Maya asks me a question, but I do not respond, because there is a much louder, more important question that is echoing through my head: Did I win?
Slow fade to black as I wonder if he’s thinking about me right now, or if that’s the kind of thing he always does in bathrooms at weddings.
Chapter 5
*Scott*
FADE IN:
INT. MEN’S BATHROOM, GREYSTONE MANOR – NIGHT
Scott opens the door and sees Erin stomping off in the other direction.
SCOTT: Hey.
She whips around and glares at him.
Erin: Hey yourself.
She strides back and places herself in front of him, fists on her hips, perky breasts heaving with restrained fury.
Erin: Why?
Scott: Why what?
Erin: Why did you go to my dorm room that night,
after the party?
Scott: Isn’t it obvious?
He looks her up and down. Her back straightens. She knows what is about to happen as much as he does, and she doesn’t resist it.
Erin: I want you to tell me.
Scott: Why don’t I show you what I was going to do instead of telling you?
He pulls her through the door and shuts it, bolting the lock as he presses her up against the door. She has already un-tucked his shirt from his pants. He kisses her and she welcomes his tongue immediately, sucking on it.
She rips the tie off from around his neck and fumbles with the top button of his shirt. He slides his hands under her dress and squeezes her perfect ass. She grunts and rips his shirt apart—buttons flying—her hands hungrily exploring his toned chest and ripped abs.
As he lowers himself to his knees, he flicks one of her hard nipples with his tongue, nibbling on it ever so gently, through the thin fabric of her dress. She gasps.
Kneeling on the floor, he lifts up the hem of her dress with one hand while pulling down her wet panties with the other. She gasps again, and grabs onto the door handle. His tongue has entered her —
Nope! Way too porny. Any decent script would just say “He gets on his knees and pleasures her, his head under her dress, while she stands pressed against the bathroom door, one leg draped over his shoulder.”
Why is it so hot that a hot girl hates my guts? Do I purposefully say things to piss her off because I get weirdly turned on by her wrath? Yeah. I do.
Do I think of her as my nemesis? Not at all.
Do I think of myself as her nemesis? If it makes me important to her, then yeah. I do.
I write screenplays. I understand storytelling and structure. I know that a protagonist’s nemesis defines her and forces her to become the best person she’s capable of being.
I’ll be that guy for Erin Duffy. Fuck yeah.
Would I still be this hot for her if she batted her eyelashes at me and baked me a lasagna? Probably. But the reality is she’s more likely to come after me with a baseball bat and pour Tabasco sauce between the layers of pasta she serves me and guess what—I would invite her to step up to the plate and I would eat everything—every hot thing—she offers me.
Truth is, I’m fine with the way things went at the wedding, it just ended too abruptly. Once I was able to return to the party without an erection, I realized that it was probably better that we didn’t get to go further so quickly.
I’ll get another chance. I’ll get it right. Now she’ll have to wonder. Now she’ll have to wait. I’ll have to wait too, of course, but I’ve waited this long for the opportunity to win her over, I can wait for the right moment to blow her mind.
She doesn’t even remember the first time we saw each other. It was my first week in Boston, right before classes started. I had been on a week-long bender, still reeling from my breakup. It was my first day sober in ages and I had a monster hangover. I was at a coffee shop near campus, the unshaven, unshowered asshole wearing black Ray Bans and a Yankees cap (a passive-aggressive act in Boston), drinking black coffee and reading A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway, because it reminded me that I was more than just a miserable hung-over dumped shithead. She walked in, talking on her cell phone, wearing a tank top and jeans, no make-up, her shiny blonde hair pulled up into a ponytail. She was so fucking hot and she wasn’t even trying. Every guy in the place was checking her out, ogling her perky tits and heart-shaped ass. Not saying I didn’t get an eyeful of them too, but what I couldn’t take my eyes off of—the thing about her that knocked the hangover right out of me like a sexy slap in the face—was her smile. It lit up the room and I immediately felt jealous of whoever it was she was talking to. I wanted to be the one to make her smile like that.
