This is the conversation I’ve wanted to avoid. “Oh you know. I finished a spec half a year ago. It didn’t sell, but Laurie’s been sending it out to directors and actors. You know how it goes.”
“Yeah. Who would’ve thought the movie business would be so slow? We’re a couple of stubborn idiots, huh, not getting into television.”
I know he didn’t mean it as an insult, but I heard the words “we’re a couple” and it’s like my ears were lit on fire. “Are you saying you aren’t busy being the darling up-and-coming go-to screenwriter for every studio that doesn’t know any better?”
“Nah, it’s rough out there. For real. I mean I go to a lot of meetings and pitch my take on assignments and write my spec scripts, just like you, but it’s like if you aren’t in the Marvel game there’s basically no point in being alive.”
These are my sentiments exactly, but I refuse to agree with him. “Well. Every person I meet with is in love with you.” Wait. Did I just compliment him? That’s not how it was supposed to come out.
“Well every person I’ve met with is in love with you. As soon as they hear I went to Emerson, people are all ‘oh do you know Erin Duffy, she’s so cute I love her! I love her Black List script!’”
“Shut up.”
“Seriously. I loved it too, by the way.”
“You read it?”
“Yeah. Laurie sent it to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I asked her for it.”
I think my brain is broken. “Why?”
“Because I wanted to read it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d read it before now?”
“Probably because you always run away from me as fast as you can whenever you see me. I thought it was really charming and clever and romantic and your writing style has really improved since school, I was impressed.”
I know he doesn’t mean this to be condescending, but… “Well we can’t all be born brilliant scriptwriters like Scott Braddock.”
He shakes his head. “You never could take a compliment.”
“You’ve never figured out how to give one.”
He laughs. “Fair enough.”
Is he conceding? Is this an admission that I am correct? Is Hell freezing over? Is that why my nipples are getting hard?
“I actually passed on pitching my take for a rewrite project at Paramount last month, that one about the high school dance crew? I told them you’d be great for it—did you go in on it?”
And we’re back to our regularly scheduled program. Suddenly I feel like I’ve been sucker punched. What did he just say to me? I search his face for clues—does he realize how condescending he’s being? Does he?
“I mean it was a terrible project, it’ll never get made. But you would have been able to whip it into shape anyway.”
I force a smile and shake my head.
“What? Was that a dick thing to say? That was not mean to be dick-ish, I just meant it was right up your alley, genre-wise.”
“Oh, it’s my alley if it’s a terrible project that will never get made?”
“No, I mean it was YA.”
“I thought you made YA one of your many alleys.”
“Not for a while, actually. It was just that one script back at Emerson.”
I look around. I cannot lose my shit with him. There are too many people here that I want to work with someday. I don’t want them to remember me as that crazy girl who beat up Scott Braddock at Jeff and Laurie’s wedding.
“Sorry,” he says. “I meant you could have made the script a lot better. I guess that came out wrong.”
“You came out wrong.”
He smiles. “You’re not the first to say so.”
“Honestly, what is wrong with you?”
“You tell me, Duffy. I’ve always wondered.”
I accidentally stare at his mouth and suddenly all I can think about is how it was once attached to Brianna’s vulva. I make an involuntary weird growling sound, and push my chair back, almost knocking over a server. “Oh my God I’m so sorry!” I don’t look back, I just speed-walk to the inside of the mansion.
Chapter 4
*Erin*
I walk around like I know where I’m going. The interior of Greystone Mansion is, as expected, very elegant and grand, with shiny marble floors that I could slip and crack my heart open on—I mean my head—what?!
I hear footsteps behind me, and I know whose feet they belong to by the chill they’ve sent up my spine. I walk faster. His gait remains steady. I walk through what looks like a large empty ballroom and find myself on a terrace that overlooks the treetops and buildings of Beverly Hills and a wide scope of Los Angeles in the distance. In a flash, I picture myself throwing him over the edge. It is this image that makes me feel confident enough to stop and turn to face him.
I cross my arms in front of my chest. “What?”
He slowly walks past me, to the stone railing, and sits on it. It’s almost as if he’s tempting me to push him. Or maybe he just wants to sit down. He slips his hands into his pockets, looking very casual. “How many times am I supposed to say I’m sorry to you before you’ll believe I mean it?”
“I don’t know. What exactly is it you’d be apologizing for?”
“Everything I’ve ever said?”
“And?”
“And everything I ever did.”
“Specifically?”
He sucks in his breath, as if getting ready to be punched in the gut. “Having sex with your college roommate.”
“And?”
“And?...And being a dick to her afterwards. But I didn’t want to see her again, I wanted to…”
“Yeah, you made that perfectly clear.”
“No. Erin. Just.”
“Oh my God we don’t have to talk about this anymore—you don’t have to apologize to me—we don’t have to talk at all.” I spin on my heel and start to walk away.
He grabs my arm and I stop walking, yank my arm away from him. It’s not like he used force, but I can still feel where he touched me. I don’t want to feel him on me. It’s like the spot where he touched me has infected me and I can feel him spreading all over my body. What is happening? I shiver.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. No. What do you want?”
