Chapter 26. Molly
I suppose I should make a confession.
Part of the reason I hate weddings and baptisms and anniversary parties so much is that their pageantry works on me. I hate to experience emotions, at least in public. And here I am, mopping up my mascara with my pinkies as I follow the crowd up the stairs to the terrace where the cocktail hour will be held.
I feel conspicuous. I feel off-brand. I feel like a sap.
“Molly,” Dez whispers in my ear. “Are you still crying?”
I elbow her away, sniffling, as I try to collect myself. Even for me, this is excessive. But those vows—especially Jon’s—hit me right in the gut.
And how could they not?
A speech about two people who met in high school, who loved each other from afar, who were always in the wrong place at the wrong time? Not to center myself at someone else’s wedding, but those vows could have been written about me and Seth.
I still don’t believe the soul mates part. I don’t believe happy endings are guaranteed, even for people who deserve one as much as Jon and Kevin.
But I believe that what Kevin did was brave. I want someone to stand in my kitchen cradling frozen peonies and tell me what I’m too cowardly to profess myself. And that is why I’m crying.
I dodge away from my friends and make off toward the bathroom. It is mercifully cool inside, and, even more mercifully, empty.
I sit in a stall and collect myself. And then I stand in front of the mirror and touch up my makeup. I wipe away the evidence of my sadness and swipe over it with concealer. I refresh my red lipstick like it’s armor.
My phone vibrates with a new email, and I decide to check it while I wait for my face to de-puff.
I swallow. It’s from my dad.
The development process with Busted got derailed because of more Covid delays, and I thought he was probably going to ghost me on it after I sent the treatment. But four months ago, to my utter shock, he said he liked it, and asked for a script. I sent that at the beginning of May and haven’t heard anything back.
I texted him to say I’m in town, hoping that would prompt an update. Usually he at least replies to my texts, even if it’s to blow me off. That he’s been radio silent probably means this email is bad news.
From: [email protected]
Date: Sat, July 17, 2021 at 7:15pm
Subject: script
Molly—Loma and Cory like your script. (I do too.) They want to meet in LA to discuss. Cassie will send times.
Afraid I’m not going to catch you this trip—I’m out of town—but I’ll take you to dinner after the meeting.
Holy fucking shit.
I start shaking, and laugh to myself like a crazy person in the bathroom alone.
I feel absurd for letting this affect me so much, but that casual aside—“(I do too)”—I’ve basically been waiting for that my whole life.
His email is quickly followed by another from Cassie, his long-suffering assistant, with a series of dates and times for next week.
I choose a week from Monday at 1:30 p.m. and write an email to my dad that I carefully construct so as not to convey too much excitement or expectation.
From: [email protected]
Date: Sat, July 17, 2021 at 7:25pm
Re: Subject: script
Cool, glad to hear it. Sorry to miss you in FL but see you soon.
M
I’m giddy as I walk back outside to rejoin cocktail hour.
“You okay?” Alyssa asks when I spot her standing alone on the terrace. “You look… suspiciously happy.”
“Never better. Love a smoldering evening.”
“You’re the smoldering one, with those lips.”
I smack them at her. “All the better to ravish you.”
“To ravish someone anyway,” she says, glancing over at Seth, who appears to be introducing his family to Marian’s celebrity husband.
“Stop staring at him,” I hiss.
“Why?”
“Because it’s embarrassing. You’re being conspicuous.”
She snorts. “Maybe you should be more conspicuous and stop pining.”
“I was pretty damn conspicuous last year, if you recall.”
She and Dezzie have come to know all about my exuberant sexual performance, and the way it was politely rejected.
“That was different,” she says. “He was just out of a relationship. You should go talk to him.”
I know she’s right. He is, after all, a huge part of the reason I came to this wedding.
But despite my good cheer, I feel a little demoralized where Seth is concerned. Wounded that he never reached out after last year. I can’t help but read it as a sign that he thought about what he wanted, and I wasn’t it.
I need him to take the first step.
But I’m glad that my good news has given me this boost of confidence tonight, of all nights. I hope he notices my shine.
“Where is everyone?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Well.” Alyssa sighs. “Rob and Dezzie are having an argument about what time they need to be at the airport tomorrow. They disappeared somewhere. And I sent Ryland off to get us some drinks. Shall we mingle?”
We make our way toward Jon’s parents to congratulate them. Jon’s mom was our fifth-grade teacher, and his dad was the dean of our high school. From there we run into Kevin’s siblings, and before long it’s time to go in for the reception. Kevin’s family has always been quite prosperous, and I suspect they are paying for this evening, because everything is lavish, from the frescoed ceilings, to the mountains of white peonies, to the 1920s-style brass band playing jazz standards.
