I can already smell the heady scent of the burgundy and cream-colored peony arrangements that are all over the property and must have cost a fortune. There is a string quartet welcoming guests with jaunty movie theme music. There is a giant ice sculpture of intertwined hearts with wings. It’s all a tad more formal than I would have expected from my agent, but I have a feeling her mother did most of the wedding planning because Laurie was more interested in focusing on her work.

There are maybe two hundred guests here, and a lot of them have already taken their seats in the garden area for the ceremony. Some people are still milling about out front, chatting, most of them using their phones, and there are a few who are actually smoking.

“Okay don’t look now but he looks hot in that suit and he can’t take his eyes off of you.”

I run my fingers through my hair, despite myself. “Hot like a sweaty pig?”

“Nope.”

“He’s probably staring at you.”

“Nope.”

“He’s probably staring at my armpit stains.”

“I can’t even see your armpit stains from right here, you’re crazy.”

I slowly and casually turn my head to glance over at him.

He has now taken his eyes off of me, if they were ever on me to begin with. But shit, he does look hot in a suit, though. It looks like he just got a haircut. It looks like he’s been working out and eating healthy. It looks like he decided to wear his contacts today instead of his “look at me I’m a smarty-pants writer!” hipster eyeglasses. It looks like he just got back from a GQ magazine photo shoot of Hollywood’s Best-Dressed Screenwriters You’ve Never Heard of and Will Want to Punch in the Face When You Meet Them. He’s talking to someone that I recognize—a studio executive that I saw at Laurie’s birthday party last year. Why does he look so happy to be talking to Scott Braddock? Doesn’t he have standards?

“Who’s that guy he’s with?”

“He’s a VP at Universal, I think.”

“No the arty-looking one, with the wavy hair.”

“His best friend. Sam something.”

“He’s cute. How come you never mentioned him?”

“Because he’s Scott’s friend and he’s not your type.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Yeah you do.”

Maya dates older rich business-types who are hot in bed and boring in life. Sam Fletcher is a sexy nerd who’s a really talented indie music producer (I looked him up) who seems like a genuinely cool person and I have no idea what he’s doing being friends with He Who Shall Not Be Named.

Some buffed and polished male specimen in a Hugo Boss suit has already started chatting up Maya and I already feel invisible. I can tell that she’s trying to determine whether or not he’s a Hollywood Someone that she should introduce me to, but if I had to guess, I’d bet he went to school with the groom and is now a corporate lawyer in Chicago. Just a hunch.

I spy Laurie’s assistant Kennedy and wave at her. She raises her arm in the air and hops. Kennedy is two years younger than me and she is adorable. She is a literary agent in training but she’s so sweet I worry that it might not be the right career path for her. We prance over to each other like schoolgirls and air kiss, giggling. “You look so pretty!”

“You look so pretty! I love seeing you in a dress, and your hair looks amazing like that. Have you seen Laurie today? Is she nervous? She doesn’t get nervous does she?”

“No I haven’t and no she doesn’t. So many people have asked me if you’re coming today!”

“No way.” God bless Kennedy for acting like it’s her job to make me feel good, even on a Saturday.

“Well, two people. Adam from Platt’s office, who really wanted to buy your last script but couldn’t because they already have something similar in development —”

“Yes, I remember.”

“And Scott Braddock, who’s Jeff’s client—I didn’t know you guys knew each other.”

He’s probably dreading seeing me as much as I am him. “Oh, is he here today?”

“He’s so good-looking. If I didn’t have a boyfriend I would be all over him. Oh look!” She cranes her neck, looking beyond me. “There’s Adam now. You should go say ‘hi’ to him. I have to go take my seat. My BF’s stuck talking to Laurie’s grandmother. She keeps putting her hand on his thigh. It’s very awkward.”

I turn and spot my favorite producer, Adam Gold, who’s having one last cigarette before the ceremony while reading emails on his phone. I shuffle on over to him before anyone else does.

“Still haven’t quit, huh?”

He looks up and smiles, putting his phone in his pocket. “Erin Duffy! This is my last cigarette, I swear. How are you, stranger?”

We do the Hollywood hug. It’s a semi-embrace. He’s married with a little baby girl, and I always feel comfortable with him. “Hi. I’ve been in my writer’s cave, you know.”

“Yeah? When do I get to read your next script?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I still have to do a rewrite, it’s kind of a mess.” I haven’t finished any of the scripts I’ve started in the past six months because I’m suffering from celibacy-induced romantic comedy brain death.

“Well it sounds great.”

I suck at selling myself. I force a laugh and try to think up a quick two-sentence pitch for the script I’ve been working on, but before I can get another word out of my mouth, a shadow looms and darkens my view of Adam.

“Adam Gold!”

“Scott Braddock!”

Fucker.

Adam and Scott shake hands and pat each other on the shoulder. Adam puts out his cigarette with his shoe.

“Hey man, great to see you!”

“Dude. I looked out my office window the other day and saw you walking by. You should always stop by when you’re on the lot.”

“Oh man I wish I had, I figured you’d be busy.”

“You know the lovely and talented Erin Duffy?”

“Hey Duffy, good to see you.” His voice is deep and sexy. I always forget how sexy his voice is—one of my many defense mechanisms. It’s guttural, like I’d imagine how he’d sound when he’s about to come, or what he’d sound like if I’d just kneed him in the balls.

“Braddock.”

He pulls me in for a friendly hug. I endure it, stiffly. It may be my imagination, but he’s a tad stiff himself.

“Hey, I gotta find my wife and get a seat. See you guys later?”

You will not see us guys together later.

“Bye Adam! Great to see you!” I smile at him warmly, and then give Scott my iciest glare. He seems genuinely oblivious to the fact that he just professionally cock-blocked me. He looks me up and down.

“Nice dress.”

“Nice of you to say so.”

“I think I’ve seen you in that before. At that grad dinner in Boston.”

Yes. Dick. “Oh, were you at that?”

“What I mean is—you haven’t aged at all, have you?”

“I wouldn’t say that. My resentment towards you has aged like a fine wine.”

“And my tolerance for your resentment has matured like a stinky cheese.”

“Is that what smells?”

He laughs. “It’s either that or our rotting souls. No wait, we sold those when we sold our first scripts.”

“Speak for yourself.”

His friend Sam joins us. He nods at me, and immediately glances over at Maya.

“You remember my friend Sam?”

“Hey.” He tries to keep his eyes fixed on me for two seconds, before looking back towards Maya.

“Hi Sam—hey Sam, this is my roommate Maya. Maya!” I call out to her and wave, so she can escape Hugo Boss guy. She hurries over, like it’s an emergency.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Sam and Maya are staring at each other. They aren’t even smiling, they’re just looking at each other in some weirdly intimate way.

“Do I know you?” Maya’s voice is unrecognizable to me all of a sudden.

“I’m sure I’d remember if we’d met before, but you seem familiar to me too.”

“Interesting.”

They keep looking at each other. Scott and I exchange looks. He’s noticed this weirdness too.

“We should go grab seats, dude,” I say to Maya, tugging on her arm.

“Come sit with us, you guys!” she says to Sam, while squeezing my hand.

I gently dig my fingernails into the flesh of her palm.

“You’ll thank me later,” she says under her breath.

“You’ll be dead later because I’m going to murder you,” I whisper, through my forced smile.