“I mean, he’s using his frequent flyer miles for my ticket, and he booked a really nice hotel inMidtown.”
“But he’s nice toyou?”
“Yeah. He is nice to me.”He’s very attentive as to whether or not I have an orgasm.I fully realize, as I’m thinking about it, that he really is nice to me, this Scott Braddock. He treats me well. He always has. I was just pissed off at him. I see the difference now. Maya, as always, was right. It seems like so long ago that we went to my agent’s wedding and I was dreading seeing him. If this was what I was so afraid of—creative productivity, hot sex and a free trip to the Big Apple—well I guess I’ve conquered my fears! That waseasy!
“Okay.”
“It’s more than okay, sweetheart! You have a wonderful time! You deserve to have somefun!”
As much as I love to make my Mom happy, I have to get off the phone fast, because I don’t want to get her hopes up and I can’t possibly explain to her that I’m just doing my former nemesis/temporary writing partner/fuck non-buddy/best friend’s boyfriend’s best friend a simple favor by joining him at a wedding in Manhattan, and that I have done crazy things to his magnificent penis, just to prove to myself and to him that Icould.
* * *
WEDDINGTHREE
* * *
Chapter 15
*Erin*
Ican’t believeI’m in New York with ScottBraddock.
From the timewe were in the backseat of a Lincoln Town Car driving from JFK to Midtown, I was already mainlining the city’s energy and I am now the best version of myself—the Me that feels like she can do anything. The Me that feels beautiful and witty and talented and a part of something infinitely bigger than myself. The Me that wants to fuck. Honestly. What is it about this city that makes me so horny? Everyone is just so sexy here, because they’re all walking around with intention and purpose. These are people who know who they are and what they’re doing and where they’re going. In L.A. everyone’s so concerned about how they look and who’s here that’s important and famous and who’s looking at them and what are people thinking about them. I’ve become one of those people, and it’sexhausting.
It’s after ten on Saturday morning, the day of the wedding. I’m in bed, in the Parker Meridian hotel, on an upper floor with a view of Central Park. Scott went out a couple of hours ago and told me to stay in bed, to catch up on sleep, he’d be “back with breakfast and stuff.” I really needed to sleep. And this is the most comfortable bed I’ve been in, in a very longtime.
We took an early morning flight so we could arrive here Friday afternoon, I had had about three hours sleep in the past 24 hours. Scott was so excited to take me out, to a show and dinner and drinks. He is determined to show me a good time this weekend. We’ve earnedit.
We actually finished polishing up “Untitled Duffy-Braddock Horror Script” on the flight, and emailed it to our agents from JFK. Now it is in their hands, literally and figuratively. I am grateful that I will be kept busy all weekend, because normally when I’ve turned in a script I just stay home and stress out and wait for my agent to call to tell me what shethinks.
But I am determined not think at all thisweekend.
I will feel and I willdo.
And I have. Last night, I felt and Idid.
After we checked into our room and freshened up, Scott took me to an early performance ofSleep No More. It’s a long-running show that I’d wanted to go to for years, and it was his idea to take me. It’s a performance piece that’s staged in an old hotel (actually remodeled adjoining warehouses) in Chelsea and mostly based on Shakespeare’sMacbeth, but also inspired by gothic romance and noir films likeRebecca. The guests stay on their feet the whole time and wander through the many rooms of the five floor building at their own pace, where they can spy on the simultaneous ongoing action, and the audience wears creepy white masks so we can remain anonymous and also to distinguish us from the performers. The performers are dancers. There’s hardly any dialogue. Everything has a sexy glamorous 1930’s vibe. It’s visceral and there’s nudity and fog and recorded music and lighting effects, and I got separated from Scott pretty early on, but let me just say that it was the most stimulating and arousing theatrical experience I’ve ever had, and when I met up with him outside the venue, I grabbed him and kissed him and would have dragged him back to our hotel to fuck him if he didn’t have reservations at Balthazar inSoHo.
We made out in the cab all the way to the restaurant. He massaged my tired feet while we ate steak and perfect fries and drank delicious red wine while talking about our separate experiences atSleep No Moreand how it had inspired us to write another sexier scarier movie. I had completely forgotten that I’d vowed to only write that one script with him and then get back to my own thing. I so deeply wanted to go back to our hotel and fuck him, but he’d made plans to meet up with his friends at the bar at the PublicTheater.
His friend Alex is directing a play at the Public, so we had drinks with him and his cast and crew after their rehearsal. I mostly watched Scott interacting with everyone, and marveled at how cool and talented his friends are. I mean—other people really like this guy. What was my problem? I like him now. I really like him. I was so determined to fuck him when we got back to thehotel.
When we finally made it back to the room, I was so tired, I think I’d fallen asleep before my head even hit the pillow. Scott must have undressed me and pulled the sheets over me. It was the first time we’d spent the night together in the same bed, and we just slept. Which is a shame, because I really really really wanted to have hot hotel bed sex with him. But it’s also not a shame, because—sleep.
IguessI fell asleep again, because I wake up to the sounds of Scott unpacking a big bag of takeout fromZabar’s.
“Wake up,” he grumbles. “I spent forty minutes in cabs to bring this back to you, don’t ask mewhy.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a great breakfast that you can’t get anywhere else and I didn’t want to make you get up to have it.” He is grumpy and it’s adorable and the coffee smellsincredible.
He places a to go coffee cup on the bedside table next to me, without looking at me. I sit up and notice a brand new yellow notebook on the bedspread on top of me. I gasp. “Forme?!”
“Foryou.”
It’s better than a dozen roses. I open it up. Squared pages. He remembered. “Thankyou.”
