Chapter 40. Molly
“Molls, do you have any Aleve in that stockpile of pills you travel with?” Alyssa moans.
“Or morphine?” Dezzie asks. “I think I might need actual morphine.”
I peel myself out of my sleeping bag on the floor of my mother’s attic. My body feels like I slept in a trash compactor.
“We are officially too aged and infirm for sleepovers,” I say as I limp toward the bathroom.
When the three of us concocted this plan to have a post-Christmas slumber party at my mom’s, we did not think through what might happen to a thirty-six-year-old body sleeping on a hardwood floor.
“We should have gotten air mattresses,” Alyssa says. “I think my hips are bruised.”
“Well, it was fun,” I call through the open bathroom door. It was the first night I haven’t spent fully obsessing about Seth since we broke up. “And look, I found some Advil.”
We pass around the bottle like we’re sharing ecstasy at a rave.
“Do I hear the pitter-patter of little feet?” my mom calls from downstairs.
“We’re up,” I call back.
“Oh good. I’m making waffles.”
We shuffle down to the kitchen, where my mom is standing in a palm-tree-print caftan shoving whole oranges down her $3,000 juicer.
“I covet this kitchen,” Dezzie says as she hobbles to a barstool.
“You can come over and cook with me anytime,” Mom says. “Someone here will only make the same boring salad.”
Dezzie and Alyssa both burst out laughing.
My mom slides us a pitcher of orange juice. It’s perfect. Florida does two things better than California: white-sand beaches and citrus.
“So how was you girls’ Christmas?” Mom asks, pouring batter into the waffle iron.
“Chaotic,” Alyssa says. “Eight cousins careening around my dad’s house. The tree fell over twice. I thought my stepmom was going to take the whole gang outside and start performing executions.”
“I bet they love spending time with the grandkids,” my Mom says, looking at me pointedly. “Some of us may never know.”
All three of them have been doing this all week. Making veiled references to their mutual belief I should go after Seth.
I haven’t told them my plan to fly to Chicago when I leave here.
How I’m going to have my script printed and bound. How I’m going to show up on Seth’s door on January 1, his least favorite day of the year, with this piece of my heart in my hand, and ask him to read it.
I want to tell them. I’m in agony, wondering how he will receive me when I show up, and all I want to do is pepper them with questions about what they think will happen.
But if I add anyone else’s hopes and fears to my own, I might lose my nerve.
I have to do this alone.
I shrug at my mother. “Maybe you and Bruce should adopt some preschoolers.”
The two of them got engaged on Christmas Eve, surrounded by me and Bruce’s kids. I’m so happy for her. For them. It’s amazing to see my mom as half of this head-over-heels, heart-eyed couple. Bruce captains her speedboat, and she buys all his sun-protective sportswear, and they walk back and forth between their two mansions all day in their flip-flops. They’re adorable.
“Did you have an okay holiday, sweetie?” Mom asks Dezzie gently.
Dez smiles. “You know what? Surprisingly, it was really fun. I thought it would be hard to get through Christmas without Rob, but honestly, after Covid it was so nice for us to all be together that it was okay.”
My mom takes Dezzie’s hand from across the kitchen island and squeezes it. “Good riddance.” She lowers her voice. “And how’s the divorce going?”
“Mom!” I protest. “She doesn’t want to talk about that!”
“No, it’s fine,” Dezzie says. “So far so good. I have a fierce-ass bitch attorney, and as soon as I’m divorced I’m going to marry her because I love her so much.”
The email alert on my iPad dings and I reach for it.
“No phone thingies at breakfast,” Mom says, snatching my tablet. She’s on a mindfulness kick and keeps hiding all my devices.
I snatch the iPad back.
“I need it for work.”
“It’s New Year’s Eve!” she protests.
“No rest for the wicked.”
In truth, I have no work. I’m waiting on tenterhooks for Becky to send back a clean copy of my screenplay so I can get it printed out for Seth this afternoon. My flight to Chicago is first thing in the morning, and I want to have it professionally bound before I leave.
Becky’s name is at the top of my email. Finally.
From: [email protected]
Date: Fri, Dec 31, 2021 at 8:44 am
Subject: As requested…
Hey Seth!
I get chills at the sight of his name.
“What the fuck?” I say out loud.
“What is it?” Alyssa asks, concerned.
I hold up my finger and read on:
The space is perfect—even better than the pictures. The Realtor said the owners would be open to us renovating it to our specs. The deadline for the lease application is January 3, so we shouldmake a decision ASAP. Let me know if you want to move forward. Hope you have a great New Year’s in Florida!—Becky
“Holy shit,” I murmur.
My mom flicks flour at me. (Flicking food at people is a trait I inherited from her.)
