Upstairs, I throw myself onto the bed and my back rejoices that I’m on a mattress rather than a thin layer of acetate on a hardwood floor.
I am so, so tired.
I don’t know what to do about Seth. I don’t know what to do about my father.
All I know is this: I have to change my plan.
I don’t want to be Roger Marks.
It’s as cowardly to expect Seth to see a screenplay as an apology as it was misguided to believe that my father’s offer of a career opportunity proved his love for me.
I need to stop doing what my father would do: writing a check to prove his affection instead of loving me in real life. What is my script except my own form of that check?Here, please accept this piece of paper in lieu of me telling you how I actually feel.
Maybe writing the screenplay was just for me.
What I need to do is go to Seth and simply say that I love him and want him back.
I can sleuth out from Kevin when he’s going back to Chicago and meet him there. Say what I need to in private.
Fix this.
For now, I need sleep.
I grab an eye mask and pass out in minutes.
I wake up to my mother knocking on my door.
“Molls? You awake? It’s almost seven o’clock. Guests are arriving at eight.”
I’ve been asleep for nearly four hours.
“Sorry,” I call groggily. “I’ll take a shower and get dressed.”
“Take your time. You can make a grand entrance in your party dress.”
I wince, thinking of the short, spangly number she said she found at Saks but that looks more like something you’d get at Forever 21.
Whatever. Fuck it.
Besides my mom and Bruce, no one I care about is going to see me tonight. I might as well dress myself up in Bratz doll cosplay. I go for it. Shimmery hot pink lips, fake lashes, stilettos, push-up bra, the works. By the time I start hearing the doorbell, I look hot. Entirely out of character, but hot.
I grab my phone to check my messages before I go downstairs, since I’ve been incommunicado all afternoon. There’s one from my mom from an hour ago asking if I’m up. And there’s a new email from Becky.
Just the knowledge that Seth’s name is going to be in it is enough to make my heart beat faster. I consider deleting it, but it has an attachment. I grit my teeth and click it open.
From: [email protected]
Date: Fri, Dec 31, 2021 at 4:44 pm
Re: Re: Subject: As requested…
Molly! I am SO sorry—I mixed up two emails I had queued, and I mistakenly addressed this one to you and the one for you to Seth Rubenstein. Which means… I accidentally sent him your screenplay. I’m SO embarrassed. I’ll send him a note asking him to disregard it. It’s in Final Draft so I doubt he opened it anyway.
I’m sorry again!!! I feel terrible!!! I’m attaching the proofed version for you here.
This cannot be real.
