Dating You / Hating You

by Christina Lauren

  “No update,” I tell him, setting my food down and leaning my elbows on the table.

  “I do know that Brad doesn’t like Evie,” Michael says, “and yet he keeps her around like it’s some kind of game.”

  That sounds about right. “He had the nerve to bring up Field Day right there in front of me. Sort of a dick move.” I groan, pressing my forehead to the table. “I really liked her, Michael. No, present tense: I like her. There is no angle where this doesn’t suck.”

  “I know, man.” He reaches over to give my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

  I sit up again, looking out over the grass and the cars moving along the street in the distance. Michael is quiet for a moment and slowly taps his fingers against his thigh.

  “There’s really only one thing you can do,” he finally says. “You’re going to have to get rid of her.”

  “Get rid of her?”

  He nods, taking a huge bite of sandwich. “Make her look incompetent.”

  I gape at him. “What kind of asinine plan is that? I like her!”

  He blinks, watching me as he chews.

  “Besides,” I continue, “Brad might’ve tried to throw her under the bus a little, but he also made sure I knew what I was up against. No one is going to think she’s incompetent.”

  He stares blankly at me, which only makes me explode. “Not to mention, she’s your friend, too, jackass!”

  He pops a chip in his mouth with a satisfied grin. “Christ, I know you so well. You’re such a Boy Scout, Aaron. I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”

  I stare at him. “Thank God you brought me lunch, because otherwise you’re quickly veering out of helpful territory.”

  He laughs, wiping his mouth with a pink paper napkin. “Look, you like Evie, she likes you. You’re both problem solvers, and if anyone can find a way to coexist, it’s you two. Show these guys they’re wrong and that they need you both. Isn’t that what agents do anyways? Talk people into things they’re not sure they want?”

  “That is literally the opposite of what agents do. Do you ever listen to your wife when she talks about work?”

  “Whatever. Do whatever it is that you guys do. Save your job, get the girl.”

  I ball up my bag of chips and throw it at him. “You’re an idiot.”

  “Keeps people guessing.”

  I stand, picking up my trash and walking to the bin, tossing it all inside. Save your job, get the girl. He might be an idiot, but the thing is, a part of me can’t help but wonder if maybe this time he’s right.

  • • •

  After lunch I head back inside, bidding a tragic farewell to both Michael Christopher and the perfect sunny day. I’m still learning my way around a new office, memorizing names and positions, getting a read on who I need to keep close and who I need to keep closer.

  The building smells of fresh paint and carpet cleaner, and relative to CTM’s funky 1970s vibe, everything here feels new new new. My steps are accompanied by the steady hum of voices, the ringing of phones, and the clicking of keyboards. In New York, we could always hear the traffic, even twelve floors up. It was the ever-present backing track to each conversation, the sound we fell asleep to every night. It grew so familiar that aside from the occasional horn or siren, it’d be easy to forget there were cars outside the building at all. At CTM, we were just beside a fire station, and the sound of the siren turning on and wailing out of the gate became so familiar, we never even remarked upon it when we’d stop talking midsentence in the conference room, waiting for quiet to return.

  Here, it’s quieter—and yet it feels louder. The lack of street noise inside the fancy, double-paned windows makes every other interior noise stand out. And as I walk into my office, I’m reminded again that the view couldn’t be more different, too.

  She’s not there now, but Evie’s office is just across the hall. I’ve noticed she likes to meet with clients at the little couch and chair just inside the door, and if I bend to reach the garbage can—coincidentally, not on purpose, of course—I can just see her legs through the glass, the way she crosses them, the way she—

  The new assistant on my desk, Justin, knocks on my door before peeking in. I inherited him from a P&D agent who was cut loose, and he’s a bit like a rescue dog brought home from the shelter. If he’s still here, he’s obviously considered good, but we’re working out a rhythm. He’s excitable, seems like the kind of guy who would use emojis in lieu of words in texts, and uses we when referencing anything on my to-do list.

  We have a call with Patricia from Fox at eleven.

