We are now seatedat a round dining table, in what looks and feels like an enormousgreenhouse.
As well as chandeliers and greenery, there are about a hundred glowing floating flameless candles in the air above the dining tables—at least it looks like they’re floating—and sometimes I pretend that I’m at Hogwarts instead of surrounded by stuffy New York finance people. Thankfully, the guests at our table are lovely. Next to me are a gorgeous couple named Avery and Luke. Avery used to be Natalie’s boss and William was Luke’s assistant. They’re engaged, and Luke’s English accent is insanely sexy. I make a mental note to write a part for Tom Hiddleston in my next rom comscript.
Avery asks what kind of screenplays I write. Scott tells them I write “amazing hilarious romantic comedies.” She says, “Oh I love that, good for you!” and I can tell that she’s not a fan of thegenre.
“Avery is big fan of romantic comedy films,” Luke says, patting herhand.
She gives him a look. There’s some kind of inside joke there. “Luke is a massive Hugh Grant fan,” Avery says. “They’re practically the sameperson.”
Ahhh, happy couples with their inside jokes and their looks and their hand-patting. Scott is caught up in a lively conversation with the man next to him, who is a close friend of the Braddock family. He keeps managing to side step any talk of politics by encouraging the man to tell stories about hanging out with New York novelist Jay McInerney in the Eighties and Nineties. He reaches over and puts his hand on my thigh every so often. It’snice.
Dickhead—I mean—Carter Braddock makes his way over to our table to introduce himself and chat with everyone except me and Scott. He is a smooth talker, but surely everyone can see through him. Like literally-he is so superficial he is practicallytransparent.
I wait for a break in Scott’s conversation with the family friend and lean over towards him. “Are we staying to dance, or can we leavesoon?”
“Trust me,” he says. “The dancing at these New York weddings is about as festive as juryduty.”
“Rogerthat.”
He leans in closer to whisper in my ear. “Plus, if we don’t get back to the room soon I’ll have to fuck you under thetable.”
“Oooh. Does it have to be either/or?”
He laughs. Until Carter slaps his hand down on hisshoulder.
“Bro.”
What kind of brother calls his actual brother “bro?”Gross.
Scott clears his throat. “Bro.”
“You two kids having a nice night? You need any tips on what to talk about with people who can talk about things besidesHollywood?”
I can tell he’s trying to be funny. I know it’s expected of New Yorkers to make fun of people who willingly live in Los Angeles. I wait for Scott to say something awesome, like: “Sure. Why don’t you teach me how to blow smoke up rich people’s asses while simultaneously talking out of your own ass?” But he says nothing, and Carter just keepsgoing.
“I wasn’t kidding, bro, I want to help you out. I mean, I want to help Mom and Dad to not have to worry about you so much. The trust fund is supposed to be a launch pad, not a safetynet.”
“I’ve made money,Carter.”
“What—two yearsago?”
I reach out to hold Scott’s hand, under the table. I hate how his brother is talking to him, and my instinct is to tear him a new one, but I don’t want to embarrass Scott in front of his extended family, at a wedding.Again.
“That’s not a career,” Carter continues. “Look, you’ve made your point. You got your arty degree, you’ve had your fun on the other coast.Enough.”
I intertwine my fingers with his, because holding his hand doesn’t seem like it’s enough right now. If it gets any uglier, I’m going to give him a very classy, tasteful, secrethandjob.
“I’m not done yet,” Scott finally pipes up. “Erin and I just finished writing a script together. She’s reallytalented.”
“Oh great. So if it actually sells you’ll only get half the money, after taxes and agent and lawyer commissions. Fantastic businessmodel.”
Scott squeezes my fingers with his own and smiles, shaking his head. I can see that he decided many years ago that there’s no point trying to change his brother’s mind or explain the valuable contribution that writers make to society. That’s ashame.
“Oh hey wait!” Carter is about to say something to me, something that he thinks is brilliantly hilarious, I can tell. “Wait—are you Aaron Sorkin? Creator ofThe WestWing?”
“And I wrote the Facebook movie!” I say, meeting his obnoxious stare head-on.Wow. Hilarious. Guess I was wrong about which one of you is the funny Braddock.“I also wroteMoneyball,Steve Jobs, andA Few Good Men, wherein I coined the popular phrase: ‘You can’t handle thetruth!’”
“I didn’t realize what a big deal youare.”
