Chapter 21. Molly
I am an inveterate loner. Total introvert. Taurus to my core.
Sitting in my house solo for a week and not talking to anyone except via text was, for many years, my dearest dream.
That was before solitary confinement became my enforced reality.
As it turns out, all that alone time that’s so nice when it’s a break from social engagements and meetings becomes something like torture without those things to break it up. My house, formerly my sanctuary, has begun to feel like a prison.
The novelty of catching up with friends online has faded. No, I don’t want to play virtual poker with six people from college. No, I do not want to join another online movie club. No, I don’t want to go on a blind date via Zoom.
I want to take meetings, where I can do a stressful song and dance to sell my writerly prowess to producers who don’t care about my craft or singular voice. I want to go on a date, where I can make out with a stranger over craft cocktails. I want to go to a restaurant, where I can eat food served to me by an overly friendly human who keeps interrupting my conversation to ask how everything is tasting. I want to go to a spa with my friends, where we can be naked and oblivious to germs and gossip about mutual acquaintances.
I want to see my mom. I want to stop watching cable news in a fugue state of anxiety and despair. I want to know less about virology and case positivity rates. I want to stop worrying about the people I love dying.
I want another human being to touch me.
My psychiatrist upped my meds, but there is only so much Lexapro can do for chronic isolation and mass trauma.
It doesn’t help that the film industry has slowed to a standstill. Offers for new projects have dried up. No one’s buying anything.
Which does not stop me from staring at my email all day, hoping for something more promising than recipe chains from my mom, alerts from Facebook, and junk mail from dying clothing retailers. Or bills. Please, God, no more bills.
It’s not that I’m broke. I have savings and I still get residuals, however dwindling, from the movies I wrote. But I’m also not optimistic about my future earning power. I’m truly beginning to circle the drain in my career.
When I “made it” as a screenwriter in my twenties, I thought my success was only the beginning. That my gift very obviously spoke for itself, and that I would become a brand, able to command better and better jobs and make ever more money.
But I’ve never been able to repeat the success of those first movies. My name is not a hot commodity. And with Hollywood at a complete standstill, there aren’t a lot of opportunities to redeem myself coming up anytime soon.
It keeps me up at night.
Today is no different. I wake up and force myself to pour an iced coffee and take a quick walk around the block before opening my laptop and silently repeating my daily mantra: Please let there be an offer. A nibble. Anything other than more silence and rejection.
No dice.
Which means another shift at my new day job of sitting on my couch and watching reruns of Bravo shows while eating cereal directly out of the box.
My phone rings ninety minutes into my busy day of reality television, and I drag my attention away from women pouring wine on each other, wipe crumbs off my hands, and pick it up.
It’s my dad.
Returning my check-in call from three days ago. A quarterly rite in which he discusses his latest placements on the bestseller lists, recaps his most recent vacations, inquires after my career, tacitly deems it pathetic, and offers me money.
It’s a great bonding ritual.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, settling back into the cushions.
“Hey, toots,” he says.
There is a loud screech from somewhere on his end of the call.
“Hear that?” he asks. “Macaw.”
“A macaw? Where are you?”
“The Keys. My pal Kimbo has a private island with a bird sanctuary. Celeste and I are here for a month.”
“Jesus, did you fly? Is that even allowed? Aren’t you worried about Covid?”
“Sailed.”
I shouldn’t have asked.
“Anyway,” he says, “what’s shakin’?”
I look from the muted television to my box of children’s cereal.
“Oh, just doing a little work.”
“What on?”
“Uh, a spec script.”
“Rom-com?”
“Yep.”
“Sounds like you have some time on your hands.”
Ah. We’ve reached the part about my wasted potential earlier than expected. I don’t know why I initiate these calls, other than that if I didn’t, I’d be fatherless. It’s strange how you can crave the attention of the people with the most power to hurt you.
“Well, yeah, things are slow here, obviously,” I say. “Production being shut down. I’d think the Mack Fontaine stuff is on hold too, no?”
“Eh. I’m not worried. The latest one is already in post.”
“That’s lucky.”
Never put it past my father to be unscathed by a global economic shutdown.
“That’s why I’m calling, actually,” he says. “We’re in development for Busted, and we just fired the writers.”
Bustedis one of my dad’s most popular novels. The plot is about a model who hires Mack Fontaine to expose a corrupt plastic surgeon after he botches her boob job. Obviously, because no one can resist Mack, she also has a torrid affair with him.
“That’s too bad,” I say, unsure what this might have to do with me.
“They weren’t nailing Diane,” he says, referring to the character with the leaking implants. “My producer thinks we need a woman to write it. Make it sexier.”
I wish I could tell you this is the first time my father has referred to his work as sexy.
“That makes sense,” I say. “It might be a nice change of pace. You don’t see a lot of female-written action movies.”
