It’s July, and Joshua Tree is a hot desert.

I’m pulling up to the rental house by myself, and I’m a hot mess.

I went to the two previous weddings with Scott Braddock. The first one I attended this season, I went to dreading the sight of him because I thought I hated him. This time, I’m dreading the sight of him because while I was driving here, by myself, I finally realized that I’m hopelessly in love with him.

It’s terrifying.

Before Maya left our apartment to come here in her parents’ rental car, she said to me: “I think some people find it hard to fall in love with a person while they’re actually with them. I think you needed this space.  Some time and space away from him. But you’ve had enough. You’ll see him today. Let him be the guy he wants to be for you, instead of the guy you’ve been so determined to see him as.” Then she played A Thousand Years by Christina Perri on her phone, because she knows I can’t listen to that song without crying. She was playing hardball. I respect that.

I ate pepperoni sticks and powdered donuts while driving (I don’t recommend this), and I thought about my first love Peter. I tried to remember what it felt like to be in love with him. The truth, when I actually allow myself to remember it, is that I adored him. I liked him ever so much. And we were young, sex was new, so it made everything feel special and important. But I always knew we wouldn’t last, because he didn’t challenge me. He didn’t force me to become more of who I could be. When I left for Boston though, we were just texting and talking on the phone, and I enjoyed him more because I didn’t have to put up with his mood swings and neediness. When he dumped me from Europe, I was hurt at first, but then I was free to rewrite my memory of our relationship. It was my first love and it was behind me. This cute little blue-eyed blonde from Idaho who had been cursed with nice parents and a pleasant upbringing had finally experienced something. I had something to write about. Yay for me. 

Jake the camera operator barely even figures into the narrative of my so-called love life. He was my L.A. boyfriend, and a perfectly decent distraction from my writing when a distraction was warranted. Every other guy I went out with or made out with at a bar or party has been a very short term distraction for my brain and my mouth. For years, the most important things in my daily life, besides Maya, have been my writing and my hate-fueled obsession with Braddock. Now, of course, I can acknowledge that the hate was fueled by lust.

In the time and space away from Scott, I had indeed become aware of the enormous void that needed to be filled in his absence. I’m not even going to make a vagina-penis joke here. I have been cracked open. But he didn’t break my heart, I did. And I don’t want to put it back together again. Not the way it was before.  It has become something new, something more. It is raw and vulnerable.

I realize what he’s been doing, since we got back from New York, since our fight at LAX. He’s letting me struggle with myself again. Waiting until I wear myself out, like an inexperienced boxer.

Well, it has happened. I am tired of fighting him. But I’m still scared. And I’ve been crying while driving for nearly three hours, listening to Eighties love songs, having every feeling I’ve been repressing for years, and trying not to crash. I am mad at him for not calling or texting me and also relieved that he hasn’t, because I don’t know what to say to him right now.

I’ve written so many scenes where a person tells another person “I love you,” but I have no idea how or when to say it Scott. I want to be brave, and be the one who says it first. But I also want to be brave enough to let him lead the way. That’s so much harder for me.

It was so much easier just to despise him.

The house we’ve rented for Maya, myself and the three other bridesmaids is a four bedroom. Maya and her cousin Bridget and I get our own room, and Naz and Cleo are sharing because they are besties. I know Naz and Cleo, but this is my first time meeting Maya’s cousin from Vancouver, Canada. Bridget is a quarter Chinese and looks like Phoebe Cates from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. She is super sweet and cool, and I plan to put a bag over her head whenever Scott is around. I’m sure she’ll understand.

Sam, Scott and the three groomsmen have rented a house a few blocks away. Maya and Sam’s relatives were all able to find vacation rentals in the general area around us. The dinner party will be at our rental house here tonight.

Maya, Naz, Cleo, and a few other design students plus one of their teachers, are heading to the wedding venue to set up for tomorrow. Since it’s a Moroccan theme, I imagine that means draping colorful exotic fabric everywhere and placing a lot of glass and metal candleholder lanterns around the covered outdoor space. It’s sort of ridiculous that Maya is decorating her own wedding venue, but also awesome and to be expected.

I offered to help, but Maya knows that my decoration skills are limited to telling her if something that she’s hanging is crooked or not, and holding the step ladder while she places the star on top of our Christmas tree.

So, two weeks ago, I had offered to help Heather the caterer with the cooking for tonight’s rehearsal dinner/party because she and her team also have to prep for the big event tomorrow. I was, of course, being super considerate, but I also wanted the excuse to hide in the kitchen—away from Scott.

