I stand at the large window, admiring the expansive view of Central Park while I nurse my mini bar beer. I am dressed and ready for the wedding event, my hair is fashioned into a classy updo that I can just barely pull off, and now I only need help zipping up the back of this seven hundred dollar royal blue cocktail dress.

While I was in the dressing room at Bendel’s today, I received a text from Maya that said: Don’t forget to TREAT YO’ SELF!

I wrote back: Girl, you have no idea.

This dress hugs my curves, creates curves that I didn’t know I had (actually it’s probably all the New York food Scott’s been feeding me), and it forces me to watch my posture. I sort of like that it feels like a costume, because this whole trip only makes sense if I tell myself that it isn’t really me here experiencing all of this. It’s New York Me. Here with New York Scott. Despite the fantastic day we’ve had, I still need to dull my nerves a bit before facing Braddock’s entire extended family. I hear him come out of the bathroom and pour himself a drink. I don’t turn around.

“I wish I could stop thinking about you,” he says, so quietly it’s as though he’s talking to himself.

“What?” I tilt my head in his direction a tiny bit, still not facing him.

He takes a sip of his drink, then says clearly but quickly: “I think about you all the time.”

Gulp.

I press the fingers of my free hand against the window, to steady myself. Where is this coming from?

“Ever since I met you back in Boston,” he continues. “Why is that?”

“Um. Obsessive-compulsive disorder?”

He doesn’t laugh.

“What exactly are you drinking over there?”

“I know you think about me too.”

I say nothing. I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the window. I hear him put his drink down on the counter. He walks over and stands behind me. I feel his hands on my hips, his breath on my neck.

“It’s not just the sex. It’s not just that you’re beautiful.” He zips up the back of my dress, even though his voice feels like it’s undressing me. “It’s not just that you’re smart and talented and funny. He stays behind me and places his hands on my hips, gently kisses the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulders. I get that feeling in my pelvic area, like I’m on a roller coaster, about to take a plunge at full speed. “It’s not just this body, the way it fits with my body.” His hands move up to cup my breasts, and although it is so unfair of him to do this to me minutes before we have to leave for his family wedding, I lean back into him. He caresses me. “Thinking about you makes me feel good,” he whispers into my ear. I want so badly to kiss him, but I spent five minutes applying bright red MAC lipstick, and I am not going to mess it up and do it again. “Thank you for coming with me,” he says. “It means a lot.”

“I’m glad I did,” I say. He seems so vulnerable right now.

“Just know that if anyone tonight seems rude, it’s not you, that’s just what they’re like.”

“Okay.” I take another careful sip of beer.

He removes his hands from my body. “You ready to go?”

I finally turn to face him. He is wearing a fucking tuxedo, and it literally takes my breath away. Thank God I didn’t see him when he was touching me, because I would have flooded my panties and climbed him like a tree. He looks like he was born in a tux. He should never wear anything else. I accidentally make some weird groaning sound, because holy hunkballs, I would do anything and go anywhere with him right now and it truly sucks that we have to go to a formal event surrounded by people who would probably not appreciate it if I gave him a hand job under the table.

“You look stunning,” he says, taking the bottle of beer from me.

I decide to say something genuine to his face, for a change. “So do you.”

He blushes, just the tiniest bit. “Thank you.” His reaction is so sweet, I make a mental note to try saying something nice to him again sometime.

I catch sight of our reflection in the mirror as we’re leaving and my brain thinks: “what a beautiful couple,” before realizing that it’s Scott Braddock and me.

It’s not a very long walk from our hotel to the zoo in Central Park, but it feels longer because I’m wearing four inch spiky heels. He holds my hand, and doesn’t rush me. There are still some cherry blossoms left on the trees, and the early evening temperature is perfect for a sleeveless dress and Pashmina shawl. My armpits aren’t even sweating! New York Me doesn’t get anxious. Scott informs me that the ceremony will be non-denominational. His cousin Natalie is his father’s sister’s daughter. Her family is Upper West Side, his is Upper East Side, and he babysat her a few times when he was about fifteen and going through an awkward growth spurt. She moved to London to be with William over a year ago, and she hadn’t even met him in person before that.

“Seriously?”

“They just FaceTimed and talked on the phone and texted. But it worked out. That’s what I love about Nat, she’s the most grounded spontaneous person I know.”

It seems like everyone besides me is just going off and falling in love without restraint. What is up with that?

“It’s so perfect that she chose the zoo for the wedding, because it’s uptown so our family can’t complain about the location, and it’s offbeat while still being a formal venue.”

“And there are penguins!”

