Page 8 of Guys Can’t Write Romance

Chapter five

Abandon All Hope

Daisy stood outside Chad’s apartment door, double-checking the address on her phone for the third time.

She’d already driven past the building twice, convinced there must be some mistake.

The structure, a shabby wood-paneled bungalow that was redeemed solely by its proximity to the beach, looked more like a vacation rental that had seen better days than a place where actual adults lived year round.

The building sat two blocks from Venice Beach, close enough that she could hear the distant crash of waves and smell the salt air.

A skateboard leaned against the wall, next to a doormat that read ‘Come Back With Tacos.’ Someone had added “Or Beer” in marker.

Daisy took a deep breath, straightened her perfectly pressed blouse, and knocked.

“It’s open!” Chad’s voice called from inside.

Of course it is, she thought. This was Chad.

She pushed the door open and stepped into a scene right out of ‘Animal House.’ The apartment was larger than she’d expected, with beach towels hung as makeshift curtains over the living room windows.

A surfboard leaned against one wall, with a small puddle and sand on the hardwood floor beneath it.

The coffee table appeared to be an old door balanced on milk crates, covered in water rings from beer bottles and what might have been the remains of last night’s nachos.

A stack of empty pizza boxes stood in a corner like some sort of modern art exhibit, and a collection of sports trophies shared shelf space with what appeared to be every horror movie ever made on DVD.

A dartboard hung on one wall, with several holes in the surrounding drywall where someone had missed.

Chad sat on a ratty couch that had probably been nice when Lincoln was president, laptop balanced on his knees, wearing board shorts and a faded t-shirt.

His bare feet were propped on the makeshift coffee table, and a half-empty beer sat dangerously close to his laptop, forming yet another water ring on the table.

“Welcome to Club Med, Venice Beach,” he said, gesturing around. Based on his easy smile, he was either oblivious to or completely unbothered by the state of his living space. “Sorry about the mess. We were going to clean, but then we didn’t. Actually, we’ve been saying that for a couple years.”

“We?” Daisy asked, still hovering near the door in case she needed to make a speedy escape.

“My roommate Rhino and me. Don’t worry, he’s at the gym he manages, so he won’t be home till late. He’s actually worse than me, if you can believe it.”

“Your roommate’s name is Rhino?” Daisy remained by the door, unwilling to venture further into the chaos without proper hazmat gear.

“Well, his real name’s Ryan, but nobody’s called him that since college.

Something about him running through a wall during a party we had at the fraternity.

” He cleared a stack of sports magazines off the other end of the couch.

“Grab a seat, Fields. The couch won’t bite.

But there might be some Cheetos stuck beneath the cushions. Plus, my phone charger I keep losing.”

Daisy perched carefully on the edge of the couch, clutching her laptop bag like a shield. She pulled out a disinfecting wipe from her purse and quickly swiped down her small section of the couch, ignoring Chad’s amused expression.

“You know, most people just say hello when they visit someone’s home for the first time,” he said, clearly entertained at her sanitizing routine.

“Most people don’t live in a petri dish,” she said, giving the cushion one final, thorough wipe before gingerly settling her weight on it.

“So, whatcha think of the place?” Chad said, gesturing around like he was showing off a palace rather than the aftermath of a particularly rowdy party.

“I think it’s exactly how I pictured it would look.” Daisy’s gaze drifted to a lamp in the corner that appeared to be held together with duct tape.

“Really?” Chad grinned, apparently taking her comment as a compliment rather than the criticism she had intended. “I was going for the sophisticated bachelor, surfer chic look. How’d I do?”

“You missed by a mile.”

He laughed, and there was something about his easy acceptance of her criticism that she found almost endearing, while at the same time irritating.

“At least tell me you have a desk somewhere,” she said.

“Yup. Right over there.” He pointed to a card table in the corner, with what appeared to be a beer pong tournament trophy and several empty energy drink cans on top of it.

“That’s not a desk, Chad,” she said, shaking her head.

She thought about her own desk at home, meticulously organized, with color-coded folders, a proper ergonomic chair, and a corkboard for mapping out her plot structures.

“It’s a safety hazard. How do you get any work done in this…

?” She looked around the room, at a complete loss for words.