She was in line to order, still on the phone, glanced over at me and my book, and said under her breath—not to me or to the person she was on the phone with—she just said it to herself: “I love that book.” Then she ordered an iced coffee, went to the ladies room, picked up her drink and left without ever making eye contact with me.
The next time I saw her was in our History of Media Arts class. We got into an argument about French avant-garde filmmakers and she’s basically been giving me shit ever since.
I’ve made her angry.
I’ve made her laugh.
I’ve made her confused.
I’m confident that I made her wet when we were kissing at the wedding.
I still haven’t made her smile the way I want to yet.
But I will.
Chapter 6
*Erin*
It has been three days since Laurie’s wedding, two days since I’ve seen my roommate who texts that she’s “With Sam. He’s amazing.”, and twenty-five seconds since the last time I’ve slapped my forehead and said out loud “WHAT. THE. FUCK?!” when my runaway brain conjured up images of myself making out with Scott Braddock in a public bathroom.
I’ve eaten a lot of cheese, because Maya isn’t around to tell me not to.
I’ve done five Jillian Michaels and Tracy Anderson workouts on YouTube to try to compensate for the dairy calories and to force my body to remember a kind of physical anguish other than that of Braddock’s Hammer of Thor erection against my aching nether regions.
I am trying to come up with one line pitches for a new romantic comedy and writing Fuck you Scott Braddock over and over on my yellow legal pad when my phone rings and I see Laurie Metzger’s office number. Laurie is on her honeymoon, so I assume it’s Kennedy calling to talk about scheduling a meeting. But it’s Kennedy calling to tell me that she has Laurie on the line, from Kauai.
“Please tell me you’re calling me from an infinity pool.”
“Oh my God I’m so tired of relaxing, it’s exhausting.”
“You’re rolling calls on your honeymoon, I love you.”
“That’s why we make the big bucks, baby. So listen…Jeff and I were just watching the wedding video that this guy put together.”
“Already?”
“Yeah, and we saw you and Scott Braddock together…”
Holy shit. Please tell me there wasn’t a hidden camera in the men’s room.
“You know, where he says we don’t make enough money for you guys.”
“Oh my God—he was not speaking for me, he’s so obnoxious.”
“But it’s true, we haven’t made you guys enough money—not considering what you’re worth in terms of talent and the number of scripts you’ve written.”
“Oh I don’t blame you, Laurie.”
“Good, because it’s not my fault.”
“Oh.” Are you calling to drop me as a client? Are you taking a break from your honeymoon to break up with me?
“It’s this business, it sucks right now. But we were thinking—how great would it be if you and Scott Braddock could partner up and write a script together! Since studios aren’t really making romantic comedies right now, at least not the kind you write, and not the kind that Scott’s written. You guys should team up to write a horror movie, but a fun date movie kind, that women would love…Hello?”
“Um.”
“Thoughts?”
“I have a few. I mean, it’s an interesting idea, but…I mean he’d never want to do it.”
“Scott? Yeah he’s into it, Jeff just got off the phone with him. He’s a big fan of your writing, Erin. You’re great at dialogue and character, he’s great at structure and finding a hook, and obviously he has experience with horror.”
And I have experience with the horror of knowing him.
“You’d really complement each other, and you’ve got overlapping fans at studios, plus your writing would be introduced to new people because of him. And vice versa.”
“But I’d only get half the money.” And you and your husband would split the commission so it’s not a big deal for you.
“Half of something is better than all of nothing, sweetie.” To her credit, she says this in the nicest way possible. “Unless you have a brand new slam-dunk rom com that Judd Apatow can produce, ready to go out before the script buying season ends for the summer...”
“Um. No.”
“It’s not a marriage, you don’t have to be a writing team forever, but it would create some heat for you and hopefully some money.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I need you to do more than think about it. Listen…I’m telling you this as your friend now, not your agent—because it would seriously not be cool for me to say this as an agent.”
