I will spare you an accounting of what the last month of my life has been like. Let’s just say when I got to Nashville, I cried so hard I threw up.
Don’t feel bad; it’s been weirdly galvanizing.
The silver lining to getting my heart put through a garbage disposal is that I’ve been converted to Molly’s way of thinking: I now know, once and for all, there is not a woman waiting to make my life perfect and meaningful. I can’t count on another person to do that. I can only count on myself.
So I’m opening my own firm.
I’ve moved quickly. I’ve already lined up two founding copartners and arranged the financing. We’ve hired an office manager, and with his help, we’ll be up and running by March. At that point I’ll resign from my firm and take my clients with me.
If that seems devious, well, maybe Molly was right to distrust divorce lawyers.
At least I can console myself by giving back to my community.
My nonprofit is expanding. I’ve been working closely with Becky Anatolian and some law school friends who now work in New York to get a new branch up and running there, staffed by Columbia and NYU law students. Becky’s been such a rock star as a volunteer that we asked her to lead the effort to open the new office.
I’m waiting for an email from her regarding a location in Brooklyn she just went to look at with our Realtor.
I’m about to leave my office for the airport—I’m visiting my parents in Florida for New Year’s, to avoid the despair of spending it alone—when Becky’s address pops up in my inbox.
From: bma445@nyu.edu
To: sethrubes@mail.me
Date: Thurs, Dec 30, 2021 at 10:41am
Subject: As requested …
Hey Molly! Hope you are having a good time in Florida! I’m attaching the proofed screenplay. Let me know if you need anything else.—Becks
Attached is a file called BLNTFinal_BAedits.FDR.
Obviously, this email was not meant for me.
Obviously, it was meant for someone named Molly.
Obviously, the Molly in question is Molly Marks.
Becky must have entered my email address accidentally when she sent this.
I know it’s wrong to open something that isn’t meant for you. I should let Becky know she sent it to the wrong person and delete the email.
But, yeah … I’m not doing that.
I forgive myself under the circumstances and click the attachment.
My computer doesn’t recognize the file.
Fuck.
I google .FDR extensions and figure out that this is a screenplay written in a software program called Final Draft, which I don’t have.
My assistant pokes her head in the door. “Your car is waiting. You should probably leave now if you don’t want to be late for your flight. Google Maps says the traffic is bad.”
“Okay, thanks, Pattie,” I say, trying not to reveal that I am in a state of emotional crisis.
I grab my suitcase and rush downstairs to my car.
“O’Hare?” the driver asks.
“Yeah,” I say, buckling up.
As soon as the car starts moving, I buy the Final Draft app and reopen Becky’s email.
When I click on the attached file, a screenplay pops up.
BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME
BY MOLLY MARKS
INT. WHITE TENT - NIGHT
NINA MACLEAN (mid-30s, world-weary) is sitting alone at a banquet table in a white tent on a beach. It’s decorated with over-the-top tropical decor: think fake palm trees and baskets of flip-flops. Above it all is a sign: WELCOME SEA VIEW HIGH SCHOOL CLASS OF 2003!!!
FORMER CLASSMATES are on the dance floor grinding to a late 1990s rap song.
COLE HESS (mid-30s, charming) makes his way toward Nina from behind.
Nina flags down a waiter just as Cole approaches.