Heather is tiny, has short red hair and freckles, and she looks like a very pretty, totally stressed-out elf. All the times I felt like I was losing my mind about a script, I’m certain that I never looked as crazed and frazzled as she does right now. It may not have been a good idea to hire her to cater for both nights, but Maya has been to a party that was catered by Heather and her new team before, and she insists that we are lucky to have her while she’s still available and affordable.

After changing out of the pepperoni-scented powdered sugar-covered clothes I drove up here in, freshening up, and pulling my hair into a pony tail, I have come to the kitchen to make myself available to Heather and her minions and to find something to eat, because I’m starving. There’s still several hours before guests will start arriving for this party—which I remind her is low-key—but things in here are pretty frantic. It’s great, because I immediately go into crisis mode and forget that I’m going to have to see Scott and tell him that I love him at some point.

Apparently, there isn’t goat cheese for tonight, and apparently this is an emergency.

I offer to go to the store to buy goat cheese.

“It has to be goat cheese,” she says. “Are you familiar with cheeses?”

“I grew up in Idaho,” I say. “If it’s a dairy product, I’ve consumed it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I need a specific kind of goat cheese.”

“Are we talking feta or chevre?” comes a deep sexy voice behind me, a voice that sends a shiver down my spine and makes my knees week. “Because if you want labneh, I doubt they sell it around here and there isn’t enough time to make our own.”

She looks over my shoulder at Scott, very serious. “Get me all the feta and chevre you can find in the next half an hour.”

I don’t turn to look at him, because I have butterflies in my tummy and I’m afraid I’ll start crying or blush—oh wait I am blushing.

“I got this,” he says huskily, touching my arm. “You stay here.”

It has been so long, it seems, since he’s touched me. I feel like I’m thirteen and at my first dance. I run my tongue across the front of my teeth to check to see if I am in fact thirteen and have braces. What is happening to me? I finally turn to face him.

He smiles at me. “Hey. Good to see you. How are you?”

“Hi,” I say. He is better looking than I remember, somehow. He has gotten more sun since I last saw him, and he is cool as a cucumber, in that way that has always made me nuts. “I didn’t know you were a foodie.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Duffy.” He smiles and looks away. He blushes—he’s blushing! “How are you? Did I ask you that? Did you answer?”

“No,” I say, my voice a mouse squeak. “I’m fine. Good. You?”

Heather doesn’t stop julienning zucchini, but she keeps looking back and forth between us, probably wondering if either of us has ever spoken to members of the opposite sex before.

“Good, yeah. Well, I better…”

“Okay, yeah.”

“I’ve got a game thing I want to set up for later, maybe you can help me.”

“Oh yeah, for sure, okay.”

“When I get back then.”

“Yup. I’ll be here.”

“Good. Anything else anyone wants from the store?”

“Ice! We need more ice!”

“And one of those cheap coolers, if they sell them.” We’ve run out of room in the freezer.

“Ice and a cooler. Got it. We’ve got a nearly empty fridge at our house, by the way. If you guys think of anything else, Erin can text me.” Scott starts to turn away.

“I just, umm…”

“What? You want potato chips?” He turns back and looks at me, expectantly, but clearly he has other things to do and people to talk to, as do I.

“No—I mean yes, always—I just—wanted to...I never said ‘thank you.’ To you. For writing the script with me. It was a big deal and it’s a big deal that it sold, and I’m glad we worked together.”

He smiles. “I am too. You’re welcome and thank you to you. Is that it? Because I gotta go buy some cheese. Unless we can use that cheese you just served up.”

“Go! Get out of here!”

Probably five entire minutes pass before I realize I’ve been standing still, staring into space, with a stupid smile on my face.

“You still with us?” asks Heather. She’s holding a large knife.

“Yeah. Hi. I’m here. Don’t stab me. What can I do?”

“Well first, you need to stop smiling because it’s creeping me out, and then I need you to whisk this dressing for a full minute.” She hands me a large mixing bowl filled with a golden-hued liquid mixture. “Then pour it evenly over this julienned salad, but don’t mix the salad. I will do that. Then I’ll have you slice some lemons—you good with a knife?”

“I’m like a C plus knifer.”

“Good enough. If you cut yourself, don’t bleed on the food.”

“Got it. Will do.” Heather is a hard-ass and I love it. My confidence in her has grown.

I ace the salad dressing and lemon-slicing, and request another task, but Heather gets distracted by the cheese that Scott has returned with. He nods for me to sneak out with him. He leads me to the dining room, where he has set up two piles of index cards, black Sharpie pens, and duct tape. He’s grinning, watching me take it all in.

“We starting a new script?”

“You want to?”

“Maybe later. After our best friends are officially married.”

“Cool. This is for the sex game.”

I remember the times I’ve used duct tape on him at my place.

“Not that kind. The party game. I told you about it in an email, right?”

“Oh right. The guessing game.”