“ What?”
“The agency is making us drop our bottom tier movie clients—you know how much of a struggle it’s been—and we’re all trying to sign TV show runners. I don’t want to stop taking your calls or returning your emails, Erin, and I don’t want to lose you to a smaller agency who’ll give you more attention but doesn’t have as much clout or resources as we do. There, I said it. I believe in you, I believe in me as your agent, and it is not our fault that the film business sucks right now. So either start over and work your way up from the bottom as a TV writer or write a fucking awesome feature script with Scott Braddock.”
“Wow. When you put it like that…I have a good idea for a horror movie, we can just base it on my life right now.”
Why don’t I want to start over as a TV writer, one might ask? My head has always known that it’s the smart career move, but my heart will always belong to feature films. As much as I love to binge-watch shows, I crave the calm-inducing satisfaction of a closed-ended movie with a resolution. I also crave the calm-inducing satisfaction of being able to spend most of my days working home alone in my pajamas. But more than that—I truly believe that the only way to revive this dying industry of original filmmaking, is to ensure that all the writing talent does not flee to television. Because that’s what has been happening. Maybe I’m stubbornly holding out to be the last woman standing, and maybe that’s what Braddock is doing too.
“Aw. Poor Erin has to write a script with a hot funny rich guy. I wish we were FaceTiming so you could see me playing the world’s smallest violin over here. Just meet with him and throw some ideas around—what have you got to lose?”
My dignity. My self-respect. My born-again virginity.
“I know you think you hate him, but that could work in our favor—it’s better than if you were dating and writing together—that never works out. You barely even have to see each other. I’ve got writing team clients who live on different coasts and barely talk to each other except at studio meetings. You can do everything over email now. But I mean, you guys live like ten minutes from each other and you might not hate him as much as you think. I have to make some more calls, but just meet with him and throw around some ideas, okay? I’ll have Kennedy reach out to him and she’ll set up a time. Love ya, bye.”
She hangs up before I can tell her ‘no.’ That’s what makes her a good agent.
I get it. Okay. This is a work decision. It’s a career-move. I have to weigh the pros and cons with my brain and not my heart or my soul or my vagina. Aside from the obvious con of half a paycheck (and Laurie is right about half of something versus all of nothing) and the added con of potentially having to deal with people assuming that Braddock did most of the work since it will be a new genre for me—it’s really all pros. And I am a pro. I’m a professional screenwriter and I will never forget how lucky I am to be one. So yes. I will branch out into a new genre, and hopefully a new phase of my career.
I’ll just have to keep reminding my heart and soul and vagina to be open-minded and forward-thinking. No wait—I don’t want my vagina to open-minded. I need my vagina to stay boarded-up while I’m open for business with Scott Braddock.
Do they sell chastity belts on Amazon?
Chapter 7
*Erin*
I arrived here a good ten minutes early so I wouldn’t be late and feel rushed or flustered. Even though he lives about ten minutes west of me, in Los Feliz, Scott requested that we meet at the 101 Coffee Shop on Franklin Avenue, at the base of the east side Hollywood Hills, because he would be coming from a meeting in Santa Monica and then driving to a meeting on the Universal lot after our meeting. Like thanks so much for squeezing me in, buddy, and congratulations on having so many meetings.
Whatever.
Not having any meetings has given me the time to be really ready for this meeting.
I am going to win this meeting.
I have spent the last two days prepping for it. Kennedy, bless her assistant extraordinaire heart, sent me PDFs of dozens of horror scripts—classics as well as newer ones that had just sold. She sent me Braddock’s horror writing samples. I read them last, but they were good, dammit. I also watched every horror movie on Netflix and HBO, every trailer and clip from hit horror films available on YouTube, had vivid nightmares and anxiety dreams, and Googled “horror movie tropes” until I felt like I had a good grasp on the genre and my mind had been sufficiently saturated by fantasies of Patrick Wilson feeling me up in the bathroom of a haunted mansion instead of Scott Braddock.