“Yes, but the weddings are set around the sea lion pool.”

There was a time, not long ago, when I would have fantasized about pushing Scott into a pool of sea lions. But tonight I think I’ll keep him by my side.

“Anyway, a lot of my dad’s side of the family will be here. I wish you could meet my mom’s side. They’re nicer, but you know. It would be at a Catholic church.”

“They’re European?”

“Very.”

“But your relatives in Cornwall are on your dad’s side, right?”

“Yes, but I doubt they’ll be here. They don’t like to leave their little corner of the world. My grandparents lived there and died there. It’s really too bad they can’t be here today—they would have loved knowing that one of us married an Englishman. Even though they hated London. You would have liked my grandmother, she was a grumpy old lady like you.”

I punch his shoulder with my free hand, though I can’t make much of a fist because I’m holding onto my tiny clutch handbag.

When we enter the zoo area of the park, suddenly everyone has perfect hair and is in tuxedos and cocktail dresses with pashmina shawls. There is a string quartet playing a Sinatra song and servers offering trays of champagne. It couldn’t be more New York-y.

“We’ll need these,” Scott says, grabbing a couple of flutes of champagne. He hands me a glass and raises his to me. “Thank you again for being here.”

“Cheers.” I clink glasses with him. The champagne is cold and tangy and just what I needed.

A small male human, about seven years old, suddenly runs towards Scott yelling “Brad! Hi Brad!” and wrapping his arms around Scott’s legs. “Hi Brad Brad Brad!”

Scott makes a big show of looking around, and says “I wonder if my young cousin Christopher is coming today.”

“I’m here!”

“I hope not, because he’s really annoying.”

“You’re annoying!”

“You’re really lucky you don’t have to meet him, Erin, he thinks he’s so cool and funny but he’s really not cool and funny.”

“You’re not cool! You’re not funny! Brad Brad Brad!”

Scott is having trouble keeping a straight face, and I’m having trouble keeping myself from pushing this kid out of the way and kissing Scott’s face all over.

A lovely middle-aged woman in a red dress tiptoes over in heels. “Christopher, let go of his legs! Hi Scott, sorry. Somebody’s had a little too much sugar today.”

Scott finally looks down at the boy. “Oh hi Christopher.” Christopher finally lets go of his legs and sticks his tongue out at him. “Anna,” he says to the mother. “This is my good friend and writing partner Erin Duffy. My aunt Anna—married to my father’s brother.”

“Oh how nice to meet you,” she says to me. “I didn’t know Scott had a writing partner.”

“It’s a new thing,” he says.

“I didn’t know you had any friends!” Christopher says, punching Scott in the thigh.

“Hello,” I say, as soon as I can get a word in edgewise. “I love your dress, it’s beautiful.”

“Oh thank you, I was just thinking I love your dress, it fits you perfectly. This is my son Christopher. He’s a big fan of Scott’s, as you can see.”

“I met Daniel Radcliffe at a party once and got him to record a little video on my phone, of him saying ‘hi’ to Christopher. Even though he’s not old enough to watch the movies yet.”

“I have now! I got to see the first two!”

“Oh that’s not all that Scott did, though,” she tells me. “He also read all of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books to him when he was recovering from pneumonia last year.”

“I was just avoiding work,” Scott shrugs.

“He stayed with him for two days.”

I try to ignore the fact that my ovaries feel like they’re exploding. So far, I’m wondering if Scott’s family is really as uptight and snobby as he has led me to believe. Maybe he just wanted to lower my expectations. These relatives seem great.

“Ohhhh, you look sooo handsome!” I hear the excited gasp that can only come from a mother.

“Hey Mom.” Scott smiles and hugs her. He’s about a foot and a half taller than her, and the hug lasts an eternity. I take a sip of champagne and look around, trying to spy a sea lion. His mom makes a sad little sound and runs a fingertip beneath her right eye. “Oh come on,” he says, in a tender hushed voice. “It hasn’t been that long.”

His mom punches him in the arm. “It has been forever!”

“Ow.”

She punches him again. This guy really does take a lot of punches.

“Too busy to visit your poor old mother. As if you can’t write from anywhere. Did you get those law school applications I sent you?”

“Please stop sending them to me.”

“There’s a lot of writing involved in law, you know.”

“Mom, this is Erin Duffy.” He says my name to her like he’s mentioned me before.

She gives me a quick once-over before smiling warmly and reaching to shake my free hand with both of hers.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Braddock.”

“Hello Erin, I’m Claire, it’s so nice to meet you. Scotty’s so happy you could join him here.”