“Just listen to me. I’m going to say this once and then trust me, we never have to talk about it again.”
I look into his eyes. In this light, they’re the color of strong black coffee, and they are making me just as jittery.
He leans in towards me, his face inches from mine, and serious. I stare right back into his eyes, glaring at him. “I went to your dorm room because I was looking for you. Obviously. I kept texting you after you left the party that night and you never responded. I was trying to apologize for being an idiot, but all I really wanted to do was…be with you. I waited for you in your room, Brianna said you were coming, and then she climbed on top of me and…I was frustrated and she was hot and she was all over me, so I had sex with her. That’s what happens when you’re a single guy in college and a hot girl straddles you.”
I take a step back. “Yeah. I get it.”
“I regretted it almost immediately. I know it made things awkward for you, to say the least. It’s not like I wasn’t aware of what a mess I’d made of things, but you just wouldn’t let me explain.”
“You really didn’t try very hard.”
He laughs and shakes his head, throws his hands up in the air. “You’re right. I didn’t. I really liked you. And you were the only person I knew who was planning on moving out to LA, and I wanted to…I don’t know, I wish things had been different.” His eyes search mine. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it. He exhales and straightens up, removing some invisible piece of lint from his shirt. “So. Guess we’re done talking now.”
“You still haven’t said you’re sorry.”
“I know.”
Asshole.
He gestures for me to lea
ve him. “By the way. I saw you hiding behind that tree in Griffith Park last year.”
“You asshole.”
“I just didn’t want to embarrass you.”
“I wouldn’t have been embarrassed I would have been annoyed.”
“Uh huh.”
“Oh my God I hate you.”
“Uh huh.”
At that moment, the wedding videographer comes over and points the camera, with its LED light, in our direction. “Hey! You guys got a message for the bride and groom?”
“Um…” I seem to have forgotten how to say anything other than “you asshole” or “I hate you.” It feels like my mouth is moving, but no words are coming out.
Scott steps forward and puts his arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer to the camera. “Hey! Congratulations! You guys are the best and we’re so happy for you! This has been such a classy wedding—Duffy and I aren’t sure what we’re doing here. Thanks for inviting us, and we’re only stealing food because you guys aren’t making us enough money. Obviously kidding—go have a honeymoon, you beautiful people! Stop working so hard.” As soon as the videographer leaves, I push him away, and he disappears.
I know he thought he was being my knight in shining armor by speaking for me and using “we” but I’m considering asking the videographer to delete that footage so there’s no evidence that we were ever anywhere near each other. I don’t think I’ve ever been so repelled by anyone in my life—not anyone that I’ve actually met. Why do I care so much? My eyes are stinging.
When I get back to the courtyard, the DJ has announced the father-daughter dance, and I stay standing at the back of the room, watching them until What a Wonderful World has ended, and my mascara has run all over my face.
I find the ladies room, get my shit together, and head back to the table to retrieve Maya, but she is headed towards the already crowded dance floor with Sam. I don’t see Scott anywhere. Maya sees me, whispers something to Sam, and comes over to me.
She takes both of my hands, she is grinning, her voice sing-song. “Where have you been? You and Scott just disappeared.”
“It’s not like that. Trust me.”
“What is it like?”
“Nothing. It’s like nothing. We can go now if you want.”
“You never told me he was engaged.”
“Who was?”
“Him! Scott.”
“He’s engaged?!”
“Not now. Before you met him. Before he went to Emerson.”
“What? I had no idea. He never mentioned it.”
“Well. He was. And he got dumped. Hard. Sam told me.”
She says ‘Sam told me’ as if Sam has been telling her things for years. I don’t know why this piece of information matters to me. I really don’t know why it hits me so hard. But it changes the way I see him. It’s like in The Empire Strikes Back when Darth Vader has his mask off in the meditation chamber and you see the back of his scarred head. It makes Scott seem more human and vulnerable and it makes me feel more uncomfortable than ever. I shake it off.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. No. Why do people keep asking me that?”
“Also he went to Columbia for two years before he started at Emerson and his family is super rich.”
“Well, that I knew.” He was on track to major in Financial Economics at Columbia University. At a college of communication and the arts, people treated him like he was exotic, because being good at math and having more than a basic understanding of asset allocation and being brave enough to give up a future career in finance for a future career in Hollywood apparently made you a hero. Being a girl who always knew she wanted to write kissing movies apparently just made you adorable.
“Are you okay?” She’s looking down at my balled-up fists. What she can’t see—and what no one can see (I hope) is the tiny flood that started forming in my panties as soon as Braddock grabbed my arm, and the aggravating dull ache between my legs.
“No. Can we go home?”
“Come dance with us.”
“Maya. Please.”
“Will you tell me what’s wrong?”
“I can’t articulate it, I just want to go home, get in my pajamas, watch Gilmore Girls and eat Laughing Cow cheese.”
She studies my face. “You want to fuck him now, don’t you?”
“Shhhhhh!”
