The Wedding Season

by Kayley Loring

  Shit.

  “I mean, I have other ideas, but that’s my favorite.”

  Shit! He knocked it out of the park the first time he stepped up to the plate. I can’t let him win this.

  “Thoughts? Hello? We can discuss it after you pitch your ideas.”

  My three ideas sound like the premises of Scooby Doo episodes. Do I pitch them, knowing that they suck, or do I get in front of this and accept that he’s got the better story to work with?

  I am tapping the tabletop with my pen. “Yeah,” I say. “I like it.”

  “Do you? Because I just thought of it when I was driving on the 10 just now, but it seems like there’s a lot we could work with.”

  I could kill you. “There is a lot to work with. But…I think it’s the husband who should be the one who’s a recovering addict and who gets possessed. The wife should be the protagonist and the one in peril.”

  “I just think any studio would want the wife to get possessed, but we can have other strong female characters, like the wife’s hot sister who comes to visit, and a cool nun.”

  “Yeah. Yes, there should be other strong female characters of course, but I still think the wife needs to be the protagonist. The audience needs to be scared for the protagonist, am I right? I’m not going to worry as much about the husband getting hurt by a demon-possessed woman.”

  “That’s because you’ve never had a demonic wife come after you with a knife.”

  “You were married?”

  “It was the woman I was going to marry. And it was a butter knife. But you shouldn’t underestimate the fear factor of a deranged woman.”

  I think about this for another minute and he silently watches me mull things over.

  He doesn’t take his eyes off of me while he takes a sip of the Diet Coke that has just been delivered to him.

  “No,” I say. “I still think the wife should be the one who’s afraid of the husband.”

  He blinks. “Hmmm,” he says. He pulls off his glasses and nods his head slowly, while cleaning his lenses with the bottom of his shirt. When he puts the glasses back on, he says, “I think you’re right.”

  “Oh no you didn’t.” He just did the move, the obnoxious move that he always did to our writing professors.

  “Yeah you’re totally right, I don’t know what I was thinking. Husband gets possessed by demon on their honeymoon. Wife isn’t sure if she married a psychotic asshole who’s gone off the wagon or if he’s possessed or if she’s being paranoid. You’re right.”

  I ball up my napkin and throw it at his face. He blinks, doesn’t even duck out of the way, as if he gets hit by napkins balls all day long and knows they can’t hurt him.

  “Plus she should get pregnant and at the end there’s the fear that maybe it’ll be a demon baby.”

  “Right, that was—that was the other thing I was going to say.” Shit why didn’t I think of that. “Just don’t ever pull that clean-your-glasses shit with me again, dude, I am not falling for that.”

  He pulls his glasses off his face and slowly wipes his lenses with his shirt again, wrinkling his brow at me. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but yeah I think you’re right.” He grins.

  I reach for his napkin, ball it up, and toss it at him. He gives me a lop-sided grin that would probably be considered attractive by anyone other than me.

  “Okay, great. That was easy. Look at us. Working together and agreeing on things…Making out in public bathrooms…”

  “Shhhhhh-ut up. We aren’t going to talk about that.”

  “Shutting up. I’ve said nothing to nobody.”

  It is unnerving, how relieved I am that he’s finally brought it up.

  “I would have texted you, but I knew you wouldn’t have responded.”

  “You’re talking about it.”

  “I’m done. But if I hadn’t brought it up you would have been mad at me for that.”

  “Wow you’ve got me all figured out, haven’t you, Dr. Braddock.”

  “Okay, I’ll stop. So. Are you excited about writing a horror script? Does it even appeal to you?”

  “Oh sure. I’m going to write horror and thriller scripts now. It’s going to be my new thing. See how you like it.”

  “What do you mean?” He genuinely seems puzzled by this statement.

  “I mean…you got into writing rom coms and YA back at Emerson when that was my thing.”

  “Why would that make you mad? You were way better at it than I was. You still are.”

  “I know that, but you automatically won points for being a guy writing in a genre that studios want to appeal to more men.”

  “So you’re mad at me for being a guy and you’re mad at me because studios are sexist.”

  “And I’m mad that you suddenly decided to be directly competitive with me.”

  “How did that make me competitive with you?”

  “Oh my God seriously? You don’t even consider me a competitor, do you? I’m that insignificant in your mind.”

  He leans forward. “No. Fuck—no that’s not…”

  The waitress places a chopped Cobb salad on the table in front of him.

  “Everything okay here, can I get you guys anything else?”

  “We’re good, thanks,” he says.

  “Nothing for me, thank you.”

  “Gosh, Scott, why is it that every time you’re here a woman is yelling at you?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  She walks off, smiling.

  Was I yelling? I wasn’t yelling. I stare down at my notebook. “You know what, I don’t think this is going to work.”

  “Erin. Listen to me. I don’t consider myself as a competitor of yours in the rom com genre because you’re way better at it than I am. I wrote a rom com script at Emerson because I was hoping you’d give me a lot of notes and that we could eventually work on something together. But you started ignoring me. So I wrote a young adult script and you started acting like I was the anti-Christ.”

