Dating You / Hating You

by Christina Lauren

  It’s still early, but I take a chance and call him. He picks up after four rings. I hear the sound of a lawnmower somewhere in the distance, so I assume he must be up and outside.

  A good sign.

  “Listen,” I say, buzzing with genuine excitement. “Have you checked your email? There are proofs from Vanity Fair, and they look great. Also, they want you to do another job.”

  Nothing but silence greets me on the other end of the line. I pull the phone away to make sure it hasn’t disconnected.

  “Did you hear me, Jones? They want you back.”

  “I saw,” he says, but falls quiet again.

  “You saw? That’s it? Dude, this is exactly what we wanted. What you wanted—to work. To continue to live in the lifestyle to which you have so richly become accustomed.”

  “I’m just not sure that’s what I want,” he says. “Doing features shoots.”

  I gape for a few breaths, staring unseeing at the wall of my hotel room. “But isn’t that the way you pay back your bills?”

  “Yeah, but . . . I went to this gallery the other day, run by the friend of a friend, and some of the stuff was pretty good. Not fashion or anything, but like, abstracts and portraits.”

  “You’re saying you want to go back to the kind of work you did in school?” I ask, confused. Wasn’t the reason Jonah came out to Hollywood in the first place to be a star? I can’t help but see doing small art shows as a step down on the particular ladder he chose.

  “Do you remember the photo that won me the scholarship?” he asks, and I know exactly which one he means because it still hangs in our parents’ house.

  “The power lines,” I say. “That’s what you want to do?”

  “A little here and there? Like if I could do a few shoots to pay the bills but the other stuff on the side. Maybe get a show or something.”

  I sit back in my chair. This has to be the most un-LA thing my brother has said since he was eighteen.

  “What do you think?” he presses.

  I come back to the conversation and realize I still haven’t said anything. “Yeah, Jones. If you think that’s what will make you happy then you should totally do it. And if you can do both and still make some money, well, that’s even better. I guess what I’m saying is that you have that option, with Vanity Fair.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ll figure it out.” My phone clicks and I look down at the screen. Caleb, Dan’s manager. “Listen, Jonah, I have another call and it’s sort of important. Can I call you back?”

  “No worries.” I think he’s going to hang up, but he speaks again: “Oh, and Carter?” He pauses. “Thanks.”

  Then he’s gone.

  I don’t have time to reflect on this newfound vulnerability displayed by my douchenozzle brother, so I switch over and stand to pace the room. “Caleb, hi.”

  “Hey,” he says, “I have Dan here. You free?”

  “Absolutely.”

  There’s some shuffling as the phone is passed around, and then Dan is there. “Carter, finally we connect.”

  “Dan, how’s it going, man?”

  “Good. Just finished reading a script and it’s terrible.” He laughs. “They’re all pretty terrible, if I’m being honest.”

  I think of the last thing I saw Dan in—a giant action movie that takes place on a tanker stranded at sea; before that he played a cop trying to bring down a band of drug dealers—and wonder if the scripts he’s being sent are all just carbon copies of what he’s already done. I jot down a note to find out.

  “What is it exactly you’re looking for?” I ask, mentally filing through the stack of great scripts Brad recently sent me.

  “What I’m looking for is an agent who sees what I am, but also what I can be. Jared Leto won an Oscar for Dallas Buyers Club but also gets to play the Joker.”

  “He gets to be a rock star, too,” I say, and Dan laughs at this. “Pretty sweet gig if you can get it.”

  “Exactly,” he agrees. “Nobody’s telling him he can’t pull off the Joker. He wanted it and he just did it.”

  “He’s also got the talent to back it up,” I say, leading him.

  “You think I don’t?”

  “I wouldn’t be having this conversation if I thought that,” I tell him. “At least as an actor. I have to be honest, though, Dan. You’d be a shit rock star.”

  He laughs again. “That’s what I need. An agent who gets me the parts I need but also the parts I want. And one who steers me away from the things that won’t work.”

