by Tia Williams
No matter who the subject was—the “Chola Girl” barista at the coffee shop on Prince, Jenna’s feline lesbian colorist, a girlish CW series starlet—they were all turned into icons by Eric.
When the gays started parodying the clips on YouTube, complete with exaggerated versions of Eric’s cinematic style, an overly perky Jenna character in a Glinda the Good Witch dress and a magic wand—and queens coming up with absurd Perfect Finds (things like two-foot-long false lashes and ouch-free scrotum tape)—they knew that their little series was pop culture gold.
As a professional team, Jenna and Eric’s connection was unmistakable, which baffled the StyleZine staff. They barely knew each other; how did they manage to so brilliantly execute a project on that level? Darcy was particularly stunned. Their energy had literally changed overnight.
Of course, no one knew the truth. Eric and Jenna were high on their chemistry, which amplified their creativity. There was a secret alchemy at work—a director who shot his host while imagining fucking her in fifteen pornographic ways; and a host who knew it, and therefore shimmered with lusty radiance while giggling with a Venezuelan boutique owner about ear cuffs.
The Perfect Find, the web series that breathed new life into the ecommerce industry, that would go on to land StyleZine millions in new advertising and spawn a dozen copycats; the one that quadrupled the site’s numbers—was smartly conceived and a stroke of luck. But more than anything else?
It was foreplay.
CHAPTER 17
The next month went by in a blur. After shooting the Maggie video, Jenna and Eric became inseparable. They were best friends, excruciatingly platonic partners in crime. They were uninterested in anything not having to do with them. But no one could know.
The workday was spent figuring out sneaky ways to accidentally-on-purpose run into other. Eric always found a way to be in line at the Starbucks downstairs when Jenna went for her 2 pm coffee run. They never went together, and always left separately. But ten minutes later, they’d appear in the office within seconds of each other, Jenna looking zip-a-dee-doo-daa delighted and Eric acting like Jay Z after selling out Madison Square Garden.
All day, they’d hope to see each other in the hallway or in the kitchen or somewhere. When they did, if anyone was around, they’d go through this dance of pretending not to be excited about it. But as soon as they parted, they’d text incessantly about that one brief moment.
Eric: Did you part your hair on a different side today just to fuck up my equilibrium?
Jenna: Jesus, your biceps when you were carrying all that camera equipment to the elevator! Are you TRYING to ruin me for all other men?
Like teenagers, they texted all day and talked on the phone all night. Jenna, a person who, a month before, had found technology baffling at worst and distasteful at best, didn’t enter a bathroom stall without her iPhone. She’d find excuses to get up from her office just to walk by the vicinity of Eric’s cubicle to get a glimpse of him. He’d get a glimpse of her, too, and then he’d have to focus on Chimpanzees and baseball—two things he hated—until he erased the NSFW thoughts from his brain.
Eric and Jenna were in the grips of a full-blow obsession.
The situation drove them to it. If they were two normal adults with a crush, they could’ve gone to the Cheesecake Factory, seen a movie, boned, and been dating by now. But this wasn’t a normal situation—there was Darcy, the job thing, and the age thing. They never saw each other outside of a work situation. They never stood or sat too close, and never touched. After the explosive moment in Jenna’s office, they knew that if they so much as grazed each other, it was game over.
They hid in plain sight. Everybody knew Eric and Jenna collaborated on The Perfect Find, which was StyleZine’s biggest draw. No one batted an eyelash at their lengthy “meetings” in Jenna’s office—they were expected to have a relationship. If anything, the girls in the office assumed that Eric had a hopeless, unrequited thing; and that a much older, quasi media celeb like Jenna would never give him the time of day.
The daily editorial staff meetings were the best because Jenna and Eric got to sit in the same room for twenty minutes. They could text and steal glances while everyone else discussed UTI’s and taking Plan B.
Of course, there was always the element of danger—Darcy. Karen O’Quinn, the executive editor, ran the meetings, but their CEO liked to drop in on all of her website’s daily meetings. She did it to keep her staff on their toes. No one ever knew when she’d show up and blast them into the Bronx with her withering critiques of their work.