I take a sip of champagne, happy to be with my friends in such a beautiful environment. The vibe even seems to work on Rob, who pulls Dezzie onto the dance floor as soon as the grooms are done with their first dance. Alyssa and Ryland are close to follow. Which leaves me at the table with Marian and Javier, who are so busy canoodling they don’t notice I’m alone.
I survey the room for someone to talk to and see that Seth is leaning against the bar, staring at me. He looks good in his white linen suit, albeit rangier than the last time I saw him, like he’s lost muscle—maybe since gyms have been unsafe for so long. Thank God I never worked out to begin with.
“Dance?” he mouths, pointing between himself and me.
He is so handsome I almost want to say yes.
But I shake my head. “I can’t,” I mouth back.
He pouts. Which he should not, as he knows I’m a terrible dancer. If I attempt it, I will topple over and kill Jon’s and Kevin’s elderly relatives. Manslaughter by foxtrot.
Still, I’m happy that he asked.
Happier still when he saunters across the room anyway.
“Molly Malone,” he says in greeting. “Get up. You have to dance with me.”
I stay put. “Please. You know I’m not going to do the goddamn Charleston, or whatever.”
He looks out at the sea of linen- and gold-clad guests who all seem to know how to do complicated steps to old-timey music. “Come on. Look how much fun they’re having. I’ll teach you.”
“No. I’m too uncoordinated. I can’t even do the electric slide. I can’t even do workout videos.”
He laughs and raises his hands in defeat. “I suppose I do recall you falling over when we had to waltz at Porter Carlisle’s debutante ball.”
“Yep. Right into her grandma.”
“Hmm. Is there anyone we hate here? We could weaponize you.”
“Perfect crime.”
“Fine. But come outside with me. We can watch the sunset.”
We stop at the Prohibition-themed bar and Seth orders us French 75s. I take a sip of mine as we walk outside, and it’s tart with lemon and sharp from brut champagne, and it cuts through the humidity nicely.
“Classy joint,” I say, gesturing at the mosaic floors of the terrace and the elaborate balustrades setting off the bay, which is pink, reflecting the sherbet sunset.
“You know this place was built by a circus impresario, right?” he says.
“Circus impresario. Is that still a job?”
“Looking for a career transition?”
I gesture at the lavish mansion behind us. “Seems like it pays pretty well.”
“Not worth the risk of getting eaten by a tiger.”
“Do you remember when that tiger tried to eat Roy from Siegfried and Roy?”
“Of course. You were perversely obsessed with it.”
“Because it was like an Edgar Allan Poe story.”
“Maybe you should talk to your therapist about your lingering Siegfried and Roy schadenfreude.”
“Oh, come on. The tiger was named Mantacore. Imagine owning a tiger, naming it Mantacore, trapping it for years, and then expecting it not to eat you.”
He laughs. “I’ve missed your cultural observations.”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “It’s been a while.”
I don’t add: you could have had all the dated early-aughts references a man could ever want. Because I was right here.
Waiting for you.
Something flashes in his eyes. “I know. I wanted to reach out to you but I…” He shakes his head, like he’s at a loss for words. “I’m sorry.”
For a second, we just look at each other. Neither of us speaks.
This would be the moment, in one of my scripts, where he says how much he’s missed me.
But he doesn’t. He looks away.
I remind myself that the beats of romance are narrative devices. Not real.
“So,” I make myself say. “What have you been up to for the last year?”
He blows out a breath, very obviously grateful that I changed the subject. “Oh, you know. Working. Doing yoga. Sitting around in my lake house listening to Cat Stevens and crying.”
“Sounds healthy.”
He nods. “Yeah, well, I’ve been working through some stuff. Meditating. Writing in my journal.”
He says it like he’s telling me a secret.
“Oh?” I ask. “Anything about me?”
He nods.
“Most of it.”
I swallow.
“Like what?”
“Like how much I miss you.”
I stare at him.
I can’t believe it.
He’s doing the romance beat.
“Like how much I regret always being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he continues.
He squeezes my hand. I can barely breathe.
“Are you single, Molly?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“Good,” he whispers back.
He moves in and puts the faintest trace of a kiss on my cheek. Out of the corner of my eye I see his brother through the glass doors, and I blush. Dave isn’t looking at us, but still, I don’t want to be spotted.
“Not here,” I say.