“Tell us what it is, goose!” she says. “And stop cursing.”
“It’s no big deal,” I say, trying to get control of my pulse. “Uh… I got an email that was meant for Seth.”
“Seth Rubenstein?” Mom asks.
“There is no other Seth,” Dezzie says. “You know there is no other Seth.”
Alyssa puts her hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah. No worries,” I say. “Just surprised me.”
“What does it say?” Alyssa asks.
“Not much. Some business thing. But, I guess he’s here. For New Year’s.”
Which, of course, ruins my plan.
I must look as distressed as I feel, because the kitchen goes uncomfortably quiet.
“Didn’t his parents always have a big New Year’s Eve party?” Alyssa asks.
“Yeah. With all their golf friends. We crashed it once,” Dez says.
“Maybe that’s what you should do, Molly,” Alyssa says softly. “I bet he’d be happy to see you.”
But I can’t go to the Rubensteins’ in this state. I can’t even watch slightly emotional television commercials in front of other people without freezing up in embarrassment. Giving my big speech in front of Seth’s parents or, God forbid, Dave, would be like attending all the weddings and christenings and funerals in the world while naked and shivering.
“I don’t want to talk about Seth,” I mutter.
Alyssa, Dezzie, and my mother are all staring at me sadly, with looks that vary between “I feel bad for you” (Alyssa), “I’m worried you’ll never be happy” (Mom), and “You are the stupidest woman in the world” (Dezzie).
“Oh my God, stop it!” I say. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Can we eat?”
“Yes,” my mom says. “Help me carry this stuff to the table.”
She hands out plates heaping with waffles, eggs, and bacon and we gather around the breakfast nook. She’s set up fancy bowls of whipped cream, maple syrup, strawberry sauce, and sprinkles. God, I love her for the sprinkles.
We all eat and chat about our plans for the night. Mom and Bruce are hosting a disco-themed cocktail party. She bought me a slutty dress for the occasion. Alyssa’s dad and stepmom are watching the kids for her and Ryland so they can go out to dinner at a little bistro downtown. Dezzie is driving to Miami to go to a party with her sister.
We inhale approximately eight pounds of waffles each, and then the girls pack up to go. While they’re busy, I open my email and reply to Becky’s mis-addressed note.
Hey Becks—I think you sent this to me by mistake. Also—have you had time to look at that script I sent yet? Need it ASAP.
I go upstairs and wash my face. I look like hell—five years older than I looked a month ago. Dezzie and Alyssa come into the bathroom behind me. They both put their arms around me, and we squeeze each other in a three-way hug.
“Ménage à trois!” Dezzie says in a creepy French accent—which she’s been doing every time we all hug since we were ten and she learned what it meant.
The joke still kills.
“Can you drive us back?” Alyssa asks. “Ryland just texted, and apparently Jesse had a meltdown over having to put on shoes before going outside, and it sent Amelia into a rage spiral because she was wearing shoes, and now all hell is breaking loose.”
I laugh. “Yeah. Let me throw on some clothes.”
We pile into my mom’s car and blast a shared playlist of our favorite songs as we head into town. I drop Alyssa off first. Dez and I pop inside to say hi to Ryland and the kids (who are indeed in devil mode) and quickly retreat back to the car.
“Damn,” Dezzie says. “I want kids so bad and then I see that and my ovaries shrivel.”
“I’m sure they’ll be angels again in fifteen minutes.”
“At least they’re cute, even when they’re having rage blackouts.”
“I know. They even make me want one.”
She gives me a pained look. She knows I would want a baby with only one specific person.
I pull into the Chans’ driveway and go inside with Dezzie to say hello to her parents. Mrs. Chan insists on sitting me down and having me update her on the last year of my life. Which is hard to do in a fashion that leaves out Seth, who I will very certainly cry if I mention. I tell her about Los Angeles fire season instead. Floridians love that. Distracts them from their hurricanes.
Once we’ve caught up, I give Dez a big hug and get back in the car.
At home, my mom is flitting around with Bruce and her party planner, so I am able to dodge her and go upstairs and truly panic about my plan unraveling. I anxiously check my email to see if Becky has replied yet, but she hasn’t. Not that it matters. If he’s here, I can’t go ahead with surprising him tomorrow. I wonder if it’s a sign that I should not be doing this. That I should leave him in peace.
Downstairs, the doorbell rings.
I look out the window and see, of all people, my father, carrying a giant bouquet of lilies.
The fuck?
Oddly, my brain fixates on the lilies, rather than the inexplicable fact of his presence here. Either he doesn’t remember my mother is allergic to them, or he is planning to use them to suffocate her in her own home.
I walk to the staircase and lean down to hear what’s being said.
