Still, she said the script was an apology. Not an attempt to get me back.
Apologies in relationships are often goodbyes. As the king of failed relationships, I should know. So I ask the question that’s been haunting me:
“Molly? How much of the ending is true?”
“The ending?”
“The part where you pine for me. Regret leaving me. Want to come back to me but fear I won’t want to see you.”
“Oh. The dark night of the soul.”
“Jesus, it was that bad?”
“That’s technically what the beat is called when the girl has to either brave up, or lose the love of her life.”
Those words knock the wind out of me.
“The love of her life?”
She looks into my eyes. “Yeah. The love of my life.”
And then I marry her in that instant and we have fourteen kids and establish an eternal celestial kingdom in heaven, no questions asked.
Or I would. This is all I’ve ever wanted to hear.
But she’s not done talking.
“Seth, I am so, so sorry. It’s not an excuse but … I was so scared. I never thought I was wired to fall in love this hard, and I couldn’t stand the idea of losing you. So I sabotaged it. Again. And I hurt you.”
I want to comfort her in this moment, but my throat is too raw. I just shake my head.
“And I don’t expect you to let that go, or take me back, or trust me,” she says. “But I had to come here, because I’d never forgive myself if I don’t tell you that you are my person, and I’m madly in love with you, and I’m going to regret what I did for the rest of my life. And if I had a chance to do it over, I’d choose—”
Her voice breaks off.
“What would you choose, sweetheart?” I whisper.
“I’d choose my soul mate. If he’d have me.”
But she knows I’ll have her, because I’ve already grabbed her and pressed her against my chest as hard as I can without hurting her and am murmuring, “I’ll have you, I’ll have you, I’ll have you.”
Slowly, consciousness of the forty pairs of spying eyes—many of them wearing hot pink “2022!” novelty glasses—dawns on us.
“Hmmm,” I say. “I think they’re getting off on this.”
“We do probably look like we’re doing some kind of strange pseudosexual baptism ritual,” Molly says. “But I guess that’s my fault for falling on top of you into a hot tub.”
“Oh, baby,” I say. “Do you think I’ve gone a single day without hoping against hope that you would appear in a slutty dress and fall on top of me into a hot tub?”
“I’m grateful for your love of pratfalls,” she says.
Jesus, this girl. Always, with the lines. You’d think she writes sappy movies or something.
“What else are you grateful for?” I ask.
She laughs shakily. “I’m grateful for assistants who send the wrong emails. I’m grateful your parents have lived in the same house for thirty years so I know their address. I’m grateful for screenplays that say what I didn’t have the courage to in real life. And I’m grateful for sweet boys who believe in happy endings.”
I kiss her.
“I’m grateful for you, Molly. I’m just grateful for you.”
And that’s how our rom-com ends.
The camera zooms in on the lovers, and the credits roll over a montage of their beautiful life.
But that’s not the end of our story. That’s not even the end of our night.
The camera isn’t rolling for the part when we dry off and go into the guest room and cry in a guttural and asthmatic way that is more medical than cinematic.
The bloopers are playing on-screen, but in real life I’m telling her how scared I am that if we get back together she’ll keep leaving me, and she’s sobbing and saying she knows, that she’s scared of it too. She’s admitting that my job gives her anxiety she’s not sure she’ll ever make peace with. I’m telling her I don’t know how to reassure her. That I can’t chase her down for the rest of our lives.
That we’ll just have to love each other, and trust each other, and nurture this treasure—this absolute witchcraft—that we’re so blessed to have.
That we’ll just have to hope.
But I still believe that some loves are fated.
And I know that Molly Marks is the love of my life.
