Dating You / Hating You by Christina Lauren
I’m already shaking my head. “I’m heading out early to catch someone on set. I’ll finish up around seven or so.” I pause, then wonder if I’m going to regret what I say next. “We could meet after? Unless you have something to do.”
“After is perfect. I’ll clear my schedule and meet you wherever you are.”
For a moment I think about having him just meet me at my place, but then I realize what a giant mistake that would be. “How about BOA, seven thirty?” I suggest instead.
He’s already putting it into his phone. “Seven thirty. I’ll get us a reservation and see you there. Thanks, Evie.”
• • •
Carter is seated when I arrive, and the hostess walks me to the table. He’s changed out of his work clothes and now has on a white button-down shirt and soft, dark jeans. The effect on me is immediate; because he looks like any other guy out on the street, it’s both easier and harder to be with him right now. Easier because I don’t feel the need to try to match his charisma like I do every day at the office. Harder because he looks so much like the Potential Boyfriend version of Carter. It sucks that the dynamic between us is so strained now.
I sit, unfolding my napkin and placing it on my lap.
We both thank the waiter when he fills our water glasses.
To my surprise, Carter declines any sort of cocktail . . . so I do, too.
The waiter lists the specials and says he’ll be back once we’ve had time to look over the menu. The silence stretches between us. The contrast between this dinner and our first together is pretty stark. And the longer we’re quiet, the harder it is to find a single word to say.
I could really use that cocktail.
The sun is setting through the windows and I look out at the street, marveling at how quiet this intersection gets when the offices shut down for the night.
I glance over to see him watching me, and he quickly looks away, back down to scan the menu. His eyes are so bright behind the glasses. I think I forgot how green they are, how perfect his mouth is.
“So,” he says, and I realize it’s my turn to be caught staring.
“So.”
His attention is so steady. I wish I had a Carter Thought Decoder Ring. His lips tilt up into a knowing half smile. “How’re things?”
I burst out laughing and his smile grows, morphing into the real deal, the goofy, crooked smile, not the flashy work one.
“We probably should have ordered drinks,” he says.
I am so relieved that his easy frankness is back that I nearly want to launch myself across the table.
“Yeah, like a hundred.” Nervously, I straighten my spoon and knife beside each other on the table. “Carter,” I start, “I’m really glad we did this. I wish we could start over in some ways.”
He nods, swallowing a sip of his water. “Me too. Though maybe not all of it. Some of it wasn’t too bad.”
My face heats at his meaningful smile. “Agree. And the work situation sucks, but I think we can work better together.”
Relief seems to wash over him and he reaches across the table to take my hand. “I agree. We haven’t been great.”
“I really do think they could have positions for both of us here. The more I look, the more I realize there’s a lot of deadweight in the Features department . . . but it isn’t us.”
“Obviously I haven’t been there as long,” he says with a nod in my direction, and I appreciate the small acknowledgment, “but yeah, I agree.” He leans forward. “Our strengths are so complementary. Rose and Ashton might be better suited for New York. They love to do the theater stuff; it’s just there isn’t that much of it out here. Maybe they would want to be transferred if given the choice?”
“Exactly.”
It loosens something for us to agree on this one tiny point. I feel a fondness seeping back in and his smile is even easier now. The waiter stops at our table to take our orders, and we let go of each other’s hand, but once he’s gone, we immediately look back to each other.
“There’s so much good in all of this,” he says quietly. “I like Features, I like you. I hate the situation, but I sort of like being at P&D.”
“I’m glad. And I like you, too.”
“I had a really good time that night,” he says, and he leans in, taking my hand again. “I don’t think I ever got to tell you that.”
This makes me laugh, and his eyes widen in surprise and amusement at the sound of it. “I had an inkling.”
He clears his throat. “I’m sorry if it felt underhanded that I volunteered to take Dan.”
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “I like Dan, and we’ve worked well together in the past, but your list needs it more.”
