We have checked into our hotel in San Luis Obispo, after a pleasant three-hour drive up the 101 freeway. Maya did me the honor of accompanying me in my car, but we had to pull over every forty-five minutes so that Sam could get out of Braddock’s car, and she could get out of my car, and they could publically display affection while Braddock and I discussed our script and criticized each other’s driving patterns.

The hotel is okay, nothing fancy, but not a motel. I know that Braddock can afford much nicer accommodations, but he wanted to stay in the same place as me so that our plus-ones can be near each other. Because God forbid my best friend should just be my date for a twenty-four hour period.

I am in the modest hotel bathroom, drying my hair and getting ready for Shauna and Sherry’s wedding. They have rented out a ranch, so the dress code is “casual elegant,” which is my favorite way to be elegant. It is a gorgeous May day, and I’m wearing a nice red floral dress and taking along a cute jean jacket.

Maya is taking a nap on one of our double beds, because she has been all work and sex, very little sleep these past few weeks. It is still just too weird to me that she is in love with Braddock’s best friend. Too. Weird. But then again, my nemesis is now my writing partner, so it’s just that kind of month.

The concept of us working via email was just that—a concept. I started out by emailing him some ideas for characters and story beats and he wrote back his notes in ALL CAPS and it looked so obnoxious. I wrote back FUCK YOU BRADDOCK I QUIT, so he called and said “Just come over so we can have a proper jam session. I’ll get takeout from Little Dom’s and I promise to tone down my overwhelming sex appeal so that you can focus on work.”

“Hah!” I said. But then I went over.

We researched demon possession and Cornwall. In the background we had on horror movies that we like, for inspiration. We were always commenting on them, and we always watched them at his place because he has a projection screen and surround sound and refuses to watch anything on my crappy 32 inch TV that I got for 120 bucks.

He is a visual guy. He likes to map things out. He has a huge bulletin board along one wall of his living room (temporarily leaning against a really nice piece of art because the board is usually in his bedroom and I refused to go in there). He used a Sharpie to write a few words describing story beats on color-coded index cards, then pinned them up in four separate columns under Act One, Act Two A, Act Two B and Act Three. I suggested a fifth column called No Judgment Bad Ideas. Most of my story ideas got pinned in that column, including my idea about the wife being attacked by hundreds of angry Cornish game hens, but I will find a way to make it work. He was pretty supportive, but he did not hesitate to tell me when he thought my ideas sucked, and I did the same. I flipped him off and silently screamed at him every time he left the room and each time I had I excused myself to use his squeaky clean bathroom.  His bathroom is so clean I can actually picture him scrubbing it with a toothbrush every week. Of course, when I picture it he’s wearing nothing but boxer briefs, and it’s somehow electrifyingly sexy. I am really starting to hate my brain. 

But if I’m being honest, working with another person has been a lot of fun, and very effective. Despite wanting to punch my temporary writing partner in the face any time he opens his mouth, it is a remarkable feeling, having someone there to bounce ideas off of, someone to balance out my weaknesses and talents, someone to vent to, someone who gets it. By the end of the second day we had fallen into a comfortable pattern, had a good rhythm going, and a fun kind of verbal shorthand. And we kept our literal hands off of each other.

Because I am a control freak, I insisted on typing up the outline on my laptop—obviously he is Type A as well, so it has not been lost on me that it was big of him to let me take the reins. Meanwhile, as I sat at his dining table or on his sofa and typed, he paced back and forth in his white V neck T-shirt and two hundred dollar jeans, giving me various views of his cute butt, or he stood in a doorway, grasped the top of the door frame with his hands and leaned forward, ostensibly to stretch his shoulders, but probably to expose his lower abdominal region, where he’s so toned it makes me want to break something.

I must say, though, his apartment is impressive. Midcentury modern. Distinctly non-Ikea furniture that he claims he got at flea markets and Craigslist, but he probably spent top dollar at one of the many vintage furniture stores in LA. He has a lot of bookshelves with a lot of books and Blu-ray discs and records. An eclectic collection of books and films and music. Mostly hard covers, which are kept separate from the paperbacks and graphic novels. The usual Criterion Collection film snob baloney, but also many of the same movies in my own collection. Everything has been painstakingly alphabetized.

He watched me as I took in the space and the details—not like a store security guard—he was watching for my reactions, and surprisingly, I didn’t mind it one bit. He seemed to really care what I thought, and it was kind of cute. When I spotted the collection of duct tape, he didn’t even wait for me to ask about it. “I’m kind of obsessed with duct tape. It’s not weird. There are hundreds of uses. Google it. I like the different colors and patterns. Do you have duct tape?”

He was so serious, the way he asked, I had to laugh. “I do not have duct tape.”

“You should have duct tape. Here. Take one. You can pick any color. There’s gold. Or pink.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

“You’ll regret that one day when your vacuum hose gets torn open, or you’ve run out of chip clips and clothes pins and you’re like ‘oh shit how am I gonna keep this half-eaten bag of chips closed so it stays fresh?’ Don’t come crying to me asking to borrow a piece of duct tape to seal it and then reseal it, because by then it will be too late.”