  “You can’t possibly have that low of an emotional IQ.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  I guffaw.

  “This isn’t Black Swan. I’m not trying to steal the lead from you.”

  “That’s exactly what you’d say if you were trying to steal the lead in Swan Lake.”

  “Well, if you start fantasizing about me going down on you while your mom bangs on your bedroom door, let me know.”

  “Oh shit I forgot about Black Swan. Let’s write a psychological horror script about an artist of some kind!”

  “Uh, how about next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  “Whatever you say, boss.” He starts shoveling salad into his mouth. He swallows before launching into the kind of rant that used to make me want to set him on fire back at Emerson. “I think this is the perfect thing for us to write. This is about a woman facing her fears. She’s in love with this guy—it’s the best sex of her life—I’m spitballing here—she didn’t believe in romantic love before she met him because her dad left her and her mom. He used to beat her mom. She internalized the mother’s fear of her dad and therefore all men and love and marriage. But. This guy is a recovering alcoholic. She met him a year into his sobriety. She’s never seen him drunk before, but she’s heard stories. Our love has changed him, she tells her mom. We’ll be okay as long as we have each other.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “He has to go to Cornwall for work,” he goes on. “She goes with him. She says goodbye to her mom and sister, her anchors.”

  “Right.”

  “And he starts drinking.”

  “At the neighborhood pub. She’s heard stories about the house they’re staying in being haunted. Which is scarier—the man she loves and married is an irresponsible angry violent man, or her husband has been possessed by a demon?” Fucking hell, you’re brilliant. My nipples are hard. I’m in over my head. Fuck you, Braddock. I can’t do this. “You really came up with this on the dr
ive over?”

  “Yeah, it’s rough, I know, but we’ll figure out the details, obviously.”

  I need to contribute something here. This feels way too unbalanced. “What should we call it? How about Demons? Something simple like that.”

  “No title.”

  “What?”

  “We aren’t giving it a title.”

  “Yet, you mean? I know we don’t have to right now, but I like to come up with good titles.”

  “We’re never giving this script a title. Here’s what it’s going to be called: Untitled Duffy-Braddock Horror Script. That way, when it’s out there your name’s out there too. Our name.”

  Shit, he’s right. I always see articles in the trades or blogs about “Untitled So-and-So Brothers Script” and I always think gosh they’re so lucky they got their names in the title, and here he is actually doing it on purpose. “Interesting. Big of you to put my name first.”

  “Just sounds better.” He checks the time on his phone.

  Yeah yeah you have another meeting to get to, I know. “So. Obviously, in order to make this work, we’ll need to be strictly professional with each other. We won’t hang out, we won’t…” I lower my voice, “make out, we will just get the work done, mostly get it done separately, over email, finish a script, sell it, and then go on to separate projects after this one.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “We should be able to have a solid outline in like, two weeks at the most, right?”

  “Yeah for sure.” He looks at the calendar on his phone, while I look at mine. “Hey, are you going to Shauna’s wedding?”

  Shit. “In San Luis Obispo?”

  “Yeah, in two weeks.”

  “You’re going to that? I didn’t realize you were that good friends with her.”

  “Believe it or not, there are a few things you don’t know about me, Erin Duffy. I really like her bride, too. We all hung out the last time I was up in San Francisco. Their wedding should be really fun. I’m looking forward to it.”

  Shit shit shit.

  Chapter 8

  *Scott*

  Here’s how that meeting went in my head, in that glorious fantasy world where sexual harassment isn’t an issue and Erin Duffy wakes up and realizes what a fucking awesome stud I am.

  FADE IN:

  INT. 101 COFFEE SHOP – DAY

  Scott is sitting at a booth near the back, making notes in his notebook. Erin enters the coffee shop, looks around, sets her sights on him, and walks over. He sees her gorgeous bare legs before he sees the gorgeous rest of her.

  ERIN: Hi.

  SCOTT: Hey. Thanks for coming.

  ERIN (grinning): Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

  SCOTT: It’s the only way to get a head in business.

  She slides into the booth, next to him.

  ERIN: Okay, enough small talk.

  SCOTT: Oh it’s not small, sweetie.

  ERIN: We’ll see about that, Braddock. Clearly I’m the one who’s good at dialogue and you’re the guy with the big ideas. So. Let’s hear your big idea. Go.

  SCOTT: Horror slash relationship drama. Blah blah blah.

  She frowns.

  ERIN: Fuck. I love that. We could write the shit out of that.

  SCOTT: Let’s do it.

  ERIN: Game on.

  SCOTT: Or you could pitch me something awesome and I would probably be blown away by it because I think you’re kind of a genius.

  ERIN: I appreciate that, thanks, you always say the perfect thing to make me like you more, it’s amazing. But no, we’ll do your idea and I’ll make it better.