His eyebrow twitches and I realize how unfiltered that came out. What is it about Carter that brings out my competitive side so immediately?
“I really didn’t mean that to sound rude,” I say, wanting him to believe me. “I’m just being honest. I think you can sign him, easily. With Dan, you just need to call him up and ask him what he’s looking for.”
He lets go of my hand to take a quick sip of water, shaking his head. With the loss of contact, the intimacy of the vibe at the table is immediately flipped on its head. “Dan will talk about it when he’s ready,” he says. “I know a bit about how he works. He wants to feel like he’s in control, and calling him will just make me seem pushy.”
Carter has amazing instincts, but right now he’s wrong. He just is. Dan likes being chased a little. I’ve worked with him and I know: he doesn’t like to be the one making calls, he wants to be the one choosing whether or not to answer.
“I just really think—”
“Christ, Evie, just let me do my job, okay?” he snaps.
I open my mouth, and a few garbled sounds come out before I mumble a quiet “Sure, of course.”
I can see immediately that he regrets his tone. But it’s too late. The tension is back with a vengeance.
Our food comes, and we bend to our plates, eating in silence.
Carter puts his fork down after a few bites, leaning in. “Evie . . .”
“No, seriously, it’s okay.” I put on my best smile, because I really don’t want him to feel micromanaged by me. This is an impossible situation: If I help him, I could lose a job. If he doesn’t fight for a better list, he could. And there is basically no way we can solve this with kissing, no matter how much I’d like to. “You’re right. I was being pushy. You do your thing.”
Carter nods, and I decide to move on. “Now, let’s talk about that retreat.”
• • •
Dinner turned out as well as could be hoped. We have a solid plan for the event in January, and we each have a list of piddly homework items we need to find time for before we meet up again. As we walk out, one comment leads to another and Carter is telling me a story about how Michael got Steph a kinky cast-making kit for their anniversary so they could craft a mold of his penis and build her a toy for whenever she travels. Instead, she thought he was subtly telling her he had cancer and had found a way for her to remember him when he was gone.
I laugh so hard Carter wraps his hand around my forearm and keeps it there for a moment to make sure I’m steady. I hate how funny he is, and I hate how much I want him to keep touching me. I hate this entire situation.
We pull apart and keep walking away from Sunset, up Doheny. It’s warm, but not with the cloying death haze of early October. I look over at him as he takes a deep, calming breath.
“It’s nice out, isn’t it?” I say.
He looks up at the sky. “I wonder whether I’ll ever live somewhere where I can see all the stars.”
“That’s what vacations are for.”
He grins. “Vacation? Was ist das?”
This makes me laugh. “I know. I guess we can’t really expect much of that this year.”
He gives me a smile that’s both sweet and a little sad, and then shakes himself out of it. Pointing up the hill, he says, “I live just a fe
I look over his shoulder and off in that direction. His apartment is that way.
His bed.
I’ve never been to his place. I mean, of course I haven’t: we had a relationship for a weekend, if that. Even though it feels like a much bigger event in my romantic life than it actually was. I can’t decide if that’s internally meaningful in a rallying Don’t give up way, or in a pathetic This is the sad state of your romantic landscape way.
Regardless, he hasn’t said this as a lead-up to asking whether I want to walk up there with him, because we both know there’s no way that can happen, even if we both clearly grapple with the unsaid: Under other circumstances we would totally be banging there tonight. And given what I know—
1. We’re both stressed out of our minds
2. Carter is fun and funny
3. Carter has a great penis
—the sex would undoubtedly be stellar.
But instead, we exchange a lingering hug and part ways on the sidewalk. Watching him disappear up the tree-shrouded hill, I can’t decide if tonight was a step forward or sideways. Should I be grateful for sideways? Carter sparks these enormous emotions in me—most of them good, and then I resent the situation all over again—but then he gets defensive and weird, and I basically want to strangle him. All we can do is try to make the best of things. I like Carter, but simply put: neither of us is doing this job because we like coming in second. Signing Adam Elliott and Sarah Hill was a huge coup for me, and Carter’s got to be feeling the pressure. Of course he wants to land Dan. Maybe I should try to show a little more empathy and eventually, we might even find a way to be friends.