“Yeah, well, I thought maybe you’d want to throw your hat in the ring, since you love the book.”
I do not love the book. I will allow that my father’s novels have a lurid appeal, but they are decidedly not for me. Of course, I would never say that to him. He assumes I think he’s a genius. He assumes that of everyone.
This does not change the fact that I’m stunned. He has always dismissed my work. I assumed he thought I was a bad writer.
“Wow,” I say, unable to help myself. “That’s… thanks for thinking of me, Dad. That could be really cool.”
“Well, never say you didn’t follow in my footsteps for nothing.”
“What would you need from me to pitch?”
“A treatment, to start.”
“Yeah. Okay. No problem. When do you need it?”
“No rush. Things aren’t moving quickly, with the virus. We’re still talking to directors.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll get started right away. I’m excited.”
His wife calls his name, and the phone goes muffled for a second.
“Gotta go, kid. Tennis.”
“Okay. Love you, Dad.”
“Yup. Bye.”
The line goes dead.
I feel a strange tension at the corners of my face.
A smile, you might call it.
My father has made me smile.
I try not to let this feeling get too big, because it’s never good to get your hopes up where Roger Marks is concerned. But I can’t help it. I’m flattered.
He thinks I can write a fucking action movie. Be trusted with his precious Mack Fontaine. Given how highly he thinks of his work, this is no small compliment.
I grab my laptop to email my agent and manager letting them know of this development.
My heart nearly stops when I see the name at the top of my inbox.
Seth.
I haven’t talked to him since he got engaged.
I had to mute him on Instagram, because every time he posted a picture of himself and his beautiful, wholesome, seemingly perfect-for-him-in-every-way fiancée, it made me sad.
And I have enough making me sad.
Still, I click on his email faster than you can say “bad idea.”
From: [email protected]
Date: Mon, June 22, 2020 at 11:12am
Subject: Whale hello
Hiya Marks.
How are you faring during these dark times? I really hope that you’re okay, and your family is okay.
I was wondering if I could ask for a favor. A friend of mine has a sister studying film at NYU whose summer internship fell through due to Covid. She’s looking for something she can do remotely, and I thought maybe you might want some help from a smart college kid for the summer? I’m pretty sure she’ll do anything you want, even if it’s just proofreading your drafts. No worries whatsoever if you’re not interested—just thought I’d ask.
Let me know how you’re doing. Thinking of you.
-Seth
Hmm. The tone is rather somber (fittingly) and matter-of-fact. Still, it’s nice to hear from him.
I have absolutely no need for an intern, but I suppose I could scrounge up some tasks to help out his friend. I remember how desperate I was for any foothold in the business in college. If I’m your best inroad to fame and fortune in film I worry for you, of course, but still. I’m better than nothing.
I click reply.
From: [email protected]
Date: Mon, June 22, 2020 at 11:20am
Re: Subject: Whale hello
Hey!
I’m okay! It’s kinda lonely out here for a spinster, but I’m enormously grateful that my loved ones are okay so far. And on the bright side, I never imagined I’d be blessed with such a varied and glamorous collection of face masks.
How’s your family? Isn’t your sister-in-law an emergency room doctor? I hope she’s okay. Can’t imagine the stress of that.
I’m happy to help out your friend’s sister. Things are quiet on the film front right now, as you might imagine, but I’m sure I can find some stuff for her to do for a few hours a week. Give her my email if she’s interested.
By the way, I saw the news about your engagement! Congratulations!
Cheers—
Molls
I click send before I can second-guess myself or labor over line edits, and draft the note to my reps.
By the time it’s sent, I hear the ding of a new message.
From: [email protected]
Date: Mon, June 22, 2020 at 11:51am
Re: Re: Subject: Whale hello
I’m sure you look very glamorous in a face mask. I just look like a bank robber.
But in all seriousness, I’m so sorry you’re lonely. I’ve been having the opposite problem—feeling trapped with not enough space. I’m pretty sure quarantine is awful any way you slice it. I know it’s not a feeling unique to me in any way, but I hate this so much.
Thanks for asking about Clara. She is indeed an ER doctor. She’s been quarantining in a hotel for two months to keep the kids and Dave safe. Miserable situation—working like crazy, missing the boys, seeing horrible shit day in and day out. But at least she hasn’t gotten sick. She’s hoping that now that there’s more proper PPE it will be safe to go home soon.
As for the internship, thank you so much. Her name is Becky Anatolian and she is going to be so pumped to work for such a rock star. I’ll connect you by email.
And thanks for your kind words on the engagement. But actually… Sarah Louise and I just broke up. (Like, she moved out yesterday.) So I’m still processing…
Anyway, I’m so glad you’re doing okay, and thanks again!
Oh my God.
Shit.
I shouldn’t have said anything about the engagement. It’s not helpful to know this. I feel horrible that it makes me feel… joy?