“I don’t own any of those things you just mentioned.”

“You don’t have a vacuum cleaner?”

“Yes I have a vacuum cleaner, but I don’t have chip clips or clothes pins.”

“How do you keep your uneaten potato chips fresh?”

“There are never any uneaten potato chips. I’m from Idaho. I eat all of the potato chips. Problem solved.” It was one of the least-annoying conversations he and I had ever had, and for the first time since before he hand his tongue inside my dormmate, I felt comfortable with him.

But then—

I accidentally dropped my pen when I was getting ready to leave one day and I spotted the royal blue spine of a copy of Outlander on the floor under the coffee table when I picked up my pen. I reached for the book. It was brand new and hadn’t been cracked open. I hated him. He walked back into the living room. “I see you’re loving Outlander,” I grumbled.

“I did love it, Sassenach. I read it on Kindle and wanted a hard copy.”

“Oh. Is this how you treat the books you love? Toss them on the floor?”

“If you must know, it was on top of the coffee table and I shoved it down there right before someone came over.”

“Ohhh. A girl? You were afraid it would make you look like a sissy?” I felt a twinge of jealousy and immediately despised myself for it.

“No. I didn’t want her to know that I immediately read it when I found out she liked it.”

Oh.

Ohhhh…

Oh shit.

Even more disturbing—after I’d left that day—he texted me that I’d left my pen at his place, in case I was looking for it. I wrote back that he could keep it. He immediately responded with: I gave her my heart and she gave me a pen.

Spit-take!

I dropped my phone. It was a Lloyd Dobler line from Say Anything. I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what to say.

After a few minutes, he wrote: Calm down, it’s a line from SAY ANYTHING.

I immediately wrote back: OBVIOUSLY I KNOW THAT IT’S ONE OF MY ALL-TIME FAVORITE MOVIES

He wrote: I SAID CALM DOWN, DUFFY

I didn’t respond. I didn’t want to start having text conversations with him. He was infringing upon my literary and cinematic love life and it unnerved me to no end.

Perhaps I am more comfortable when I’m being unnerved by him, if that makes sense, and he’s damn good at unnerving me. I finish touching up my make-up and open the bathroom door. Maya hasn’t even showered, but she’s changed into a similar kind of floral dress, so we look adorable together, only she looks like a trillion bucks and I look like maybe two hundred-fifty bucks.

She smiles at me. “You look so pretty. Thanks for letting me come with you. This is fun. Are you having fun?”

“Woo hoo.”

“Are you excited to see your Emerson friends?”

“Yes. But it’ll be weird, when they find out that Scott and I are working together.”

She waves her hand, dismissively. “It’s only weird to you. You need to have fun tonight. Promise me.”

“I will certainly endeavor to have fun.”

“Promise me.”

“Okay, I promise.”

“And by fun I mean sex with your writing partner.”

“Oh come on.”

“You come on. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“There are so many worst things that could happen, I don’t even know where to start.”

“The worst that could happen is he isn’t as good at sex as you’re afraid he will be, and he will have no power over you and you’ll finish the script, and sell it for tons of money. Or you won’t sell it and you’ll have to move back to Idaho and you’ll never have to see him again. And honestly, the script will sell or not sell either way whether you fuck him or not, so you may as well get it over with.”

“Well gosh, when you put it that way…”

I am about to tell her that I have already gotten a taste of his skills, because I hate not telling her things, but there’s a knock on the door. Maya says she’ll get it, because of course it’s Sam.

They look so cute and happy together I could cry. They’re even color-coordinated—her indigo blue dress matches his tie—and they swear it was unplanned. Maya keeps messing up his hair, and he’s getting annoyed. He messes up her hair. She slaps his hand away.

“Do not touch my hair!”

“Oh but you can mess with mine any time you want to?”

“I’m not messing with it, I’m messing it up so you don’t look like a dork.”

“Maybe I want to look like a dork.”

Christ, even when they argue they’re adorable.

“You look nice,” Sam says to me, while Maya undorkifies his hair. “I think Braddock’s about ready to head out. You have directions and everything?”

“I got the Waze app, yo. Don’t worry, I won’t lose your girl.”

“Aww,” he says. “She’s our girl. I know you were here first.”

Sam Fletcher, ladies and gentlemen! A man who knows how important it is to keep the girlfriend’s best friend happy.

I tell them I’ll see them downstairs in the lobby before we drive to the ranch, give them some alone-time. As I walk down the corridor towards the elevator, I see Braddock come out of his room. He’s wearing a beautiful slim-fit pale grey suit, with a light blue shirt, pale grey tie, and aviator glasses. He looks handsome to a degree that makes me feel off-kilter and I literally lose my balance and trip myself up. I catch myself, of course, but it’s humiliating and it just makes me angry. “Stupid heels,” I say.

“You alright?” He seems genuinely concerned, as he removes his aviators.

“Yes I’m alright. Are you alright?”

“You should change your shoes if you aren’t comfortable in them. If I know Shaun and Sher, and I do—dancing will be imperative.” He bites his lower lip and does a ridiculous Austin Powers-type move.