  “It doesn’t help anyone for me to kiss your ass,” I tell him. “Neither of us gets paid that way.”

  “You think you’re that guy?”

  “I’m positive I’m that guy. You are a career, not just a role.”

  “Let’s do this then,” he says. “I need to get back on set, but Caleb can take care of the details. Let’s make some movies, man!”

  “And win some awards,” I say in response and can hear his quiet “Hell yeah” as he passes the phone to Caleb.

  I finish up the call, and when I hang up, I’m not quite sure if I imagined the entire thing.

  There’s some official stuff to be done, but I’m Dan Printz’s new agent.

  Me.

  I push my hands into my hair and pace the room again before moving to pick up my phone, ready to call Evie with the good news when I stop, dropping it back to the bed.

  There is absolutely no way I can tell Evie this today. She thinks Brad is trying to push her out, and after hearing their little altercation this morning, I agree. Not only did I pick up Dan from her in a semishady way, but I’m confident I can do things for him precisely because I have access to a stack of hot scripts that Evie never got to read.

  I pick up my phone again, feeling the weight of it in my palm and wondering if there’s some sort of twenty-four-hour grace period I get on delivering a possibly devastating blow to my new girlfriend’s career.

  I open the calendar app and send Justin a note to block out an hour on Tuesday, after I’ve had a chance to confirm the details with Dan. Best not to rush it. I’ll finish out the weekend, get us back to LA, and then talk to Evie about it as soon as possible.

  • • •

  There’s basically one goal for any team-building weekend: make a bunch of grown, moderately successful adults behave like idiots for a forty-eight-hour period all in the name of corporate bonding. This weekend is no different.

  It’s not that the games themselves are silly—they’re actually a lot of fun—it’s just hard to immediately spot the real-world utility. I mean, how can fighting off a zombie in a locked conference room ever help me tell my coworker in a calm and rational manner that I’m upset he ate my lunch?

  Aptly, the first game is called Zombie Escape. A “zombie” is tethered to the center of the room and gradually given more floor space. The other team members are meant to solve various puzzles before the zombie is freed entirely. The best moment in this particular game comes when Evie’s team sacrifices Ashton to get another three minutes.

  The event planner, Libby, gives them kudos for real-world problem solving, but reminds them it wasn’t exactly in the spirit of the game. But let me be clear: I would have done the same thing if the situation were real. Ashton is an ass.

  Next up is Office Trivia. We’re divided into new teams and earn points by answering questions correctly. The questions start out easy enough, and are meant to test our observation and recollection skills: On what floor is the shared bathroom? What color is the couch in Evie’s office?

  See? Simple.

  But when the exercise devolves into a scene right out of Cards Against Humanity, with questions like “What most accurately fits the description of: An hour of fun, perfect for lunch breaks” and half the group shouts, “Rose!” it’s time to pack it in.

  The correct answer was break-room yoga, by the way.

  It’s hard to keep from watching Evie during all this, making my way over to her team and coming
up with excuses to touch her. By the time lunch is over and everyone meets for a nature walk around the lake, if you’d dusted Evie for my fingerprints, she would’ve looked like a powdered doughnut.

  The temperature is just above freezing, and we good little Californians pile on our bought-specifically-for-this-trip winter clothing and start the walk. I run to catch up with my girl—my girl!—and then tug on her hand so we’re both lingering at the back of the group.

  Evie’s cheeks are pink from the cold, and I move in as close as I can without looking like I’m up to something.

  “What’s this all about?” she says, grinning as she watches the distance between us and the others grow.

  I slip one hand out of my pocket and twist my pinkie around hers. “Just wanted to hold your hand.”

  “You’re such a puppy,” she says, but she squeezes my finger anyway.

  Speaking of puppies . . . Bear runs around, ducking and dodging through the group as we walk along the lake. At one point he gingerly steps into the shallows and begins crouching.

  “Oh God,” I murmur, gently elbowing Evie.

