I am so fucking in love with you, Erin Duffy, but you asked forit.
I told myself I’d do whatever it takes to have you, and here wego.
* * *
WEDDINGFOUR
* * *
Chapter 21
*Erin*
Scott Braddock is the devil.I can’t believe he cut the Attack of the Cornish Game Hens scene without discussing it with me. Our agents only wanted us to polish the beginning and end of the script—Laurie even told me she loved that scene—he just cut it to piss me off. And it did. It pissed me off. He didn’t even mention it when he emailed the attachment to me. He didn’t say anything in the email, he just sent the Final Draft document. Passive-aggressivefucker.
If he had come to my door right then, I would have hate-fucked him until he begged for mercy, and that would just be sad. I can’t believe I hate him again. After New York, and how I’d let myself feel about him. I can’t believe he’s being a dickagain.
I typed up an email response to him, all in CAPITAL LETTERS, about how the Cornish Game Hens scene is essential to the script because it happens soon after she’s heard stories from the locals about the property being haunted, before she knows for sure that her husband has been lying to her about drinking and losing things and breaking things—the hens freak her out and it’s a chance for the audience to laugh and relieve the tension that’s been building up because they’re expecting something muchscarier.
I trashed the email, because he probably wanted to engage me in anargument.
Not falling forit.
I put the scene back in, of course, when I did myrevision.
I do realize how ironic it is that I’m fighting for a scene involving hens, when I’m too chicken to just pick up the phone and have an actual grown-up fight withhim.
I sent him the Final Draft document in a blank email that just said: “Current Draft of Untitled Duffy-Dickhead Horror Scriptattached.”
He didn’t even respond. It was pretty funny, he could have at least texted me a “haha.” He emailed that draft of the script to our agents, with the hen scene, with the proper title, and cc’dme.
And that’sthat.
Back tolife.
Back to whatmatters.
Back toMaya.
Maya, unlike most brides who obsess about getting into “wedding shape” for the big day, is fattening herself up to “create a nice juicy belly space for my babe.” I’m feeling so much love for this woman and her future spawn, I can feel my heart expanding, and I am on the verge of tears most of thetime.
Every day, she asks me to reach out to Scott. Every day I deny her this one thing. “Anything else,” I say, “I’d do anything else foryou.”
I have been channeling all of my energy into being the greatest maid of honor and future auntie in the history of honorable maids and aunties. As an added bonus, it keeps my mind off of the fact that Maya is moving in with Sam, which means that I will have to find a new roommate or move to a smaller place or possibly both. Maybe a little cottage guesthouse. Or a really big cardboard box in Santa Monica. I always wanted to live closer to the beach. And I won’t know until I find out if the script sells and how much money it sells for as to what I’ll be able toafford.
As for the wedding event, Maya and Sam are referring to it as “the weekend in Joshua Tree,” and Maya wants it to be a big party for all of their loved ones, wherein at some point she and Sam will officially become husband andwife.
I’ve helped her choose a few houses to rent out in Joshua Tree, from Airbnb, but she has already made arrangements for the wedding venue and she’s making her own wedding gown, of course. I’ve been in touch with her four bridesmaids, one of whom is her cousin who lives in Canada and the other three are also design students at FIDM. They are making our bridesmaid dresses, and designing and decorating the Moroccan-themed event, so there’s really not that much left for me to do besides organize the rehearsal dinner/house party. Sam’s musician friends and clients will be providing the entertainment. Maya’s classmate’s sister has recently started a catering company, so she will be doing all the food. As a model, Maya has had her pick of friends who were dying to be the wedding photographer, and the videographer is a guy who has shot music videos for bands that Sam has worked with. As Maya would say, it’s as if the Universe had planned this wedding long before she and Sammet.
This coming weekend, my best friend will bemarried.
And I will have to face the devilagain.
I find Maya in her room, at her sewing machine. Half of her things are packed up in boxes, half of them are strewn out around our apartment, but she is somehow on top of everything, knows where everything is, knows that everything will be okay, because she trusts theuniverse.
“What can I do foryou?”
“Callhim.”