But since The Perfect Find, Darcy had experienced a mild personality transplant. She didn’t micromanage as much. She seemed girly, younger. Human. Jinx said she’d even heard faint music playing out of her office—something cheerful, like Bruno Mars. The fact was, Darcy was over the moon at The Perfect Find’s raging success, and it showed.
“So congrats to Jenna, who killed the video with the badass Wall Street banker,” said Karen O’Quinn. A redhead with round hazel eyes, she wore an oversized white T-shirt belted with a gold rope, and brown suede fringed booties (“Robin Hood on Estrogen”).
“Every corporate chick will want her soft leather, tie-neck work blouse that’s ladylike enough wear under suits, but tough enough to wear with jeans,” said Karen.
The sixteen-person editorial staff applauded. Jenna smiled, and did a little chair-curtsey.
“I forgot to tell you guys,” said Jenna, “Rachel Zoe told me she wanted that blouse for herself.”
“I can’t believe you know her,” said Jinx, whose crush on Eric had deepened and, thus, was caught between jealousy and shero worship of Jenna.
“I’ve known her since she was Rachel Zoe Rosenzweig, styling B-list music videos,” said Jenna, feeling her phone buzz on her lap. She glanced down. “I’m glad it got so many hits.”
Jenna Jones
iMessages
October 2, 2012, 12:15 PM
Eric: Don’t forget to say you promoted it across all platforms.
“I promoted it across all platforms,” she said. Thank god for Eric’s social media coaching. She thought in hashtags now.
“Fabulous,” said Karen. “You’ve come so far.”
“What about congratulating the homie E on the video?” whined Jinx. “He’s the one that brilliantly included cutaway shots of her pushing through a hustle-and-bustle crowd on Wall Street.”
“Totally remiss,” said Karen. “Great work as usual, ‘The Homie E.”
Everyone laughed. Eric, who was satisfying his midday candy craving by sucking on a Blow Pop, said, “Thanks, The Homie Karen.”
Eric Combs
iMessages
October 2, 2012, 12:19 PM
Jenna: Lucky lollipop.
Eric: Stop staring, it’s making me uncomfortable.
“Eric, we need to brainstorm,” said Karen. “You have to infuse some Perfect Find magic onto your woman-on-the-street interviews with Terry. They’re cute, but they’re too easy.”
“Easy?” Eric was offended. Bombarding strange chicks, making them sign release forms, and shooting them droning on about their Zara sweaters—he didn’t enjoy it. But he worked hard on those clips.
“She means that you, with a camera, are a panty-dropper,” said Terry.
“That’s not what I meant,” said Karen with a bored sigh.
“But it’s true,” said Terry. “I’ve literally seen some of those girls grab his phone and type their number in. Tatted up black guys are winning right now.”
“We should do a style series on them,” said Mitchell, the photo editor who Darcy labeled a ‘husky queen.’
“So we’re clear, those girls do that because they want me to text them their outtakes,” said Eric, glancing at Jenna. “For the Gram.”
“You emboldened-by-social-media millennials amaze me.”
She wasn’t amazed, she was jealous. Who were these whores? “I’ve never been that forward with a guy.”
Jenna Jones
iMessages
October 2, 2012, 12:25 PM
Eric: Liar.
Jenna: But they don’t know that.
“Little do those chicks know he’s got a terrible crush,” said Terry, punching him in the shoulder. “Ask Jenna.”
“Uncalled for.” He punched Terry back, lightly. “Jenna, you don’t think I have a crush on you, right?”
“I think you have a crush on you,” replied Jenna, sweetly. “Finally, an accurate description of this person,” mumbled Mitchell, who was unimpressed by the fuss made over Eric.
“Guys, do I look chubby in these jeans?” Jinx wanted to move on. All this discussion of Eric liking Jenna was hurting her feelings. “I took a selfie today and I looked like Hannah Horvath.”
