Page 12 of Flipping the Script

FINDING THE REAL

T he 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.

"You brought half the menu." Quinn stepped aside to let her enter, eyeing the collection of takeout containers with barely concealed amusement.

"I panic-ordered." Solen hefted the bags toward Quinn's pristine dining table, its polished surface reflecting the overhead light like something from a furniture showroom.

"Also, I've never seen you eat anything besides those protein bars you demolish during script sessions, so I figured we should start with basics. "

The apartment felt distinctly Quinn-like: minimalist furniture arranged at precise angles, books organized by height rather than author, not a single item out of place. Solen set the containers down carefully, half-convinced she was desecrating some kind of shrine to order.

"I'm sorry about the informal setup." Quinn retrieved plates from a cabinet, her movements efficient but slightly uncertain. "I don't really... entertain. Usually if someone comes over, it's for work, and we order sandwiches and eat standing up while discussing revisions."

"This is perfect." Solen uncorked the wine with practiced ease, pouring generous glasses while Quinn arranged the containers with mathematical precision.

"Besides, real conversations happen over comfort food.

You can't tell someone your deepest secrets while some waiter hovers asking if you need fresh pepper. "

Quinn paused in her container-arranging, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Is that what we're doing tonight? Deepest secrets?"

"Whatever feels right." Solen settled into her chair, watching Quinn's shoulders relax incrementally as the familiar scents of lemongrass and basil filled the space.

"Though if we're going to convince everyone we're falling for each other, we should probably know more than each other's coffee orders and professional neuroses. "

They ate in comfortable silence for several minutes, Quinn's initial stiffness gradually melting as she discovered the green curry's perfect balance of heat and coconut sweetness.

Solen found herself cataloguing these small moments—the way Quinn's analytical expression softened when she tasted something genuinely good, how her fingers drummed silent rhythms against her wine glass.

"Tell me about your family," Solen ventured, twirling pad thai around her fork. "The real version, not whatever sanitized biography Iris has prepared for interviews."

Quinn's fork froze halfway to her mouth.

She set it down carefully, reaching for her wine instead.

"My mother lives in Portland. She's an art therapist when she's... stable.

Bipolar disorder. The manic episodes were actually easier than the depressions, because at least during those she'd paint these incredible murals on my bedroom walls, or decide we needed to reorganize the entire house according to color theory. "

Solen remained quiet, sensing the weight of years behind Quinn's measured words.

"During the low periods, she couldn't get out of bed for weeks.

I learned to read the signs early—how she'd stop returning phone calls, forget to buy groceries, leave bills stacked unopened on the kitchen counter.

" Quinn's fingers traced the stem of her wine glass with unconscious precision.

"I started color-coding my school supplies in third grade.

If everything in my backpack had a designated place and purpose, at least one part of my world made sense. "

"How old were you when your dad left?"

"Twelve." The word came out flat, matter-of-fact.

"He said he couldn't handle the chaos anymore.

That some people weren't built for that kind of uncertainty.

" Quinn's laugh held no humor. "I became obsessed with detailed schedules after that.

If I could predict and plan for every possibility, maybe I could keep the people I loved from disappearing. "

Solen reached across the table, covering Quinn's restless fingers with her own. The contact was warm, grounding. "But you can't control other people's choices. Trust me, I learned that lesson the hard way."

"Foster care," Quinn said quietly. It wasn't a question.

"Eleven different homes between ages seven and eighteen.

" Solen didn't pull her hand away, drawing strength from Quinn's steady presence.

"You learn to read people fast in that system.

Figure out what they want to see, what version of yourself keeps you fed and housed for another few months.

Sweet and grateful for the religious families.

Tough and independent for the ones who treated you like cheap labor.

Invisible for the ones who just wanted the monthly check. "

Quinn turned her hand palm-up, their fingers interlacing naturally. "That must have made acting feel familiar."

"Too familiar, sometimes." Solen's thumb brushed across Quinn's knuckles. "It's why I struggle with scripts that feel artificial. When you've spent your whole childhood performing survival, you develop pretty sensitive radar for bullshit."

"What about your birth parents?"

Solen's free hand moved unconsciously to the compass necklace resting against her collarbone.

"Car accident when I was six. I barely remember them, just fragments.

My mom singing off-key while she cooked breakfast. My dad reading the same books over and over because I'd gotten attached to specific bedtime stories. "

"The compass was hers?"

"The only thing that survived the accident intact." Solen's fingers worried the worn brass surface. "Sounds stupid, but I've always imagined it would help me find my way back to something real. Some kind of true north."

They moved to the couch after dinner, Quinn's body language more relaxed than Solen had ever witnessed. Without her analytical mask fully in place, Quinn looked genuinely curious rather than simply studying human behavior for professional purposes.

"Can I ask you something personal?" Quinn tucked her legs underneath her, wine making her bold. "You're gorgeous, charming, and talented. Why aren't you constantly dating?"

Solen nearly choked on her wine. "That's your idea of a subtle transition?"

"I'm serious. In all the research I did before we started this project, there were barely any relationship rumors. For someone in your position, that's almost suspicious."

"Maybe because every relationship I've had for the past five years ended the same way.

" Solen stared into her wine glass, watching the liquid catch the lamplight.

"They all said I was too intense. Exhausting to love.

That I psychoanalyze every conversation and turn simple moments into complicated emotional archaeology. "

Quinn blinked in surprise. "That's... those are almost the exact words people have used about me."

"Really?"

"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.