Page 8 of Flipping the Script
The morning light streaming through Quinn's apartment windows revealed every surface in the kind of pristine order that made interior design magazines weep with joy. Standing in her doorway at exactly eleven o'clock, she surveyed her domain one final time before Solen's arrival, adjusting a throw pillow that had dared to sit two degrees off-center.
Her phone buzzed with a text: *Running 5 min late - elevator stopped for coffee truck emergency. Crisis averted. -S*
Quinn blinked at the message three times. A coffee truck emergency? What constituted a coffee truck emergency? And why would someone stop their schedule for?—
The doorbell interrupted her spiraling questions about Solen's apparent relationship with caffeinated chaos.
Through the peephole, Solen stood shifting her weight from foot to foot, touching something at her throat while double-checking the apartment number. Quinn smoothed her precisely casual weekend outfit—navy slacks she'd actually ironed and a cream sweater that cost more than some people's rent—and opened the door.
"Hi." Solen's smile carried the same warmth that had unsettled Quinn during their hotel meeting, but seeing it in her own doorway created an entirely different category of disruption. "I brought reinforcements." She held up a cardboard carrier with two coffee cups. "Figured we might need caffeine for whatever color-coded battle plan you've prepared."
"I don't color-code everything." Quinn stepped aside to let her in, immediately catching sight of Solen's vintage Fleetwood Mac t-shirt, artfully ripped jeans, and scuffed leather boots that had clearly lived several interesting lives.
"Sure you don't." Solen crossed the threshold and stopped dead, her eyes sweeping across Quinn's living space with the expression of someone discovering an alien civilization. "Holy organizational skills, Batman."
The apartment stretched before them in carefully curated perfection: books arranged by genre then alphabetically within each section, throw pillows positioned at mathematically pleasing intervals, and a glass coffee table that reflected the morning light without a single water stain or fingerprint. Even Quinn's laptop sat closed and centered on her dining table, flanked by matching notebooks arranged in perfect parallel lines.
"It's like a museum," Solen whispered, then caught herself. "I mean, it's beautiful. Very... controlled."
"I prefer 'intentional.'" Quinn closed the door and immediately began calculating how long it would take to restore perfect order after Solen's visit. "Can I take your jacket?"
"Actually, I'm good." Solen set the coffee carrier on the pristine counter, her movements careful as if she might accidentally contaminate something. "This is really where you live? Not just where you pose for 'Successful Screenwriter at Home' magazine spreads?"
"I don't pose for—" Quinn stopped, recognizing the gentle teasing in Solen's voice. "Yes, this is where I live. And work. And think."
"Where do you relax?"
The question hung in the air like an accusation. Quinn gestured vaguely toward her sectional sofa, which looked more like an art installation than furniture anyone had ever actually lounged on.
"Right." Solen nodded solemnly. "The designated relaxation zone. Very efficient."
Before Quinn could formulate a response that didn't sound completely neurotic, Solen had wandered toward her bookshelves, running one finger along the perfectly aligned spines. "Okay, this is actually impressive. You've got everything from Austen to Zadie Smith, and they're all..." She tilted her head. "Wait, are these organized by publication date within each author?"
"Chronological arrangement shows creative evolution." Quinn retrieved the binder she'd prepared from her dining table, its contents organized with the precision of a military operation. "Speaking of organization, I've created a comprehensive overview of our arrangement."
Solen turned from the bookshelf, eyebrows raised. "You made a binder."
"I made a strategic reference guide." Quinn opened it on her coffee table, revealing color-coded tabs marked 'Timeline,' 'Public Appearances,' 'Background Information,' and 'Engagement Protocols.' "We have thirty days to convince the entertainment industry that we're in a genuine relationship. That requires consistency, preparation, and?—"
"Quinn." Solen settled onto the sofa beside her, close enough that Quinn caught her scent—something warm and slightlyspicy, like cinnamon and old books. "What's your favorite ice cream flavor?"
"Excuse me?"
"Ice cream. Favorite flavor. If we're dating, I should know whether you're a vanilla person or if you go rogue with rocky road."
Quinn stared at her. "That's not in the strategic priorities section."
"But it's in the 'things your girlfriend would know' section." Solen twisted to face her more fully, one leg tucked under her in a way that wrinkled her jeans and somehow made the formal sofa look more welcoming. "Do you sing in the shower? Are you afraid of spiders? Do you steal French fries off other people's plates?"
"I don't—we should focus on consistent messaging about our relationship timeline and?—"
"Mint chocolate chip."
"What?"
"My favorite ice cream is mint chocolate chip, but only the kind with real chunks, not the weird smooth mint stuff. I'm absolutely terrified of butterflies, which everyone thinks is ridiculous until I explain that they're basically flying insects with unpredictable flight patterns and no respect for personal space." Solen grinned. "And yes, I'll steal your fries, but only after asking if you're really going to finish them."
Despite herself, Quinn felt her mouth quirk upward. "Butterflies?"
