It is more than good three times before we pass out.
I awaken in Molly Marks’s hotel room, which smells like her perfume and the incredible scent of whatever she puts in her hair.
Molly is lightly snoring, which I find adorable.
This whole thing would be idyllic except for my shattering, phantasmagorical hangover.
I get out of Molly’s bed (Molly’s bed!), call room service, and order the works, charging it to my room. I pilfer around in the minibar and find one of those $18 packets with four tabs of Tylenol. I take two for myself and put two out for Molly, along with a glass of cold water.
She doesn’t stir.
I open the sliding glass doors and make myself comfortable on her balcony overlooking the bay while I wait for our feast.
It’s not hot yet, and there’s a lovely breeze. I close my eyes to do my morning meditation. (I do it every day, no excuses. Discipline is the essence of self-care.)
I hear the knock at the door for our breakfast, and Molly rouses as I go over to open it. She hides all but her squinting eyes under the covers as the server unveils our spread of eggs, pancakes, green juice, orange juice, bacon, and croissants, and pushes down the steaming French press.
I tip him generously, and he leaves with a smile.
I turn to Molly, also smiling.
She pulls down the covers to reveal her mouth.
She is not smiling.
“You’re still here,” she states flatly.
My extremely good mood leaves my body and hovers just above my head, fluttering, not sure if it it’s safe to come back.
“Oh…” I say, worried I have deeply misread the room.
Was this supposed to be a one-night stand?
Can it be, if you’ve waited fifteen years for it?
Was I supposed to slip out under the cover of darkness on a girl I’ve known since we were fourteen?
“Sorry,” I say with all the casualness I can muster. “I won’t linger. I just thought you might want something to mop up the booze.”
She closes her eyes and rubs her temples. “Sorry, sorry,” she says. Her voice is froggy, like she smoked a pack of cigarettes last night. I would say it’s seductive except I’m getting strong vibes that seduction time has drawn decisively to a close.
“No, it’s fine,” I say. “I’ll get out of your hair. I’m just gonna steal a cup of coffee because my head is protesting the twelve Flamingos I pounded last night. It was great to see you … and stuff.”
She sits up. “No … Hey, Seth, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. You don’t have to go. Help me with these pancakes?”
I relax a bit but not entirely, because it seems like she’s pitying me.
“It’s okay, Molls. I want to get a swim in before I pack anyway. I’ll leave you to it.”
She hops out of bed and walks to the closet to grab a long, hippieish robe that is so Los Angeles it recontextualizes her into the adult she is now, rather than the girl she still is in my mind.
Wait, that sounds creepy.
What I mean is that I know her through the lens of my memories. I don’t have the slightest idea who she’s become.
I’d love to get to know her.
I doubt, from the brisk way she cinches her robe, that it’s mutual.
I really should go. I do possess pride, and she’s damaged enough of it for one lifetime.
I stand up and grab my wallet from the dresser.
“Sit down, Rubenstein,” she orders. “I can’t eat five hundred dollars of room service alone.”
“Don’t worry, it’s on my tab,” I say.
“I’m not worried. I’m a lauded and well-compensated screenwriter. Sit down.”
I sit down without further protest, because I am so fucking hungry that I’d rather eat than preserve my dignity.
“How did you end up a screenwriter?” I ask. “I always thought you’d be a lobbyist or a professor or something.”
She was so serious in high school.
“I’m full of mystery,” she says, piling scrambled eggs onto her plate.
Apparently, she doesn’t intend to say more.