He pulls out a chair for me. “Have a seat. Write down a word or phrase with a sexual theme. No swear words. Get creative. Think you can handle that?”

“Fuck yeah. What’s the duct tape for?”

“To tape the cards to people’s backs.”

“Right. Of course. So useful, duct tape.”

He sits down across from me, and writes bondage on a card, while looking at me. He then folds the card in half and drops it into a large bowl at the center of the table.

I clear my throat and look down at my pen and card. I write: dildo.

“Classic,” he says.

I fold the card in half and place it in the bowl. “Should we keep it PG-13? I mean, there will be parents and grandparents here.”

“You haven’t met Sam’s family yet. They’re filthy Scotsmen. It’s safe to go hard adult comedy R.”

I write down BUTT PLUG!

He writes out Reverse Cowgirl.

I clench my jaw and bite the inside of my cheek to keep from thinking about that time with him…

I pull out my phone.

“No looking up terms on Urban Dictionary dot com. It has to be terms that most people would know off the top of their heads.”

I push out my lower lip in a pout and write doggie style.

“Yes, perfect, he says, gazing at me just a little too long before looking away and writing down honey pot, while subtly licking his lips.

My face feels like it’s on fire. I shift around in my chair and am about to tell him about my emotional realization, but he starts talking first.

“So hey, I wanted to tell you…”

“Yeah?”

“My brother actually sent me an email last week, asking if he could read my scripts.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Never happened before.”

“Did you send him something?”

“I sent him our script. He read it overnight. He said it was a great read. He congratulated us on the sale.”

“Wow.”

“He sent it to my mom and she liked it too.”

“That’s great, Scott…What about your dad?”

“Well. I think just hearing from my brother and mom that it’s good is enough for him.”

“I’m really happy for you.” I’m surprised by how happy I am for him, in fact. I’m really, a lot happy for him. As happy as I would be for Maya, or myself.

“It never would have happened if you hadn’t said that to Carter.”

“Oh I’m sure it would have eventually.”

“No. It was all because of you. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. So I guess you won’t be applying to law school this year.”

“No but I have an idea for a legal horror script called Bite Me, Carter.”

“I would buy a ticket to that.”

“Oh, I’d comp you.”

“Thanks.”

I write down cooter and see that he has just written down the same thing. We laugh. He tears up his card and writes on another one: flaming lips.

Yep. I’ve got those. Moist ones. Right now. And you’re not even touching me.

“These terms are a tad biased,” I say. I write out baloney pony on a card and hold it up.

“Adorable,” he says. Skin flute goes on a card.

“Good one.” I write down foreskin and hold it up, scrunching up my face. “Yay or nay?”

“Um. I’m giving that one a thumbs down. We need more sex positions.”

We both write 69.

I tear up my 69 card, take a deep breath, and start to say something once again, but I hear Maya say from the other room: “Oh is this the guessing game? Do you have tea-bagging yet? My mom loves that one. The term, I mean.”

I immediately write down tea-bagging.

“I can’t wait to meet your mom,” Scott says, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Hey Braddock! Aw, it’s good to see you. You’ve been getting some sun.”

He gets up to hug her and they have a long, warm embrace. This is the first time I’ve seen them together in a while. They have clearly bonded.

“I need to borrow Duffy for a minute.”

“She’s all yours. I can snowplow through the rest of these myself.”

“Ahhhh haaaaaahhhhh!” Maya takes my hand and leads me away, to my room. “You guys are so cute together,” she whispers, a little too loud, in my opinion.

“Shhh! We aren’t together.”

“You were seated at a table together. Calm down.”

“How’s the venue looking?”

“Almost done, the girls are finishing up. It looks beautiful.”

We enter my room. I swear I can smell pepperoni, even though I stuffed my driving clothes deep inside a plastic bag and stuck that in my weekender bag. But I may be hypersensitive.

“Oh God. Did you eat pepperoni in here?”

“I’m disgusting.” She is hypersensitive too, due to hormones.

“I’m sure no one else can smell it. I smell everything now. Even love.”

“Oh shut up. How do you feel?”

“Good. I’m excited. Sam is so cute. He keeps crying.”

“Oh. He’s so sweet.” I get a gift for Maya out of my bag.

“Oh, you didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Please. This is your bachelorette party gift. Imagine we’re in Vegas, at a male strip club.”

“It’s how I always imagine us.” She unwraps the gift and pulls out the maternity lingerie. There’s a sexy lace-trimmed cotton nightie that’s also for nursing, as well as maternity pajamas that have dragons all over and it says Mother of Dragons. “Oh my God.”

“How cool would it be if you give birth to dragons?!”

