Page 17 of The Wedding Season
“That’s because you’ve never had a demonic wife come after you with aknife.”
“You weremarried?”
“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 derangedwoman.”
I think about this for another minute and he silently watches me mull thingsover.
He doesn’t take his eyes off of me while he takes a sip of the Diet Coke that has just been delivered tohim.
“No,” I say. “I still think the wife should be the one who’s afraid of thehusband.”
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’reright.”
“Oh no you didn’t.” He just did the move, the obnoxious move that he always did to our writingprofessors.
“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’reright.”
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 hurthim.
“Plus she should get pregnant and at the end there’s the fear that maybe it’ll be a demonbaby.”
“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 forthat.”
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.” Hegrins.
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 thanme.
“Okay, great. That was easy. Look at us. Working together and agreeing on things…Making out in publicbathrooms…”
“Shhhhhh-ut up. We aren’t going to talk aboutthat.”
“Shutting up. I’ve said nothing tonobody.”
It is unnerving, how relieved I am that he’s finally brought itup.
“I would have texted you, but I knew you wouldn’t haveresponded.”
“You’re talking aboutit.”
“I’m done. But if I hadn’t brought it up you would have been mad at me forthat.”
“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 toyou?”
“Oh sure. I’m going to write horror and thriller scripts now. It’s going to be my new thing. See how you likeit.”
“What do you mean?” He genuinely seems puzzled by thisstatement.
“I mean…you got into writing rom coms and YA back at Emerson when that was mything.”
“Why would that make you mad? You were way better at it than I was. You stillare.”
“I know that, but you automatically won points for being a guy writing in a genre that studios want to appeal to moremen.”
“So you’re mad at me for being a guy and you’re mad at me because studios aresexist.”
“And I’m mad that you suddenly decided to be directly competitive withme.”