“Oh my God just do it.”
“That’s like telling me to have sex with Black Jack Randall from Outlander.”
She rolls her eyes. “Girl, you are drowning in a pool of nerd.”
“Please don’t like his best friend. I’m begging you.”
“I really like him. I feel very comfortable with him. Come dance with us.”
“I don’t feel like dancing.”
“Okay. I’m gonna go dance with him for two more songs and then we can go.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. But no cheese. Kale chips. Order a Lyft we can leave in fifteen minutes.”
“I love you. Even though I hate your kale chips.”
“You sure you don’t want to dance?” She does The Robot and The Running Man and somehow makes them look sexy.
“Go have fun. I’ll order the car.” She runs over to Sam, who has been waiting for her by the dance floor. They start dancing and they’re so cute together I almost feel bad about making her leave.
I go back to the table to get my purse and phone and order the car. I look around for Laurie. She is, of course, on the dance floor, as she should be. I take a goofy selfie, waving at the camera, and text her a goodbye and congrats message. I see Braddock on the dance floor, handing Sam and Maya drinks. He then wipes his damp hands on his pants and walks back into the mansion. He looks happy, he’s in party-mode.
I follow him. Because I am going to bitch-slap him with words. I will not leave here until he truly understands how big of a shit I think he is.
When I get inside I see him walking into the men’s room. Of course. Boy’s club. Not gonna let that stop me from giving him a piece of my mind. I stand right outside the door and I wait, with my arms crossed over my chest, one foot tapping. I’m a cartoon impatient angry woman with steam coming out of her ears.
I wait.
And I wait.
And I wait.
What on earth is he doing in there? Leave it to him to kill my anger buzz. Just when I start to walk away, he opens the door. He stops in his tracks when he sees me, holding the door open. I stomp back towards him.
“You,” I say.
He just stares at me.
“You…” I am not sure what is supposed to come after that. “I…You…” I reach my arm out and point at him.
He takes my hand, pulls me into the bathroom and shuts the door, pushing me up against it, holding my arms up by my wrists. He puts his mouth on me, coaxes my lips open with his tongue, taking my mouth hostage. I bite his lower lip and yank my wrists from his grasp. His head jerks back. I don’t move away. His eyes are on fire.
I feel his hands on my hips and his leg between my legs. His hands slide up the sides of me and back down to my hips. He leans in and stares at my mouth, waiting for me to respond, daring me, and finally I grab his face and pull him down towards me and kiss him. I think I’m saying “I hate you I hate you” but maybe not with actual words. More like with moans. He is a good kisser, his lips are soft and warm and he knows what he’s doing with his tongue.
I realize my hands are now on his ass, and one of his hands is massaging my breast while the other is lifting up the bottom of my dress, and I reach for his crotch—I can’t stop myself, and oh golly he is a handful. I make a squeaky sound, jump up and wrap my legs around his waist and he holds my ass and presses up into me. I feel that erection that’s bulging against the front of his pants, and he’s ecstatically big, and my panties are soaked through and my lady parts are feverishly trying to engulf his growing hard-on through two layers of fabric.
He grinds against me rhythmically, boldly but not in a
frenzy. He has no problem showing that he wants me, but he is in control of this situation. His hands are supporting me while exploring me. He kisses me so deeply and intimately, it’s startling. I can’t catch my breath and I don’t even realize that I should be breathing. It’s like his tongue is the only thing that’s keeping me alive right now. The energy of it is generous and life-giving and I feel myself giving in completely, forgetting who he is, who I am, wanting more.
He is so passionate. It feels like his body is telling me so many secret things, but my heart is beating so loudly I can barely hear anything—I can barely hear the knocking on the other side of the door, or feel that the door is pushing in against my back.
And suddenly, his lips pull away from mine.
“Hang on a second!”
He pushes against the door with one hand, still holding me up with the other. He stares straight into my eyes, his teeth clenched. He groans, quietly, shaking his head. I slowly return to the world, remember where we are and who we are, and I’m somewhat relieved to be free of the grip he had on me. I lower my feet to the ground. He keeps his hands on me until I am able to stand properly, still looking deep into my eyes. I hold his gaze. He puts his hand on my face and tilts his head down to kiss me again, but I duck out of the way, hiss “don’t you dare tell anyone about this,” and yank open the door.
I don’t even see who was waiting to get into the bathroom. I straighten myself up as I run away, away from that mouth and those hands and those rocking hips. It feels like there’s a lagoon in my underpants, but I cackle to myself like a madwoman when I think of the massive boner that Scott Braddock is going to have to subdue before walking out of that room tonight.
Hah!
Take that, Braddock’s penis!
I win!
Cut to: Me staring out the window of the Lyft car, alternately touching my fingers to my lips and squeezing my eyes shut while shaking my head, trying to concentrate on my best friend who is going on and on about how great it was to hang out with an actual nice guy for a change—how comfortable she felt with him and how straightforward and polite he was.
When asked if she will see him again, Maya shrugs and says: “Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.”
The Wedding Season Page 3
