Page 22 of The Wedding Season
I hate change. Almost as much as I hate being in a rut. But things are changing too fast. This feels like the end of summer right before starting high school. I’m even getting a zit on mychin.
Shit shitshit.
Chapter 10
*Erin*
We have checkedinto our hotel in San Luis Obispo, after a pleasant three-hour drive up the 101 freeway. Maya did me the honor of accompanying me in my car, but we had to pull over every forty-five minutes so that Sam could get out of Braddock’s car, and she could get out of my car, and they could publically display affection while Braddock and I discussed our script and criticized each other’s drivingpatterns.
The hotel is okay,nothing fancy, but not a motel. I know that Braddock can afford much nicer accommodations, but he wanted to stay in the same place as me so that our plus-ones can be near each other. Because God forbid my best friend should just be my date for a twenty-four hourperiod.
I am in the modest hotel bathroom, drying my hair and getting ready for Shauna and Sherry’s wedding. They have rented out a ranch, so the dress code is “casual elegant,” which is my favorite way to be elegant. It is a gorgeous May day, and I’m wearing a nice red floral dress and taking along a cute jeanjacket.
Maya is taking a nap on one of our double beds, because she has been all work and sex, very little sleep these past few weeks. It is still just too weird to me that she is in love with Braddock’s best friend. Too. Weird. But then again, my nemesis is now my writing partner, so it’s just that kind ofmonth.
The conceptof us working via email was just that—a concept. I started out by emailing him some ideas for characters and story beats and he wrote back his notes in ALL CAPS and it looked so obnoxious. I wrote backFUCK YOU BRADDOCK I QUIT,so he called and said “Just come over so we can have a proper jam session. I’ll get takeout from Little Dom’s and I promise to tone down my overwhelming sex appeal so that you can focus onwork.”
“Hah!” I said. But then I wentover.
We researched demon possession and Cornwall. In the background we had on horror movies that we like, for inspiration. We were always commenting on them, and we always watched them at his place because he has a projection screen and surround sound and refuses to watch anything on my crappy 32 inch TV that I got for 120bucks.
He is a visual guy. He likes to map things out. He has a huge bulletin board along one wall of his living room (temporarily leaning against a really nice piece of art because the board is usually in his bedroom and I refused to go in there). He used a Sharpie to write a few words describing story beats on color-coded index cards, then pinned them up in four separate columns underAct One, Act Two A, Act Two BandAct Three. I suggested a fifth column calledNo Judgment Bad Ideas.Most of my story ideas got pinned in that column, including my idea about the wife being attacked by hundreds of angry Cornish game hens, but I will find a way to make it work. He was pretty supportive, but he did not hesitate to tell me when he thought my ideas sucked, and I did the same. I flipped him off and silently screamed at him every time he left the room and each time I had I excused myself to use his squeaky clean bathroom. His bathroom is so clean I can actually picture him scrubbing it with a toothbrush every week. Of course, when I picture it he’s wearing nothing but boxer briefs, and it’s somehow electrifyingly sexy. I am really starting to hate mybrain.
But if I’m being honest, working with another person has been a lot of fun, and very effective. Despite wanting to punch my temporary writing partner in the face any time he opens his mouth, it is a remarkable feeling, having someone there to bounce ideas off of, someone to balance out my weaknesses and talents, someone to vent to, someone who gets it. By the end of the second day we had fallen into a comfortable pattern, had a good rhythm going, and a fun kind of verbal shorthand. And we kept our literal hands off of eachother.
Because I am a control freak, I insisted on typing up the outline on my laptop—obviously he is Type A as well, so it has not been lost on me that it was big of him to let me take the reins. Meanwhile, as I sat at his dining table or on his sofa and typed, he paced back and forth in his white V neck T-shirt and two hundred dollar jeans, giving me various views of his cute butt, or he stood in a doorway, grasped the top of the door frame with his hands and leaned forward, ostensibly to stretch his shoulders, but probably to expose his lower abdominal region, where he’s so toned it makes me want to breaksomething.
Imust say,though, his apartment is impressive. Midcentury modern. Distinctly non-Ikea furniture that he claims he got at flea markets and Craigslist, but he probably spent top dollar at one of the many vintage furniture stores in LA. He has a lot of bookshelves with a lot of books and Blu-ray discs and records. An eclectic collection of books and films and music. Mostly hard covers, which are kept separate from the paperbacks and graphic novels. The usual Criterion Collection film snob baloney, but also many of the same movies in my own collection. Everything has been painstakinglyalphabetized.
He watched me as I took in the space and the details—not like a store security guard—he was watching for my reactions, and surprisingly, I didn’t mind it one bit. He seemed to really care what I thought, and it was kind of cute. When I spotted the collection of duct tape, he didn’t even wait for me to ask about it. “I’m kind of obsessed with duct tape. It’s not weird. There are hundreds of uses. Google it. I like the different colors and patterns. Do you have ducttape?”
He was so serious, the way he asked, I had to laugh. “I do not have ducttape.”
“You should have duct tape. Here. Take one. You can pick any color. There’s gold. Orpink.”
“I’ll pass,thanks.”
“You’ll regret that one day when your vacuum hose gets torn open, or you’ve run out of chip clips and clothes pins and you’re like ‘oh shit how am I gonna keep this half-eaten bag of chips closed so it stays fresh?’ Don’t come crying to me asking to borrow a piece of duct tape to seal it and then reseal it, because by then it will be toolate.”
“I don’t own any of those things you justmentioned.”
“You don’t have a vacuumcleaner?”
“Yes I have a vacuum cleaner, but I don’t have chip clips or clothespins.”
“How do you keep your uneaten potato chipsfresh?”
“There are never any uneaten potato chips. I’m from Idaho. I eat all of the potato chips. Problem solved.” It was one of the least-annoying conversations he and I had ever had, and for the first time since before he hand his tongue inside my dormmate, I felt comfortable withhim.
Butthen—
I accidentally dropped my pen when I was getting ready to leave one day and I spotted the royal blue spine of a copy ofOutlanderon the floor under the coffee table when I picked up my pen. I reached for the book. It was brand new and hadn’t been cracked open. I hated him. He walked back into the living room. “I see you’re lovingOutlander,” Igrumbled.
“I did love it, Sassenach. I read it on Kindle and wanted a hardcopy.”
“Oh. Is this how you treat the books you love? Toss them on thefloor?”
“If you must know, it was on top of the coffee table and I shoved it down there right before someone cameover.”