“Jinx, you don’t need to lose weight. Your ex was a dickhead for making you think there was anything wrong with you.” Eric was fed up with the emotional fallout from her toxic relationship with that roly-poly, bearded brogrammer. “Especially when he looks like furry button. Let him show up here again.”
“Thank you, Eric,” she said softly, cheeks reddening. Mitchell rolled his eyes. So did Jenna, internally.
“You need a new man,” said Terry. “I’m setting you up with my cousin Julian. He’s a Tinderoni, but he loves Latinas.”
“I’m Persian.”
“Close enough.”
“Nah, you can’t date a Tinder dude,” said Eric. “Their right swipe finger is on thirst at all times.”
Just then, Darcy walked through the door. She slapped down a folder, her phone, and took a seat next to Karen.
“I am the smartest, savviest, most genius media mogul in Manhattan, and each of you bitches will bow down,” she announced to the room with a triumphant gleam. “Want to know why? Because I had the foresight to know that our Homecoming Queen and Eric would create magic together.” Darcy looked at both of them. “I just had lunch with the editor-in-chief of New York magazine. Their Power 25 issue comes out in early Spring, and they’re finalizing their list. Not only did we make the top five, but we’re also one of the few getting an interview. With a photo shoot. They’re calling it ‘Fashion Phenomenon: StyleZine Lands The Perfect Find.’”
The room broke out in whooping applause. Jenna and Eric looked at each other, astonished and delighted, while staff members attacked them with hugs.
“It’s my interview, but they’re also talking to Jenna, and some of our Perfect Find girls. Eric, I’ll fight for you to get a quote, but don’t get your hopes up. New York is only interested in bold-faced names for the piece.” Darcy stood up, posted her hands on her hips and surveyed Jenna and Eric.
“I’m consistently blown away by what you’ve done with this series. You two really tapped into something.” She smiled a real smile. “My dream team.”
Eric busted into Jenna’s office and sat down hard in the chair across from her.
“Did I hallucinate that shit? My mother has complimented me maybe three times in my life. She’s such a tricky asshole, though. It’s like the witch luring Hansel and Gretel to her house with candy to fatten them up and eat them. We can’t eat the candy, Jenna. But…yooo. Did you see that reaction?”
“Yes! New York magazine! Can you believe it?” Jenna hopped up and down in her chair, clapping. “You did that, Eric!”
“No, you!”
“Us.”
“I wanna kiss you so bad, it’s giving me a headache.” He shook his head, trying to process what just happened in the meeting. “I was so embarrassed to be working at StyleZine, so scared the festival committees would guffaw when they found out. But The Perfect Find? It has integrity. And the fact that it’s getting press… I’m like…I can’t even…” He stopped. “I’m speechless.”
“Which also deserves press,” joked Jenna.
“Don’t try to play me, Homecoming Queen.”
“I need Darcy to stop calling me that.”
Eric paused a beat. “You know what I need?”
“What?”
“To see you. Alone. Tonight.”
She flinched. “We so cannot go down this road.”
“So what do we do?” He looked at her challengingly. “Keep pretending to be BFFs?”
“We are best friends.” Jenna was trying to find a way to get out of this conversation, though, more than anything, she wanted to be alone with him, too.
“Okay, friend. You gonna keep fucking with me?”
“What do you mean?”
“You lean over my laptop and let your skirt slide halfway up your ass,” he said. “You take those long sips of Evian and then lick the water off your lips and pretend you don’t know I’m seeing the whole thing in ‘80s soft porn slow-mo. You walk by my cubicle, slow, so I get a glimpse of you and smell your perfume and hear your heels clicking on the goddamned floor—driving me crazy when you know I can’t do anything about it but sit there and obsess over you.”
“I don’t do that.”
“Yes you do,” he said, laughing a little. “That dress you’re wearing with the…what do you call the side of your….”
She glanced down at her chest. “Side boob.”
“You’re gonna tell me you didn’t put that on this morning thinking about me?”
It was unnerving, the way he saw right through her. “It’s a dress, Eric.”
“You get off on it,” he said.
It was true. She did.
“What do you want from me?” asked Jenna. “Just one date. That’s all I need.”
