's themes reflected in this impossible woman's approach to life, she wondered if mathematical certainty might be another kind of prison.
"This could work," Quinn heard herself saying, the words emerging from some place deeper than spreadsheets and strategic analysis. "Not the fake dating part—that's still terrifying and probably doomed. But working together on the script. Finding ways to honor both planning and improvisation."
Solen's smile was like sunrise, gradual and then suddenly brilliant. "Are you saying yes to fake dating or just collaborative screenwriting?"
Quinn looked at her notebook, filled with calculations that couldn't account for the most important variables: trust, chemistry, and the terrifying possibility that thirty days of pretending might lead somewhere real. Her pen moved across a fresh page, writing words that defied every mathematical model she'd constructed.
"I'm saying yes to trying something that makes absolutely no logical sense," she wrote, then looked up to meet Solen's eyes. "Which means either I'm finally ready to take a real risk, or my career desperation has achieved clinically dangerous levels."
Iris raised her wine glass in a toast that felt more like a battle cry. "To strategic risks and beautiful disasters."
Solen lifted Quinn's water glass, her fingers briefly brushing Quinn's knuckles. "To improvising our way toward something real."
Quinn felt electricity shoot up her arm from that innocent contact, a reaction that definitely wasn't in any of her calculations. She lifted her own glass, wondering if she'd just agreed to save her career or signed up for the most elaborate form of professional suicide ever attempted.
"To thirty days," she said, and tried not to think about how many ways this could end in absolute disaster.
4
COLLISION COURSE