“Oh my God I’m gonna be a pregnant Daenerys for Halloween! Genius! I love them, thank you! So sweet.”

She gives me an elegant little gold box with a silver ribbon and bow and wildflowers tucked into the ribbons. “This is so pretty I could shit.”

“Thanks.”

I open the box. In it, is a dainty rose gold necklace with a pendant of two intertwined open hearts. “It’s so pretty.”

She takes the necklace out of the box and unhooks the clasp. “This is a promise to you, that I will still be available to you when I’m married and when I’m a mother. We will always be linked. You will always be my best friend, okay? Remember that. I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t reach out to me if you need me.”

Tears are squirting out of my eyes and snot is dripping from my nose. It has been that kind of day. I nod my head. “Thank you. I already miss having you around the apartment.”

“I miss you too, I really do.” She goes behind me and puts the necklace around my neck. “But I want you to be half of your own romantic coupling too. I can see that your heart has opened up. It’s beautiful. You just need to be brave.”

I nod, weeping and making weird snorting and hiccupping sounds.

She rubs my back. “There’s really nothing to be afraid of. Can you imagine how great it would be? Will be. The four of us hanging out all the time? We’ll be our kids’ godparents!”

“Okay okay one step at a time. I can’t even get up the nerve to tell him how I feel.”

“Well. No rush. But if you could do it this weekend that would be perfect. No pressure.”

I cover my face.

“Sorry. I’ll let you pull yourself together. Do you have Kleenex in here?”

I nod. “I stopped to get some on the way up here.” When I bought pepperoni and donuts.

She kisses me on the cheek and hugs me. “See ya out there.”

The rest of the evening is a bit of a blur—figuratively and literally, because I have tears in my eyes most of the time. I keep touching my open hearts pendant and envisioning me and Scott and Maya and Sam hanging out as we all grow old together. But it never seems to be the right time to talk to Scott in private—what with the eating of the delicious food that I helped to prepare, and the bear hugs from massive, beautiful Bermudian men, the sober Scotsmen who still act pretty drunk, dancing and singing traditional Scottish folk songs, the hipster singer-songwriter guy that Sam produces music for, who sings a song he wrote just for Sam and Maya, and Maya’s gorgeous sixty year-old half-Chinese mother going around with the word cock ring on her back, asking people: “Am I a blowjob?” “Am I a cocksucker?” “Am I a Dirty Sanchez?”

Even when Scott helps me wash dishes at the end of the night, we are never alone. Heather and her team are around. We don’t even talk at that point, because it’s so entertaining to listen to Heather bark orders and curse like a marine. It’s comfortable, and probably the most domestic-type thing we’ve ever done together. I like it. And it makes my armpits damp because I want to tell him I love him. I try to let him know telepathically, at one point. He does look over at me, quizzically, and I wonder if it worked.

“Are you trying to hold in a fart?” he says, grinning.

“What? No! Shut up!”

“You shut up.”

“Oh my God.” We’re done with the dishes. I wipe my hands on a towel. “I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.”

“Me too. I’ll walk you to your room and then get back to the house.”

We tiptoe down the hall past Maya’s room. She went to bed at ten-thirty, which was pretty late for the little pregnant lady. He follows me. I open the door to my room. He stands a couple of feet away from me, his hands on his hips.

“You’re a good maid of honor,” he says, in a hushed voice.

“Thanks. You’re a good best man.”

“Thanks. See you in the morning.”

He hugs me. He is a good hugger. It’s a long, warm, friendly hug. “Not if I see you first,” I say, instead of “By the way, I love you.”

He pulls away from me and stares down at me, like he really wants to say something. I brace myself. Is he going to say it first?

He takes in a breath, then says: “Are you hiding pepperoni in there?”

I punch him in the arm. Shit. “No! Shut up. Good night.”

“You shut up.”

“You complete…ly annoy me.”

He smiles and pats me on the head. “Right back at ya, buddy.” He walks away. “You had me at ‘shut up.’”

I go inside my room and shut the door and cover my face with my hands.

“Buddy?!”

We’re buddies now? I stomp around the room. Have I misinterpreted everything about the way he’s been looking at me today? What is happening?! Why can’t I just tell him I love him and get this thing back on track? Or maybe we got off track when we were in New York? Or the first time we made out in that bathroom?

Gah!

I collapse on my back on the bed, kick my feet into the air. Whichever track we’re supposed to be on, I just wish I could get us on it! Why is this so hard for me? How can it be so easy for other people to marry their co-workers or marry someone who’s the same sex as them or marry someone that they moved to England to meet or marry someone that they just met a few months ago and are having a baby with?

Maybe I’m only meant to be married to my work.

Maybe I was put on this earth to write about other people’s relationships.

Maybe that’s not such a bad thing?