“To do what, exactly?”
His expression was wicked. “To ruin you forever.”
“Little boy, your confidence is staggering.”
“Should I shut the door and remind you why?”
“No! And stop smirking. You know we can’t go on a date,” she whispered, even though no one could hear them. “Where would we even go?”
“Does it matter? I just need to get you alone outside of this building. We could sit in Thompkins Square Park and commune with the rats and methheads.”
Jenna shuddered. “Eww. What would I wear?”
“I’m kidding. Okay, let’s focus. We can’t go to any of your places, because your places are…”
“…probably her places, too.”
“Right.” He scrolled through his phone. “Hmm, it’s Friday night. I know! Home.”
“Home? That’ll go over well with Darcy.”
“No, not my home. Home. It’s a random dive-bar-slash-sushi-spot on Ludlow. It’s dark, anonymous.”
Jenna thought about this and then threw up her hands. “Why am I allowing you to lead me down a path of chaos and destruction?”
Eric’s expression was victorious. He had her.
“You realize,” said Jenna, “that we both know better than this, right?”
“You both know better than what?”
It was Darcy. She’d just appeared at the door.
“Hiyeee!” said Jenna, too brightly. “Nothing important.”
“Hi superstars.” Darcy nudged the back of son’s chair with her knee. “Of course you’re in here. Eric, I hope you’re thanking Jenna for letting you monopolize her time. Her guidance is making you look like you know what you’re doing.”
Jenna frowned. “Other way around, actually.”
“Oh, he knows I’m kidding.”
“This is why I never eat the candy,” muttered Eric.
“Eric’s the creative vision behind that whole series,” Jenna said mildly, conscious of defending him too stridently. “It wouldn’t exist without him.”
“To be clear, it wouldn’t exist without me. I greenlit the series,” said Darcy. “Aren’t you glad I’ve been so supportive of your directing career, Eric? I hope you realize what a gem of a mom you have.”
“Appreciate the support. Gem.”
Too high on success to pick up on the sarcasm, she said to Jenna, “I’m taking you to lunch. Delicatessen. Meet me in my office in fifteen.” Halfway out of the door, D
arcy called out, “Eric, stop bothering Jenna. Babysitting you is not in her job description.”
Eric and Jenna stared at each other for a good five seconds, a thousand words passing silently between them.
Finally, Jenna whispered, “Are we really doing this?”
“You already said yes.”
Jenna sighed dramatically. “Okay, I’ll be there, though this goes against my better judgment.”
Eric’s face broke into a satisfied smile. “Then we better make it worth it.”
Darcy and Jenna sat across from each other at Delicatessen, a glossy restaurant on Prince Street, at the perennially cool intersection of the Soho and Nolita neighborhoods. Known for it’s upscale comfort food and lowkey celeb-watching, the spot was a favorite of Darcy’s because she always got the star table, the plush booth in the far left corner.
They were picking at their lunches, having a surface conversation about Calvin Klein being way past his expiration date, but in all actuality, Jenna was bristling with anxiety. She felt like Darcy could read everything on her face, loud and clear. I want to fuck your son. I want to fuck your son. I want to…
“So,” started Darcy, stabbing her Cobb salad with her fork and changing the course of the conversation, “you and my kid are like frick and fucking frack, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?” Jenna grabbed a slice of raisin bread out of the bread basket and tore at it.
“Every time I turn around, you two are huddled in your office, chattering like seventh grade girls.”
“Eric’s so good at what he does. I’ve been in the business as long as you, and yet I’m learning from him. You should be proud.”
“I am,” Darcy said, taking a sip of her Chardonnay. “I never noticed how talented he is. It’s stunning, knowing that I made him.”
“I’m sure,” said Jenna, wondering where this capital “N” narcissist was going with this landmine of a conversation.
Darcy scrolled through her phone and landed on a pic. She held it up so Jenna could see. It was Eric around seven years old, dressed in a tiny Knicks uniform and holding a basketball that was triple the size of his head. An irresistible, gap-toothed smile was plastered over his face.
