PART NINE PALM BAY PREPARATORY SCHOOL TWENTIETH REUNION
November 2023
CHAPTER 42 Molly
If you ever find yourself hosting an event that requires a rented white tent, you can be certain that I, Molly Marks, will be dragged there by my husband.
Sometimes, even if we haven’t been invited.
“I love shit like this.” Seth sighs happily as we walk underneath a banner that proclaims in pink, swirly letters:
WELCOME TO YOUR 20TH REUNION, PALM BAY CLASS OF 2003!!!
“Calligraphy!” Seth enthuses. “Fun!”
“Don’t troll me,” I say, pinching the underside of his wrist with my nails.
But I’m smiling.
Because we made it back here to this beach where we used to explore each other’s bodies as teenagers, getting sand flea bites clear up to our hips. Back to this tent where, fifteen years later, Seth Rubenstein deigned to let me sit next to him even though I once broke his heart.
We made it back here, together, just like he predicted. His prophecy—“It’s Gonna Be Me”—fulfilled.
Marian Hart waves at us from her station by the place cards. “Welcome, lovebirds!” she squeals. “How’s married life?”
“Transcendent,” Seth says.
“I just heard the news about your movie,” she says to me. “I love Kiki Deirdre!”
She means Better Luck Next Time, which Seth convinced me to sell, and which was snapped up and fast-tracked for production by Kiki, one of the few remaining A-list movie stars who can still carry a rom-com into box office glory. They are casting the role of Cole right now. Seth is gunning for Javier Bardem, who he says is the only living actor who might be able to capture his raw sexual magnetism. When I explained that Javier is both too old and too Spanish for the part of a midthirties Jewish lawyer from Florida, he told me to “expand my world-building.” Notes like this are how he earns the executive producer credit he negotiated to compensate him for his life rights.
If the movie is as big as we’re hoping, it might even out-earn the next Mack Fontaine, netting me an effusive text from my father reading “Congrats, toots.” (We’re on speaking terms again, though I did not attend his fifth wedding.)
Marian turns to Gloria, who’s trying to find her name in the pile of place cards.
“Aren’t these two adorable?” Marian says, gesturing at us. “I always knew they’d end up together.”
“Oh?” Gloria deadpans. “I’m shocked that anyone would have Molly. Even him.”
I give them a high-wattage smile. “Seth likes my bad attitude.”
Seth leans over and smacks a kiss on my cheek. “I really like it.”
Marian hands us our place cards. “You guys are at Table Four. I sat you with Jon, Kevin, two girls from the tennis team, and Steve Clinton.”
“That weird billionaire guy?” I ask, genuinely excited.
“Some might argue he’s normal and you’re weird,” Gloria says.
“You look stunning, Marian,” Seth says, pointing at her pregnant belly. “How far along are you?”
“Only twenty weeks, but you wouldn’t know it. Triplets!” She gives us a “can you believe it?” face and actually, of course, I can, because she and Javier detailed their fertility journey on Good Morning America, where they are fixtures, now that he’s retired from baseball and she’s parleyed their domestic bliss into a multimillion-dollar lifestyle brand.
“How are your twinsies?” Marian asks.
“Hell on earth,” Gloria says, “but we love them anyway.”
They get into a conversation about parenting multiples. So far, we are only parenting a cat, so Seth grabs our place cards and leads me away.
“If I recall,” he says, “you prognosticated that Gloria and Emily would be broken up long ago. And look at them. Parents to twin monsters.”
“If I recall,” I counter, “you said Marian would be married to Marcus by now. Yet here she is, bearing an entire litter of children to the world’s most famous outfielder.”
“Marcus seems happy anyway,” Seth says. We both look over to where he and his hot professional golfer girlfriend are chatting with Chaz, the standup comedian.
“Hmm, Rubenstein,” I say. “We’re tied, one to one.”
“Nope. Remember how you thought Dezzie and Rob would stay married forever?”
“RIP Rob,” I mutter. He’s not dead, just dead to me.
Not that Dezzie cares anymore. She’s tossing back a Palm Bay Preptini with Felix, the chef with whom she started one of Chicago’s buzziest restaurants and is marrying in April. Alyssa and Ryland walk over to them, hand in hand. No couple in this whole room looks more natural together than Alyssa and Ryland.
Seth and I were both right about them. That makes me happy.
“At least I didn’t think Jon was gonna end up with that guy Alastair, like you did,” I say.
“Alastair had a British accent,” Seth says. “I love British accents.”