  She turns to follow my attention and lets out a quiet gasp.

  His back legs shake, his spine is awkwardly curved, and if I had to guess, I would say Bear is feeling some intestinal distress.

  “Bear!” Brad yells, and everyone looks awkwardly away from the pooping dog. “What in the hell are you doing? Get out of that water, it’s freezing!”

  Bear will not be moved. He carefully steps a little farther in, crouches a little more, whines, and looks back at us all.

  Evie glances up at me, and then we both turn to watch in horror as Brad continues to yell and Bear continues to . . . well, bear down. Everyone is standing at the water’s edge and it’s like a slow-motion car accident. Nobody can seem to look away.

  I let go of Evie’s hand and make my way to the front of the group, on the verge of confessing and suggesting we run Bear to the nearest emergency vet, when the problem seems to solve itself. Bear barks happily and straightens, bounding back into the snow.

  “Well, that was anticlimactic,” Kylie says. “I thought he was having puppies or something.” Every head in the group turns to look at her with the same confused expression when someone speaks up.

  “Oh my God. Brad,” Rose says. “I think Bear has worms.”

  We all look, because honestly, at this point what else can we do? Four pale yellow things are floating at the very surface of the water.

  And I wince, turning toward Evie just in time to hear someone say, “Are those . . . wait, are those condoms?”

  • • •

  It is safe to say that I have never been more excited for a trip to end than I am right now. The retreat itself was fine—great if you count it was two nights and eight condoms (only seven of those used to completion)—but to say I was distracted would be a gross understatement. This weekend has felt like some kind of test, but aside from the Condom Incident, as we’ve decided to call it, and Brad and Evie’s little altercation in her room, it feels like an overwhelming success.

  Everyone is packed and having a final cup of coffee Sunday morning before the cars arrive to drive us back. The fire is roaring, a row of suitcases waits in a neat line near the doorway, and I’m counting down the minutes until Evie and I are alone again. I want to be alone so I can tell her about Dan, yes, but also to talk over and digest everything that’s happened between us and to make a plan for how to deal with Brad, together.

  Evie is on the phone with the drivers, and I’m near the fireplace, watching her as inconspicuously as I can manage. Brad and Kylie are talking in a corner nearby; I can hear bits and pieces of their conversation, not that I’m really paying much attention. I’m just ready to get out of here.

  “I don’t know,” Kylie says. “I told them specifically that all of that was supposed to go straight to you.” Brad nods. “I’m not sure where the miscommunication happened. I told them, Brad.”

  “I know you did,” he says, and there’s softness in his tone that suddenly has my attention. “People have too much time on their hands; I’ll take care of it.”

  I don’t realize that I’m staring until Brad looks over Kylie’s shoulder and his eyes lock with mine. Shit.

  He sends Kylie away, telling her to make sure everyone is accounted for, and moves to stand at my side.

  “Carter,” he says, eyebrows pulled in tight as he glances around the rest of the bar. “You weren’t here last year, but did you think the retreat was a success?”

  “Absolutely,” I tell him. “Evie deserves every bit of the credit.”

  He leans against the fireplace and reaches for a few mints in a bowl there before popping one into his mouth. “You don’t have to cover for her, you know. If she wasn’t pulling her weight,” he says, “you can tell me.” He places an encouraging hand on my shoulder. “I know that you like her, Carter, and I do, too. Evie is a great girl. But she also has a reputation in this business.”

  “You mean Field Day.”

  “Exactly. And I’d hate to see you get caught up in anything that could jeopardize your trajectory. Especially considering I’d like to talk sometime this week about renewing your contract.”

  I straighten and take a step back. “With all due respect, Evie is one of the—”

  I’m cut off by a round of cheers and applause inside the lobby. The cars have arrived, and a smiling Evie is now walking toward us.

  “Time to go,” she says, smile faltering as she looks between us. “Everything okay over here?”

  Brad smiles that fucking smile of his. “We were just talking about how the weekend went.”