  We have a one o’clock lunch with Peter in Legal.

  We’ll just make a note here that we need to talk to Brad about this.

  He’s also not Becca. I took a long shot and asked if there was any way to retain her; there wasn’t. Apparently mergers don’t work that way.

  Becca used to argue with me, and she was right ninety-eight percent of the time. Becca would snap in my face when I wasn’t paying attention and yell at me for leaving my empty coffee cups around. Becca would fix my grammar on Post-it notes. Becca, and her loopy script I could never decipher. I miss Becca.

  “You’re back,” Justin says as he walks into my office. Like most of the interns and assistants here, he’s barely old enough to drink and looks like he just stepped out of a Topman ad.

  “Hey. Yeah.” With my hands on my hips, I survey the newly unpacked office. It feels so empty.

  “Good lunch?”

  “Just met a friend.”

  “We’ve had a few people stop by.” He looks down at his notes. “Angela from Literary. Esther from Legal. Aimee from—” He stops, eyes narrowing. “There are a lot of women on this list.”

  “Listen,” I say, and walk to the door. Satisfied that nobody is within earshot, I close it quietly behind me. “Do you know where Evie is?”

  “Evelyn . . . Ms. Abbey?” he asks formally, and I nod.

  Justin jogs out of the room and comes back about twenty seconds later. “Jess says she had a lunch meeting and isn’t back yet.”

  “Jess?”

  “Her assistant.”

  “Right.” I feel twisted inside and want to sit down with Evie sooner rather than later. We’re meeting with Brad to review our client lists this afternoon, and I would prefer we go into that with a united front rather than under a cloud of miscommunication and awkward silence. “Do me a favor and let me know when she’s back, okay?”

  “We have that meeting with Joanne in about five minutes,” he reminds me.

  I give him a few seconds to hear the echo of that sentence, but he doesn’t seem to regret his odd assistant-speak. “Thanks, Justin,” I say. “I’m headed down there now. Just send me a text if you see Evie.”

  Justin’s eyes widen at the prospect of being given a specific task, and it makes me feel bad for him for a beat. Mergers are terrible enough, but with a boss who doesn’t quite have his sea legs yet? Torture.

  “Absolutely,” he says eagerly. “I’ll keep an eye out and text you the minute I see her back! Have a good meeting.” He turns to leave and then stops by the door. “Oh, and if you don’t catch Ms. Abbey before, remember the two of you have a meeting with Brad at two.”

  As if I could forget.

  • • •

  I go into my meeting with Joanne trying to feel optimistic. Under normal circumstances, I would be floating on confidence. I know I’m outgoing and a good coworker. Everyone I’ve spoken to at P&D has been welcoming, excited, and enthusiastic about what I can offer this new combined firm.

  I know that Joanne had been based in the LA office but transitioned to television in New York a few years ago. The rumor is she moved because Brad didn’t play well with female others, and having seen him firsthand with Evie, I’m inclined to agree. Given that Joanne is just as senior as he is, I wonder whether it was his decision she be moved or hers. Hollywood is a world of big dogs and small pens.

  Unfortunately, my feeling of optimism
doesn’t last. This was a basic get-to-know-you, where all Joanne has to go on is what she sees in my portfolio, what she’s found on the web, or what she’s heard from Brad. But Joanne clearly knows Evie. Clearly likes Evie. Where I might have felt I had some sort of edge with Brad—in the dudebro sense, which I don’t really prefer anyway—that edge is clearly absent here. Joanne impresses upon me how lucky I am to be working with Evie, how great and well respected she is, how much I can learn from her.

  Basically, there’s a whole lot of Evie is awesome happening today, and it’s only one o’clock.

  With my stomach feeling like it’s bottomed out somewhere near my knees, I get a text from Justin on my way to the meeting with Brad, telling me that Evie came in, dropped her things off, and is already in the conference room, waiting.