It’s one-thirty on a weekday so it’s busy but not too crowded and populated with Beachwood Canyon hipsters (who are better-looking and more moneyed than the Atwater Village hipsters of my neighborhood). I’m drinking my coffee and pretending not to notice when a former cast member of Saturday Night Live gets up from his table and leaves, flipping through my notebook when I hear: “Nice notebook. You like squared pages?” Scott pulls out the chair opposite me and sits down. He’s wearing a crisp white collared shirt and jeans, black-rimmed glasses and a Yankees baseball cap. His writer’s uniform. He slaps his own notebook and pen on the table. He is right on time. I was hoping for the opportunity to berate him for keeping me waiting. Even by doing the right thing, he somehow always manages to do the wrong thing. He’s gifted that way.
“I write neater on squared pages. I write fast when I’m making notes and it forces me to slow down.”
He studies me and nods. “Interesting. You feel the need to rein yourself in. You’re afraid you’ll make a mess of things.”
“Excuse me, Dr. Braddock, I don’t believe our session has begun yet.”
He smiles. “How are you, Duffy? I’m stoked about this—are you?”
“I’m here. We’ll see.”
The cool raven-haired inked-up waitress comes over. She seems to be very familiar with him. “Hey Scott, long time no see.”
“Hey—you weren’t at the Hotel Café last week.”
“I couldn’t make it, I had to work. How was she?”
“Amazing as always. Sam says her next album’s going to be more like the first one.”
“I can’t even wait to hear it. What can I get you?”
“Just a Diet Coke and a chopped Cobb salad.” He doesn’t even look at the menu.
The waitress looks at me. “You want anything else, sweetie?”
I am too busy wondering who this amazing “she” is that he went to see at The Hotel Café to think about food. “No I already ate, thanks.” I still haven’t gotten a handle on this lunch meeting thing, where people eat while talking about
work. I’m fine with eating while I work, but eating while I talk about work with another human being? No thank you. That’s what coffee’s for. And also—who the fuck is this “she” person?
He looks at me, like he’s reading my mind, and says, “Last week I went with Sam to see this singer he works with. You’d love her, her name’s Kate Lucca. Her husband’s a buddy of mine.”
Oh. I feel my body relax. “I’ve heard of her actually, I do like her.”
“You should come to Hotel Café with us sometime. ‘Us’ meaning Sam and Maya, since they seem to be inseparable all of a sudden.”
“Yeah, she seems to be spending quite a bit of time with him.”
“He’s head over heels in love with her.”
“Oh? Good.” I don’t like that he has more information about it than I do. I don’t want to talk about this personal connection. I don’t want to open the door to a conversation about our make-out rampage, although from the way he’s acting and looking at me, it’s almost as if it didn’t even happen. Did I imagine the whole thing? “So let’s talk horror.”
“Yes, let’s. I love this idea. I’ve always thought that horror and thriller movies are better date movies than romance. Gets the adrenalin going. It makes sense that they should be made to appeal to men and women.”
I have always thought this as well, but I’m not going to say so. I don’t want him to think I’m just going to agree with everything he says just because he’s written more horror scripts than me. I let the awkward long pause in conversation settle, like I probably will, when I’m fifty.
“Well. You have obviously come prepared. Let’s hear your ideas.”
“No, you go first.” Not falling for that one.
“Okay.” He doesn’t even look at his notebook. He inhales, leans back in his chair and says: “Young happy American couple in a whirlwind relationship elopes, on their honeymoon they go to rural UK, let’s say Cornwall, because I have relatives there and it’s gorgeous and remote and windswept and creepy at night, they stay at an idyllic cottage that they got an amazing deal on, and guess what it’s haunted and the wife gets possessed by a demon. She has a history of alcohol and drug abuse, and they thought it was behind them, but the stress of being married all of a sudden gets to her and the husband can’t tell at first if she’s acting weird because she’s on something or if the local stories about the haunting is true.”
The Wedding Season Page 4