Ugh, Molly.
But it does. It makes me feel joy.
The joy is not borne out of schadenfreude. No part of me wants Seth to be heartbroken.
It’s the part of me—the immediate, lizard-brain, pure id part of me—that wants Seth to be… available. That wants him to be held in reserve in case I decide that I want him for myself.
Or, perhaps the better word is “admit.” “Admit” that I want him for myself.
Not that it’s any more possible than it ever has been. I mentally repeat the reasons why I should not care about this foolish yen: we are separated by the better part of a continent in an unending pandemic in which it is not safe to take a commercial flight; he’s one day into a breakup; he’s wholesome and nice and I’m… the kind of person who feels joy when someone tells me they just broke off an engagement.
So I don’t reply.
I step away from the computer, fill up my water bottle, grab a mask, and go outside for a walk.
Usually, I hate walking in my neighborhood, as the hills make my calves burn, but I can’t sit in my house. I need to move around to force out the adrenaline. I feel like I just did three grams of cocaine. (I’ve never actually done cocaine because I’m convinced I would like it so much that I’d instantly get addicted, but my understanding is that three grams is, like, enough to kill an elephant.)
Mercifully, it’s a breezy June day in LA—high of seventy-four. The kind of perfect weather we were promised in Southern California before global warming began to turn it into an uninhabitable fireball. I speed-walk up and down the street, dodging groups of children and unleashed dogs, plotting out what to write back to Seth.
Obviously, I cannot in any way express my relief or communicate romantic interest. Aside from the fact that it would make me seem insensitive, selfish, and possibly batshit insane, I’m not trying to be a rebound. And anyway, that’s not what anyone wants to hear in the immediate aftermath of a failed relationship.
What I need to be is kind.
Express sympathy and an open ear should he want one.
In short, I need to act like a better person.
Back home, I go right for my laptop.
From: [email protected]
Date: Mon, June 22, 2020 at 12:45pm
Re: Re: Re: Subject: Whale hello
God, Seth I’m so sorry to hear about your breakup. I can’t imagine dealing with that right now.
Are you okay? I’m here if you need an ear.
Love,
Molly
I pause for a minute, come to my senses, and delete the “Love, Molly” part. I consider changing “love” to “xo” but that feels too casual given the subject matter. I can’t think of anything better, so I hit send.
And then I stare at my inbox for the next hour while mindlessly eating more cereal.
From: [email protected]
Date: Mon, June 22, 2020 at 2:06pm
Re: Re: Re: Re: Subject: Whale hello
Thanks for asking, Molls. I am… shell-shocked.
It was Sarah’s idea. Which is not to blame her—ultimately I do think it was the right decision, and that she was brave and clear-sighted for calling it, rather than letting it drag on. But I’m reeling from how abruptly it ended. (She floated it Saturday night and moved out on Sunday.)
The thing is, I thought we were really good together. Actually, wewerereally good together. At least for a while.
She’s a public defender and she inspired me to finally get my act together and start the nonprofit legal clinic I’d been spinning around in my head. I’ve got a great group of law students helping domestic violence victims with family court. Your friend Rob is actually referring clients—nice guy.
Anyway, then we got engaged, and what’s kind of funny is that the day I bought the ring I immediately lost it. Accidentally left it with Jon and Kevin. Had to race in a taxi to Brooklyn to track it down. Now I can’t help but think that was a sign.
But so, once we were engaged we moved in together and Covid started almost immediately, so we’ve been right on top of each other for months. It got claustrophobic. Maybe if we’d had more space it would have gone differently… I don’t know. Maybe we got to know each other better and realized we weren’t as compatible as we thought. In any case, it just wasn’t working.
In my heart, I think if this broke us up, it wasn’t meant to be. I’m glad it happened before we were married or had kids together.
I want to marry the love of my life, you know?
Still fucking hurts though.
Anyway, this is probably more than you want to hear!
Thanks for listening to/reading my meanderings.
-Seth
I read his email four times. The line I keep getting stuck on is I want to marry the love of my life.
He fucking deserves that.
I want to be there for him. I immediately write back.
From: [email protected]
Date: Mon, June 22, 2020 at 2:20pm
Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Subject: Whale hello
This sounds so painful. Even if it wasn’t meant to be, endings suck. And one day’s notice is… tough.
I’m going to indulge in some earnestness for a moment: you deserve someone truly incredible. You are one of the best people I know.
You’ll find the love of your life. And she’ll be a very lucky woman.
Which is why, every once in a while, I wish she were me.
My fingers are typing faster than my brain, and so it takes me a second to realize what I’ve written.
No, Molly.
No and no and no and no.
I delete that last line with pure horror and reread the whole email to make sure I didn’t say anything else that will expose my longing for him.
I click send.
But getting the email off my desktop doesn’t change the truth.
I do wish I was the love of Seth Rubenstein’s life.