I grab Seth’s arm and lead him down the terrace steps. A few hundred feet away there’s a cluster of banyan trees. They’re eerie in the fading light, casting shadows across the grass. We walk through the grove made by their trunks to a picnic table in a clearing under a canopy of hanging roots. We can still hear the band and the murmur of conversation, but we’re hidden from the party.
I sit down on top of the picnic table and Seth comes and stands in front of me, his shins pressed against mine.
I open my legs to make room and pull him toward me. His kiss is soft and tastes like lemon. It’s sweet, and slow, and it reminds me of the way we kissed in high school, in the early days of our relationship, before we knew what we were doing. I felt so drawn to him and yet so clumsy. So afraid of getting it wrong that I almost didn’t want to risk it.
I feel that way now.
I pull away.
“Seth, I’m scared.”
“Oh Molls,” he says tenderly. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want to ruin it.”
He comes and sits beside me on the table.
“What do you mean?”
“I feel like last time, when we were texting”—I don’t say “sexting,” but I assume he knows what I mean—“I made things weird. And I don’t want to do that again.”
“Molls, if you mean your video…”
I nod. I am not ashamed of my sexuality, but that was one of the few times I have extended myself like that. I feel a bit bruised that it led to him severing contact, even though intellectually I know that the circumstances, not the video, was the reason Seth needed time.
I’m hurt, but also embarrassed to be hurt.
“Molls, it had nothing to do with the video. If you knew how many times I’ve watched that video…”
“You saved it?”
I saved his as well. I keep meaning to delete it, but it makes me so, um, let’s say, amorous that I can’t make myself do it.
“Baby,” he says. “Even thinking of it has me…” He takes my hand and puts it over his groin. I look down in shock, because he has a full-on erection. I can see the outline lewdly through his pants.
I bury my head on his shoulder, feeling cleansed of all the horrible shame I’ve been harboring.
“Okay,” I say. I rub my hand over him and he hisses and closes his eyes.
It’s thrilling.
I do it again.
He catches my hand in both of his, lifts it up, and kisses my thumb.
“If you keep doing that I’m going to ejaculate all over my nice linen pants and embarrass myself in front of my family.”
I giggle.
“Remember in high school how we would dry hump in your room and you would—”
“Get wet spots on my jeans? Yes, Molly. I do remember that. Thank you for the reminder.”
“God, we were so horny.”
He looks down ruefully at his erection. “Not much has changed on my end, I’m afraid.”
“If you could feel how soaked my—”
He claps a hand over my mouth.
“Now you’re just torturing me.”
I am, but I’m also trying to distract from the tension between us. The unspoken feelings. The vast question of what, if anything, comes next.
Which is childish.
If I want this, I need to actually be an adult and face my own fears.
“I think we need to talk,” I say.
Seth nods. “Yes.”
He looks like he’s organizing his thoughts to speak, but I gather my courage.
“I’ve really missed you.”
His face does this beautiful thing. The light begins in his eyes and then travels down to his mouth, which spreads into a smile so wide it shows all his teeth. The lines around his eyes crinkle into little rivers of happiness. It’s an expression of absolute, unguarded delight.
“I’ve missed you so much, Molls. Come here.”
He opens his arms and I pivot my hips and we wrap ourselves around each other.
In the distance, the music ends and a man’s voice requests that everyone return to their seats for a toast from Kevin’s father.
“Oh shit,” I say. It’s too early to sneak off. “We should probably go back. I don’t want to be rude.”
He nods and offers me his hand to help me up.
“Also,” I add, “I’m staying with my mom, so I’m not sure I can… um, not go home. I mean I can but it would provoke a conversation that I really don’t feel like enduring.”
He laughs. “Same here. But what are you doing tomorrow?”
“Sleeping off a champagne hangover?”
“Would you go on a date with me?”
The way he asks it has a trace of vulnerability. Like he’s worried I might actually say no.
“Yes,” I say. “I’d love to.”
“Do you know what might be fun? We could go back to the place where we had our first date.”
“That corny brunch place with the pancake bar? Is that still around?”
“Roberta’s on the Cove,” he says, grinning. “It’s still there. I checked.” He pauses. “I’ve been planning to ask you out all night. Just been gathering the nerve.”
I love how boyish he seems. The part of me that knew him when we were fifteen, when he was so nervous to be with me in the beginning, lights up with recognition.
“Okay,” I say. “Elaborate pancakes with retirees it is.”
He squeezes my hand. “Can I pick you up at eleven?”
I nod. “I’ll text you the address.”
He puts his hand on the small of my back as we walk back to the terrace. When we reach the stairs, he stops me and puts a kiss on my temple.
“See you tomorrow, Molly.”
“Yeah. See ya.”
And you know what?
I can’t wait.