I almost spit out the breath mint I’ve been sucking on. “I think I can handle it, thanks, I’m not a klutz.”

“I know, I just meant that you don’t need to wear high heels to make your legs look good.”

“Wow. You still haven’t learned how to give a compliment.”

“And you still haven’t learned how to take one.”

“Oh I can take it, Braddock. I can take it just fine.” I say it with more innuendo than I had meant to.

“Good. You look good,” he says. “I like that dress.”

“Thank you,” I say, picking up my pace a little. “Hey I was thinking we should beef up the parent characters a little more, to attract really awesome actors.”

“Okay. Could we have a weekend off, boss? Let’s not talk about work today. Okay?”

“Um. Sure. And by that you mean let’s not talk to each other at all?”

“That is not what I meant. No. That’s cute, though.”

“I wasn’t being cute.”

“You weren’t trying to be cute.”

“Are you trying to be a dick right now?”

“Are you trying to convince yourself that I’m a dick right now?”

“You know what. Let’s not talk to each other. At all.”

“Fine with me,” he says, his eyes traveling down my body. “We don’t have to talk.”

Despite suddenly feeling tingly all over my body, my eyeballs practically get stuck as they roll around in their sockets. When the elevator doors finally open, I tell him that just for that he is forbidden from riding in this elevator with me. I tell him to take the stairs. He acquiesces. In truth, I don’t want to be in such close quarters with him, even for ten seconds, because he smells amazing, and all I can think about is how clean his genitals must be. I am disgusting. I disappoint myself.

When I emerge from the elevator (after spending the ride down reminding myself that my bank account is depending on me to finish this script with Braddock as soon as possible, at the highest caliber possible, and that means putting words on the page—not putting clean penises in starving vaginas), I step into the lobby and see someone that I truly did not expect to see here or anywhere, ever again. Brianna. My former dormmate. She is facing the elevators, and we both stare at each other for about five seconds before saying each other’s names out loud.

“Oh my God!” she says, seeming genuinely happy to see me. “Erin fucking Duffy!” She pulls me into a tight hug.

“Wow! Hi!”

“It is so good to see you! I was hoping you’d be here! I’m so sorry we lost touch—I had to get off of Facebook as part of my therapy, but I think about you so often.”

“Oh I’m hardly ever on Facebook either. I…think about you often too.” I think about you having sex with my writing partner. “I didn’t realize you were friends with Shauna.”

“Well, we are now. Sherry works closely with my husband.” She holds up her left hand to display her wedding ring. “I married a lawyer, can you believe it. He got a job in San Francisco a year after we married. I like it up there. You should come visit. Who else is here? I saw Jen Shallot when we were parking the car. Her hair is the exact same shade of pink it was at Emerson.”

I keep looking over at the door to the stairwell. “Um…”

“You’re looking at me like I’m still that crazy bitch you roomed with. Let me just tell you now that I’m a changed woman. Like, four years of therapy and meds and three years of marriage to an alpha male kind of changed.”

“Oh that’s great, Brie. I mean, I never thought you were crazy.”

“Liar.”

“I mean, you behaved like a crazy person at times, but who doesn’t. People drive people crazy. No one in particular, I mean. Just people in general.”

As if on cue, the stairwell door opens, and out walks Scott Braddock. Brianna follows my gaze, and does a double take. I watch her face as it registers who he is. I watch his face as his stride slows, and he considers whether or not he should pretend to take a phone call and walk in the opposite direction. But it turns out Brie really has changed.

“Well look who it is,” she says, her voice calm.

Scott proceeds to walk towards us, hesitantly. “Brianna. Good to see you.”

“Is that really Scott Braddock? Good to see you too.” She holds out her hand for a handshake.

He shakes her hand, all business.

“You remember Erin Duffy?”

“Vaguely,” he says, grinning. “Erin and I are actually writing together, in L.A.”

“No. Way.”

“We just started writing a script together. Our agents just married each other. It was their idea.”

Brianna studies the two of us for a second, and nods, as if having a conversation with herself in her own head. “Well that makes sense. Yeah. I can’t wait to hear all about it. So you guys are here together?”

“Nope! I’m here with my best friend, Maya. He’s here with his best friend. They’re together, but we aren’t. It’s complicated.”

“Not really. Are you working in theatre, Brianna?”

“I am, yeah, off and on. My husband is a lawyer, so I don’t really have to work, but you know. I love the theatre. I stage-manage around the Bay Area. It’s fun, there’s a good theatre scene. Well, I better go up and see what’s keeping my husband. We couldn’t get a room at the fancy inn. Everything’s booked up. I’ll see you guys at the ranch.” She rubs my back as she heads for the elevator, like a bona fide non-crazy person.

Scott puts his aviators on. “It’s complicated,” he says, laughing. “See you at the ranch, Duffy.” He walks out the sliding front doors, to the parking lot.

Maybe it’s not that weird that we’re working together.

Maybe it’s just me that’s weird.

Maybe I’ll have fun tonight after all.