  “Yeah? I think it was pretty great.” She gives us both a sweetly proud grin.

  “It was amazing,” I say. “I was just telling Brad here that I know we did this together, but you really impressed me: leading this, with everything else on your plate.”

  Her face lights up. “Thank you.” She looks from me to Brad for some kind of confirmation.

  Of course, it doesn’t come. “Looks like it’s time to head out,” he says flatly. “I’ll see you both tomorrow morning. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Evie’s face falls, and I know that her fears were just confirmed. For whatever reason, Brad was hoping she would screw up.

  Suddenly it occurs to me that it isn’t just about Evie being a woman, or any hundred other possible forms of bigotry.

  I mean, it is partly that. Evie’s not crazy regarding all the double standards. But Brad isn’t trying to get rid of every woman in the firm, even if he treats them all like shit. So his grudge isn’t just that.

  No. Evie has something on Brad.

  The question I have, when I look over at her, is whether she even realizes it.

  chapter twenty-three

  evie

  I consider myself to be an especially intuitive person, but even a newborn would pick up on the tension between me and Brad. Monday morning check-in goes by without a single word about the retreat. Brad doesn’t even acknowledge me in the hallway as we pass. And Kylie’s sweet I still really like you! smiles every time she sees me communicate more than Brad’s stony silence. It’s not unheard of to have tense relationships at work, even—maybe especially—with bosses, but given that I’ve done everything he’s asked of me and then some, his behavior is bewildering.

  As much as I love being an agent, and as much as I love having the reach of P&D and its resources at my fingertips, I have to admit that it’s getting hard to give a shit about any of this.

  Carter and I banged all of Friday and Saturday night, Saturday morning, of course, and back at my place the rest of the weekend on Sunday. That’s pretty much all I can think about right now. Being sex drunk is certainly better than being work stressed, and I’m like a cartoon with a halo of spinning stars, but instead of being hit with an anvil over the head, I’ve been hit in the vagina with Carter’s magical penis.

  • • •

  On Tuesday mor
ning, Rose announces that she’s leaving the business, moving back to Iowa, and opening a bookstore. Pretty much everyone’s reaction to this is an internal, drawn-out Okaaaay?, which is less because doing so is a complete one-eighty from her job now and more because none of us could have guessed that Rose reads books, like ever.

  She announces this in the middle of the wide outer hallway, in front of about sixteen assistants and interns working at the common area. It’s followed by a chorus of simultaneous gasps—the interns love Rose because she tells them every bit of dirt she knows.

  Rose presses a shaking hand to her chest. “I know,” she says. “It hurts me, too. I’ll miss you guys so much.”

  From across the hall, I can sense Carter’s attention on my face. Our eyes snag, and we struggle to not break out into enormous grins.

  This means one less agent in LA.

  This means Brad could possibly keep us both.

  I break my gaze from his when my phone buzzes in my palm with a call from a producer at Sony. I answer, turning and speed-walking to my office.

  “Evie,” the voice says. “It’s Frank Nelson.”

  “Frank, nice to hear from you.”

  “Look, I’m on my way to a meeting but wanted to check in quickly. I have a script I’d really like you to consider for Trent Vanh. This one is a huge Michael Bay production, and we’ve already got Keira Knightley signed on. Trent’s our lead, if he wants it.”

  My heart isn’t galloping, it’s swallowing itself whole with every clenching beat.

  “I’d love to take a look,” I say as calmly as I can. “Send it on over with the offer details, and we’ll go from there.”

  “Great.”

  The call ends. Easy. Fast. Timely.

  Life-altering.

  • • •

  “Come in,” Brad says from the other side of the heavy oak door.

  I push in, hands still shaking. He looks up, unblinking.

  “Evie.”

  “I’ve got great news,” I tell him.

  He bids me to continue by putting his glasses down and folding his hands in front of him.

  “Frank Nelson just called and offered Trent the lead on the next Bay film.”