  SCOTT: Works for me. Should we go to my place and get started?

  ERIN: I’m thinking about it.

  SCOTT: I’ve been thinking about it. For a long time. I really am a big fan of you. And not just because you’re hot. Although, if I’m being honest, your hotness only makes you more talented. Or the opposite of what I just said. Never mind. Pretend I said something badass. I can’t think straight when I’m talking to you.

  ERIN (grinning, reaching for him under the table): Then stop talking.

  She smiles that smile of hers, the one that makes him want to be a better man, the one that makes him want to be her man.

  Blech. Awful. She really is better at writing dialogue than I am. But I’m good at talking to her, despite what she thinks. I totally orchestrated it so that she would push for the wife to be the protagonist, so I could tell her she was right. Obviously. It may not have won me as many points as I was hoping for, but it’s a start. She needs to feel comfortable writing in this genre with me since it’s new for her. She needs to trust that I respect her brain or she won’t want to write this with me.

  We need to write a fucking awesome script so she can figure out what I’ve known all along—we would be fucking awesome together. As writing partners, in bed, in life. Fucking. Awesome.

  Plus, I really need another sale. My family is becoming more and more overtly obnoxious about what they perceive as my colossal failure at my chosen career. Try explaining the long-term merits of developing a fan base of producers and executives who aren’t currently paying you for your work—to a bunch of investment bankers, CEOs and hedge fund managers. It’s soul-crushing. I care a lot less about what they think than I used to, but you never completely get over that stuff.

  I just hope I can keep it in my pants so we actually get the work done.

  But all work and no play makes Scott a dull boy.

  And Scott will not be dull at Shauna’s wedding.

  Watch out, Duffy.

  I’m packing my dancing shoes for this one.

  WEDDING TWO

  Chapter 9

  *Erin*

  “What do you mean you think you’re in love?” I’m finally seeing Maya for the first time since the day after Laurie’s wedding and she’s making my head explode. I search her beautiful tired face for clues—is she joking? Is she high? Was she kidnapped by Sam Fletcher and now experiencing Stockholm Syndrome? “You just met him. He’s not your type. He’s Braddock’s best friend.” I wish I hadn’t said that last part out loud, but it’s too late.

  Maya’s face erupts in an amazing, sleepy, genuinely happy smile. “I love him, Erin. He’s wonderful and he’s so good to me and I love being with him and I’ve never felt this way before.” She looks me straight in the eyes. “I love him.” She means it. I have never seen her this calm and satisfied before. It definitely isn’t just a blissed-out fuck-haze either, she looks and sounds like a woman in love.

  I put my hands on hers. “Then I’m happy for you.”

  She kisses me on the cheek. “We watched Cinema Paradiso. I loved it. I cried.”

  “Okay. I wanted to watch it with you, but whatever. I’m glad. So are you just here to pack a bag, or…”

  “Yes. I have to do laundry.”

  “Oh.”

  She starts going through her hamper. “He has such a great space. It’s a live-work loft. You have to come hang with us. He’s in the Arts District downtown. It’s so vibrant. You’d love it. His music is incredible. He’s so talented.”

  I nod. “I’m going to write a script with Braddock.”

  She drops what she’s doing and scurries back over to me, putting her hands on my shoulders. “What?! Tell me everything.” This is news to her. I was half-expecting her to already know this, and about my brief interlude in the bathroom at the wedding, but apparently she and Sam have been too busy falling in love and Braddock has been too busy not caring enough to communicate with his best friend about me.

  “There’s nothing to tell. It’s work. It’s a career choice. Our agents strongly recommended it. He had a really good idea for a horror movie with a relationship angle. It could end up being a good thing for me. Career-wise.”

  “Wow. You’re saying all this while your body language is expressing total defeat. This is great! I’m so excited for you! We should all hang out—let’s have dinner this week.”

  “No.”
>
  “Oh come on.”

  “No way.”

  “It won’t be a double date.”

  “It won’t be anything, it’s not happening.”

  “Fine.” She goes back to her laundry. “For now. I’ve got a good feeling about this, my love. This is the start of something great for you.”

  “Oh calm down. Are you still going to be my plus-one for my friend’s wedding?”

  “Yes! Oh right! Sam’s going to that too! With Scott!”

  “Right. Of course.”

  “Oh my God it’ll be so fun! We should all drive up together!”

  “Nope.”

  “Maybe. Think about it. For the sake of the environment.”

  “Nope. For the sake of my mental and emotional environment, nope. But you’re going to stay in my room, right?” I know the answer to this, but I say it anyway.

  “I mean. Ostensibly. Sure. We’ll see what happens. You might not want me to…” She winks at me.

  “Just stop…I mean, he’s probably dating someone.”

  “Ah hah! You do care.”

  “I don’t care, I’m just saying…has Sam said anything?”

  Maya smiles. “He mentioned that there was a pilates instructor that Scott was seeing for a while, but he got bored and ended it.”

  “He got bored? That’s so obnoxious.”