“Coastal paradise?” Chad offered helpfully.

“I was going to say disaster zone.”

He grinned. “That works too.”

Daisy just shook her head at the way he seemed so immune to judgment. “But the shocking thing is,” she added, “Mags is right that your dialog doesn’t totally suck.”

“Was that a compliment from Daisy Fields?” Chad said with mock astonishment. “Should I check if hell has frozen over?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late. I’m getting that printed on a t-shirt. ‘Daisy Fields thinks my dialog doesn’t totally suck.’” He mimed the text with his hands, grinning with the delight of someone who had just received high praise rather than the most begrudging of compliments.

Daisy grinned, despite herself, and shook her head. There was something almost infectious about his enthusiasm, though she’d rather drink from the suspicious-looking cup on the windowsill than admit it. “Ready to get some writing done before I start organizing your furniture?”

“Let’s do it.” He sat up straighter, adjusting his laptop on his knees.

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten about what you did to my Post-Its,” she said. “There will be payback.”

“Make it good and creative.” Chad’s eyes sparkled with the anticipation of their ongoing prank war, as if he genuinely enjoyed their antagonism.

“Oh, I will,” Daisy said with a big nod. “So what I was thinking we could do is exchange pages and give each other notes.”

Chad rolled his eyes. “I already know what your notes will look like. You’ll highlight everything in blue and write in the margin ‘De-Chad this’.”

His description of her critiquing style was surprisingly accurate, which only annoyed her further.

“I promise to give constructive feedback this time, if you promise to not just write a string of ‘ZZZZZ’s’ beside my male lead.” She pulled her laptop from her bag, carefully setting it on her disinfected portion of the couch.

“You’re asking a lot, Fields.” Chad’s expression was serious, though his eyes still danced with amusement.

“I know. But let’s try, because I’ve got a lot riding on this book.

And so do you.” The admission came out more vulnerable than she’d intended, revealing just how much this contest meant to her.

This wasn’t just about winning, it was about finally breaking through, getting published, and proving to herself and everyone in her life that her writing dreams weren’t just wishful thinking.

Something in Chad’s expression shifted, a brief glimpse of understanding that suggested he might take this as seriously as she did. “Okay. So we’re calling a truce?”

“Yeah. Truce.”

“Deal.” And with that, they shook on it.

For the next hour, they actually managed to get some work done, with Chad showing her his latest chapters and Daisy providing feedback that didn’t involve the words ‘juvenile’ or ‘gratuitous’ for once.

She even found herself laughing at some of his character descriptions and dialog, though she’d deny it if asked.

His story had a certain vitality to it, an energy that leaped off the page despite (or perhaps because of) its more outlandish elements. The characters spoke like real people, with distinct voices and believable motivations; that is, when they weren’t being chased by monsters.

The trouble for Daisy was, that given their newly instituted peace treaty, she wasn’t sure how to break the news to him that he was trying to adapt one of his horror stories into a romantic comedy.

The slime monster was still terrifying the female lead more than seducing her, and the romantic tension came from fear rather than attraction.

How does one tell a horror writer that his story needed less blood and more butterflies?

To her surprise, Chad did the same, actually offering constructive suggestions for her characters that didn’t have them getting eaten by zombies or possessed by ancient curses.

He pointed out places where her dialogue felt stiff, where her male lead seemed more like a collection of resume points than a person, and where the conflicts could be heightened for greater emotional impact.

The trouble for Chad, was dancing around the fact that her characters were still dull cardboard cutouts.

The male lead, in particular, seemed like he’d been assembled from a ‘Boring But Reliable Love Interest’ kit, with all the personality of dry toast. How did one tell a meticulous planner that her carefully constructed romantic hero needed to occasionally do something unpredictable or, heaven forbid, interesting?

They were both navigating this delicate balance, trying to be helpful without reigniting their previous hostilities, when the front door burst open.

“Yo, Chad!” Rhino called out as he came in the door, dressed in a sweat-stained tank top and carrying a protein shake in a blender bottle that had seen better days. “You’re never gonna believe what happened at the gym. This smoking-hot yoga instructor—”