“Is Molly here?” Dad asks. “I texted her and she didn’t reply, but I know she’s usually in town for the holidays so I thought I’d try… I would have called but I don’t have your number.”
My mother sneezes.
“First of all, Roger, get those things out of my face. I’m allergic.”
“You are? Sorry. I didn’t know.”
“You absolutely did know. We were married for twenty years.”
She takes the bouquet out of his hands and hurls it at his car.
This is absurd but very satisfying, and I giggle.
“Secondly,” she goes on, “if my daughter wanted to see or speak to you, she would have replied to your text. If she did not, we can both safely assume she doesn’t want anything to do with you. And after that stunt you pulled on Thanksgiving, I can understand why.”
“I did not ‘pull a stunt,’” he says, using exaggerated air quotes. “I addressed a simple business matter. But I admit it was poor timing, and I’m sorry she got her feelings hurt.”
“You’re sorry she ‘got her feelings hurt’?” my mom asks, returning his air quotes. “What a heartfelt apology. I’m sure she’ll be very touched.”
I don’t want to watch her strangle him, so I walk downstairs to put an end to this.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, taking my mother by the elbow and moving her out of striking distance. “What are you doing here?”
He reconfigures his face to something approximating the serious, self-important expression he wears signing books.
“Hello, Molly.” He gestures out at the lilies. “I brought you flowers, but your mother threw them in the driveway.”
“She has a severe lily allergy. You should know. You were married for twenty years.”
He ignores this and reaches into his breast pocket. “I also brought your Christmas present.”
He produces a check, folded in half.
I don’t take it. “No thanks. I have my lucrative Mack Fontaine kill fee, remember? Why are you here?”
He sighs in a long-suffering way. It’s like he’s imagining there’s an audience observing us who’s on his side, ready to sympathize with him for the hostile reactions he’s getting from these two women he was obviously justified in leaving.
“I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry you’re upset about the movie,” he says.
It is not my job to train him how to apologize without blaming the injured party for their feelings, so I just give him my best dead-eyed stare and say, “Do you really think this is about the movie?”
“It’s about you being a terrible father, Roger,” my mother says, shoving her head back into his eye-line.
“Mom,” I say, “why don’t you get back to hanging your tinsel and let me talk to Dad?”
“Fine. But don’t let him bring down your mood.”
That’s pretty close to impossible, given that my mood is about a one out of ten already.
“I love you, Molly,” my father says, in the stern tone of someone correcting a dog that won’t be trained. “And I know you are struggling in your career—”
“Oh my God—”
“But you can’t expect special treatment. How does that make me look, to keep you on out of nepotism when you weren’t cutting it? There are other ways I can help you. If you need money—” He holds out the check again.
“For fuck’s sake,” I explode. “You truly don’t get it, do you? I wasn’t excited about the movie because of the money. I was excited because I thought it meant you respected me. That you were acknowledging my existence as more than someone you’re obligated to take out to lunch when you pass through LA.”
“That’s not fair,” he says. “I want to see you. You’re my daughter.”
“I’m your daughter on your terms when it suits you. Have been since I was thirteen.”
His distinguished crow’s-feet pinch together in agitation.
“Look, Molly,” he says. “I know you think I wasn’t there for you, but I did try to visit you when you’d let me. I paid for your schooling. I allowed you to stay in my ski house by yourself after graduation.”
My impulse is to slam the door in his face. But I think of Seth. Of how he forced me to articulate my feelings.
“Is this supposed to be your vindicating little speech before our tearful reconciliation?” I ask. “Because I think you’ll need to do some more soul-searching.”
He runs his hands through his iconically messy white hair, making it even more iconic.
“Fine,” he says. “You know what? You’re right. After a while, I didn’t try as hard to see you. Perhaps that was a mistake. But you disliked my wife, you were sour with me whenever you agreed to meet, and I thought I’d do us both a favor and not force it. Frankly, I thought you wanted it that way.”
“It’s not just in the past, Dad. You hardly ever contact me, and when I reach out, half the time you blow me off. It hurts me when you do that.”
“Well, then you should understand that it hurt me when you blew me off.”
“Do you mean when I was in middle school?”
“I’ve said that I’m sorry, Molly. I don’t know how many more times I can.”
I’m over this. I want him to leave.
“Okay,” I say. “I accept your apology.”
He nods nobly. “Good. I appreciate that. Moving on, let’s try a fresh start. Why don’t you come over for brunch tomorrow? We can take the sailboat out. A new tradition.”
I wince at how badly teenage Molly would have wanted him to think up this idea.
But this Molly—grown-up Molly—isn’t risking herself for a dollop of his attention.
And she fucking hates sailboats.
“It upsets me to see you right now,” I say. “It’s not a good time.”