  Shit, so much for strategizing first. It’s becoming clear that Evie has one hell of an upper hand. Not only is she smart and beautiful and fucking great at her job, but she’s got the executives singing her praises. I definitely have my work cut out for me.

  Rounding the corner, I spot her as soon as I walk in.

  It doesn’t matter how many times I see her, I’m always surprised by how gorgeous she is, like I forget somehow when we’re apart. Her dark hair is piled on top of her head, and she’s in a fitted sweater vest with a long-sleeved shirt underneath. She’s wearing a skirt and as I slip into the seat next to her, it takes superhuman strength not to let my eyes—or hands—follow the length of her legs below the table. I can imagine how she’d look spread out on top of it, maybe pressed against that wall of windo—

  Focus, Carter. Eyes on the prize.

  Other than the occasional quick hello in the hallway as we pass, we haven’t spoken since our brief phone call Tuesday night. I mean, obviously that’s a little weird, given that less than a week ago I had my hand in her underwear and was already planning on when I could enjoy that again.

  Brad hasn’t joined us yet, so we’re all alone in here, but just in case, I keep my voice low: “I was wondering if you wanted to go out tonight. Get dinner? Strategize?”

  She finishes what she was writing and looks over to me. I envy her mask of calm as she quickly glances around. I’m close, but not too close. Definitely not encroaching on her space, but maybe giving her the hint that I’d still really, really like to.

  “Dinner?” she repeats. I can tell her pulse has picked up. Her eyes dilate as we continue to stare at each other. “You want to have dinner.”

  It’s like dropping a match in a puddle of gasoline, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I want to lean in, press my mouth to her neck.

  “Yeah. If you’re not busy.”

  I swallow, working to keep my eyes on hers and not let them wander down to her mouth. Looking at her mouth could lead to remembering her mouth, which could lead to further imaginings of her mouth, and that would be a very, very bad idea.

  Evie pulls out her phone and checks her calendar, her brows drawn together while she scrolls. “I have a meeting at five. What do you mean by strategize? Strategize what?”

  Strategize you on top of me?

  Brad picks this exact moment to walk into the room. He takes a seat and shuffles a few papers in front of him before looking up at us. “Evie, Carter, how are you doing? Playing nice?”

  I can only wonder if Evie’s reaction is the same as mine—an internal What the fuck?

  “Sure,” we both say, and I feel her foot nudge me slightly beneath the table. And yes, this is exactly what we need. Us against them. A united front. I bite back my smile. We can do this, I have no doubt.

  Kylie walks in, setting a stack of files down in front of Brad, and he slips his glasses on as he opens the first one.

  “Okay, great,” he says absently, and I know we could have said, We’re doing pretty shitty, Brad. You’ve put us both on edge. A week ago we were cruising down the road toward a stellar bang, but now we’re trying to seek out each other’s weaknesses and exploit them, and he would have had the same reaction. Brad really is a dick. I’m glad Evie gave him that dog-food bar.

  “We’re going to talk about clients today,” he says, flipping the tops of a few pages down as he riffles through client sheets. “There will probably be a few more, but right now we’re just here for the big ones.” He looks up at me. “Carter, you’re going to work on Dan Printz, correct?”

  I nod. “I’ve already reached out to his team. We’re playing phone tag.”

  I feel Evie shift beside me, and there’s something in her posture . . . some stiffness that wasn’t there only a few seconds ago. Her foot is no longer pressed to mine, and out of the corner of my eye I see her slowly fold her hands across her middle.

  Is she . . . is she pissed that I stepped up to try for Dan Printz?

  My chest seems to sink in as the sequence of emails unscrolls in my memory. Evie emailed, throwing her hat in the ring as well, and Brad handed him over to me. At the time, it was only one string of emails in the hysterical post-merge blur of my inbox, but now it occurs to me Evie probably saw my email as completely underhanded.

  Oh shit. Was it? Wouldn’t she have done the same?