“Oh well, it’s an honor to be here, it’s such a beautiful setting.”

Claire Braddock doesn’t have as much of a European accent as I was expecting, and she honestly reminds me a bit of my own mother—if my mom had a makeover at Neiman Marcus, a Bachelors Degree from Vassar College, a French mother, an Italian father, and a wealthy husband with a stick up his butt.

I hear him before I see him. Scott’s father has the same deep voice, but it’s louder and more commanding and a lot less sexy (in my opinion). He’s telling someone that he’ll talk to him about something later, but he doesn’t sound happy about it. A business deal, surely. Or maybe he’s unhappy because it’s not business-related.

I watch Scott’s posture straighten, his jaw stiffen. He clears his throat before stepping forward to shake hands with his dad.

His dad doesn’t come all the way to him. “Well well, look who finally decided to take a day off from making the world a better place with his movie writing. Your mother’s been worried sick.”

“Not sick—he’s exaggerating,” Claire Braddock says.

“I’m just out there writing,” Scott says, trying to sound lighthearted.

“That’s what worries her.”

Zing! Ten points for Daddy Braddock.

“That’s what worries all of us,” he mumbles.

Wow. An investment banker who doesn’t respect the career of a writer. Didn’t see that one coming!

“Hello,” he says, looking at me, without looking at me.

“Dad, this is my —” Scott starts to say “writing partner,” but his father has already walked away to greet a fancy elderly couple who are probably half as fun and ten million times richer than my entire family combined.

He puts his hand on my back and his mother is about to apologize for her husband, but he calls out to her to join him. “We’ll talk more later, dears,” she says.

“Sorry,” Scott says, rubbing my back.

“You don’t have to apologize. I wouldn’t be that interested in meeting me either.”

“Hey. You are the most interesting person here, trust me.”

I guffaw, and am about to make a face at him when I feel his hand drop and see his entire body tense up, even more than it did when he saw his father.

“And here comes Mr. Charm,” he says under his breath. He polishes off his champagne. “This will be fun.”

I follow his gaze to a man who looks remarkably like Scott—same height, build, coloring, features, but without the soul. I hadn’t realized how much warmth and charisma Scott exudes until I see him opposite his brother. I must say, though, this guy looks good in a tux too, only his probably cost five times as much as Scott’s. Or perhaps what makes it look so expensive is the stunning blank-eyed perfectly put-together socialite on his arm. I recognize her face from magazine and internet photos of herself and other socialites standing around looking bored and hungry.

“Oh hey there, buddy.” He shakes hands with Scott like they’re in a hand-shaking competition. Whoever grips the hardest and blinks last wins. “How’s the screenwriting business? You haven’t met my girlfriend—Ainsley Radford. Hey, didn’t your dad buy a movie studio last year? Can he help my little brother out?”

The socialite rolls her eyes, then tells Scott: “He invested in a social media site, it hasn’t launched yet.”

“Even better—you can write for that. People don’t go to movies anymore because they’re too busy connecting on social media, isn’t that right? Should we be seated now?”

He doesn’t even give Scott a chance to respond to anything. As much as I used to want to punch Scott in the face (and still sometimes do), Scott’s cockiness has an underlying humor to it. This guy makes me want to walk away and punch a wall. I don’t even want to interact with him. He may be the first true dickhead I’ve ever met.

Scott turns to me, with a pained smile. “This is my beloved older brother, Carter.”

Carter doesn’t even offer his hand to me, he just snorts at Scott and nods at me.

“Are you his girlfriend?” Ainsley says to me.

“I’m Erin. We just wrote a script together and occasionally fuck each other’s brains out. Nice to meet you.”

I pull Scott away from them, toward the seating area where people have been gathering for the ceremony. We don’t look back, but I do hear his brother say the words “Los Angeles” and “brains” and I don’t think the full sentence was “Everyone who moves to Los Angeles to write screenplays has brains.” I do check to confirm that his parents weren’t within earshot. I finally look up at Scott, and he is silently laughing so hard he is trembling and tearing up. Phew.

Once he’s found his voice again, he high-fives me and apologizes for his family’s attitude about screenwriting.

“Please. First of all, as you know, I went to a college of arts and communication in a town crawling with Ivy League assholes. Secondly, it’s no different from being in LA and telling people you write movies not television. Third—you look so handsome in your tuxedo I barely even notice anything anyone else is saying.”

He looks as surprised as I am that I just said something so blatantly sweet to him out loud. He takes my hand and squeezes it. He kisses me on the top of my head.

I need to watch myself. All these weddings and tuxedos and champagne and New York are getting to me.