He purses his lips. “That’s your choice. But remember it next time you want to fling my so-called neglect in my face.”
“Will do. Bye.”
I start to close the door, but he puts his foot in the doorway to stop me.
“Are you serious?” I ask.
“Do not slam this door in my face. I’m your father.”
“But you aren’t!” I cry. “That’s what I’m saying. So can you leave me alone now? Do you really want to ruin another holiday?”
He stares at me like he really, truly, cannot comprehend my anger. And then he removes his foot. “I’ll wait for you to contact me, since you clearly don’t want to talk.”
He turns around and stalks back to his car, abandoning the lilies where they lay.
“Fuck that guy,” I say as I close the door.
“Yeah,” my mom calls, rushing in from the living room. “Fuck that guy!”
Bruce follows her with the party planner, wearing a concerned expression. “Molly honey,” he says, “I don’t like to wish ill on others. But fuck that guy.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” the party planner says, “but fuck that guy!”
My mom gives me a hug. “Are you okay, sweets?”
“Yeah. But that was exhausting. I’m going to try to take a nap so I can be my sparkling self for your party.”
“Good idea,” she says. “No one likes a grump.”
“I know. That’s why no one likes me.”
She puts a big sloppy kiss on my cheek.
“I like you, Molly Malloly.”
Upstairs, I throw myself onto the bed and my back rejoices that I’m on a mattress rather than a thin layer of acetate on a hardwood floor.
I am so, so tired.
I don’t know what to do about Seth. I don’t know what to do about my father.
All I know is this: I have to change my plan.
I don’t want to be Roger Marks.
It’s as cowardly to expect Seth to see a screenplay as an apology as it was misguided to believe that my father’s offer of a career opportunity proved his love for me.
I need to stop doing what my father would do: writing a check to prove his affection instead of loving me in real life. What is my script except my own form of that check? Here, please accept this piece of paper in lieu of me telling you how I actually feel.
Maybe writing the screenplay was just for me.
What I need to do is go to Seth and simply say that I love him and want him back.
I can sleuth out from Kevin when he’s going back to Chicago and meet him there. Say what I need to in private.
Fix this.
For now, I need sleep.
I grab an eye mask and pass out in minutes.
I wake up to my mother knocking on my door.
“Molls? You awake? It’s almost seven o’clock. Guests are arriving at eight.”
I’ve been asleep for nearly four hours.
“Sorry,” I call groggily. “I’ll take a shower and get dressed.”
“Take your time. You can make a grand entrance in your party dress.”
I wince, thinking of the short, spangly number she said she found at Saks but that looks more like something you’d get at Forever 21.
Whatever. Fuck it.
Besides my mom and Bruce, no one I care about is going to see me tonight. I might as well dress myself up in Bratz doll cosplay. I go for it. Shimmery hot pink lips, fake lashes, stilettos, push-up bra, the works. By the time I start hearing the doorbell, I look hot. Entirely out of character, but hot.
I grab my phone to check my messages before I go downstairs, since I’ve been incommunicado all afternoon. There’s one from my mom from an hour ago asking if I’m up. And there’s a new email from Becky.
Just the knowledge that Seth’s name is going to be in it is enough to make my heart beat faster. I consider deleting it, but it has an attachment. I grit my teeth and click it open.
From: [email protected]
Date: Fri, Dec 31, 2021 at 4:44 pm
Re: Re: Subject: As requested…
Molly! I am SO sorry—I mixed up two emails I had queued, and I mistakenly addressed this one to you and the one for you to Seth Rubenstein. Which means… I accidentally sent him your screenplay. I’m SO embarrassed. I’ll send him a note asking him to disregard it. It’s in Final Draft so I doubt he opened it anyway.
I’m sorry again!!! I feel terrible!!! I’m attaching the proofed version for you here.
This cannot be real.
I deserve bad things for what I’ve done, but not this.
If Seth reads that file without context, he’s going to think that I’m trying to make a movie out of what happened between us. Profiteering off his broken heart, without even asking him if it’s okay.
He’s going to hate me so much I can’t stand to think about it.
I try to tell myself that he’s the most ethical person I know, and that no matter how curious he was when he saw the attachment, he wouldn’t want to invade my privacy by opening it.
But he’s also human.
Of course he’s going to open it.
And I can’t stand it—the thought of him reliving the best parts of us, and the worst, without knowing I wrote it for him.
I think about what I yelled at my dad: Do you really want to ruin another holiday?
I can’t do that to Seth.
Fuck Chicago. Fuck what his family will think of me. Fuck the cold, grinding fear in my heart.
I run downstairs trying not to fall out of my four-inch stilettos, slip out the door past the tipsy Marks Realty clients calling my name, and steal my mother’s big, ridiculous SUV.