  I blink into focus, catching what Brad is already saying. “. . . assume you have people who will transition here from CTM, including Emil and a few others, so for the time being I want to start you slowly, focus on reassuring everyone that it’s business as usual. But adding Dan would be a big coup.” He sorts through a few papers and then glances up at me, and I nod, letting him know I’ve heard him. He looks back down again. “The first new player on your list of P&D clients will be Jett Payne. Jett starred in a few indies and was added to MTV’s biggest series a few years ago. His character was killed off in the finale when he was offered a larger part with a network show, and, in my opinion, he’s primed to blow up. Your TV experience will come in handy, but talk to Joanne about him. She’s helped folks transition back and forth there.”

  He slides the file across to me and I scan it, jotting down a few notes.

  Dan is a heavy hitter in features, Jett is an up-and-comer. So far, so good.

  “Next for you, Carter, is Jamie Huang, reality show darling.” It’s impossible to miss the mocking in his tone, but outwardly, I ignore it. Reality television is one of the largest markets in the eighteen-to-twenty-nine demographic, and Jamie’s show consistently runs in the top five. She has a huge social media presence, and while that means nothing if people don’t show up and buy the thing you’re selling, from what I’ve gathered, her fans do. A friend of mine met her briefly and mentioned that she was eager to move into film.

  “Jamie’s manager is Allie . . .” He searches his notes. “Allie Brynn. She’s good—Jamie has had a fast rise and a wild online following, but she’s as dumb as a bag of sand.” Evie clears her throat—meaningfully—but Brad doesn’t seem to notice. “Allie keeps her in line, and her main job is to get Jamie to do whatever you want her to do.”

  “Got it,” I say, noting Allie’s name. I’ve worked with managers extensively in the past. For the most part, they make my job easier.

  “Alex Young is one of our biggest clients, Carter, and I think he’d do well on your list,” Brad continues, and I feel my heart speed up. Alex is a singer-songwriter whose breakout album debuted at number two in the UK, and he’s poised to become a massive US star.

  My palms are sweating.

  “I’m giving him to you because of your theater and music background in New York. You’ll be working in collaboration with the music team here and I’ll get that over to you, but people are poking around him for features. Personally, I think there’s no rush there and you can be picky. You’ll have fewer clients than Evie at first, but I think Alex is going to be right up your alley.”

  I take a moment to glance from Alex’s file to Evie, and she looks impressed. We can do this, I think. We have complementary strengths, and we can sell Brad on the idea of us as a team. A wild little part of me daydreams that we could become something like our ow
n specialized subdepartment if we mesh really well.

  “Have your assistant get me your current list—only the folks who are sticking around after this merge—and we’ll update and go from there,” Brad says, and I nod, reaching for my phone and firing off a message to Justin.

  “Evie,” Brad says, and she straightens in her chair. “I know you’ve got a pretty heavy list already and are working on contracts for Adam Elliott and Sarah Hill. That’s amazing.” He shakes his head and seems to add somewhat begrudgingly, “Well. I’m thrilled.”

  Great. Both Adam and Sarah are A-listers, already chest-deep in the industry. Brad glances back to Evie’s folder, open in front of him. “The first one I’m going to give to you is Marian Isaac.”

  I hate the way my first response to this is to want to laugh, because although Marian will bring in a ton of money, it’ll be no picnic for Evie. Marian is a model turned A-list actress who’s known for being a nightmare. She’s demanding, she’s often rude to interviewers and fans, and some of her screaming matches with her last director are legendary. I’m not surprised some other agent used the merge as an excuse to trade her off.

  Evie nods, expression largely unreadable, but I’ll admit she doesn’t look particularly surprised. Evie could talk a grenade out of exploding, Brad had said. This is exactly what he meant.

  “She was recently dropped from Lorimac,” Evie says.

  “That’s right.” Brad laughs. “She made them three million dollars last year and they still dropped her like a hot potato.”

  “Who was handling her before?” she asks.

  “Chad.” Brad gives a sardonic grin. “He was happy to pass her off.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he was.” Evie laughs knowingly, and something itches inside me to enter this banter so I don’t continue to feel like the newbie.