As if the universe finds this all completely hilarious, just as I climb into my car my phone chimes with an email from a VIP sender. It’s from Dave Cyrus, my entertainment contact at the Hollywood Vine.
Date: Fri, Oct 30 at 9:42 PM
From: Dave Cyrus
To: Evelyn Abbey
Subject: Dan Printz
Evie,
Reaching out to hear if Dan is headed onto your list. That’s the buzz, at least. Likely to run with something either way, but if you know something, I’d like to wait for the scoop and run a Hot Buzz feature when he signs on. Let me know.
Dave
With a groan, I let my head fall back against the headrest, closing my eyes. This is huge. Dave has heard from somewhere that Dan is signing with me. A Hot Buzz feature means print edition of the monthly magazine—with the best circulation of any trade journal in the industry—as well as a huge spread in the online edition. It would be great promo for Dan, and an amazing carrot to dangle to get him to join P&D.
I am ninety-eight percent positive I could call Dan right now, find out what he’s thinking he’s going to do, and convince him to join my list.
But I can’t.
Because I am not a backstabbing monster.
Date: Fri, Oct 30 at 9:47 PM
From: Evelyn Abbey
To: Dave Cyrus
Subject: Re: Dan Printz
Dave, it kills me to have to say this, but a colleague is angling to sign Dan, and I couldn’t in good conscience use this to snag him. It would be a huge, huge favor to me if you would extend the same offer to him. His name is Carter Aaron. He’s new to P&D and we were lucky enough to land him in the merge—he’s spectacular. I would owe you big time.
His email is [email protected].
Evie
* * *
Date: Fri, Oct 30 at 9:59 PM
From: Dave Cyrus
To: Evelyn Abbey
Subject: Re: Dan Printz
Are you going soft in your old age?
I’m teasing. Sure, I’ll reach out to Carter. Drop me a line when you want to grab a drink.
Dave
chapter twelve
carter
You have got to be kidding.
I stare at my phone, mouth open and toothpaste running down my chin until the screen fades to black. After spitting into the sink, I bring up the email again. Unbelievable. Dave Cyrus wants to talk to me about Dan Printz.
I type out a quick reply telling him I’m definitely up for a chat and include all of my contact information. Hollywood Vine has the largest distribution of any Hollywood daily; going after Dan with this kind of thing in my back pocket could almost guarantee landing him. Landing him and getting this kind of press is exactly what I need right out of the gate. It could literally change everything.
Evie was right; it’s time to make my move.
I’ve done every bit of research I can on Dan Printz. I know he wants to feel like he’s the one calling the shots, despite surrounding himself with an entourage of school friends who influence almost every one of his decisions—a constant battle and, I’m guessing, a cause of some of the drama he’s rumored to be having with his current agent. He regrets his biggest role to date, portraying a time-traveling vigilante, but is smart enough to never, ever allude to that during interviews. I know who he’s dated, what kind of music he likes, and that he still can’t distinguish between your and you’re on Twitter. Last year he slept with his costar’s now-ex-wife, and when he was twenty he spent a week at a Vegas brothel. However, he’s never late, always respectful in interviews, and never a problem on set.
Some of that might seem unimportant, but I don’t make money if my clients aren’t busy working—an impossible task if the actor in question is a nightmare and nobody wants to be around them.
It’s Saturday, but I’m still the new guy in town, which means that, while the office might technically be closed, there’s no such thing as a day off—not even if it’s Halloween. Especially given Dave’s email. I need to get on this Dan Printz thing now.
A glance at my watch shows it’s just after nine, and I’ll have plenty of time to get in a quick call to Dan before brunch with a VP of development at Paramount. Normally I’d have Justin set up a phone call, but this doesn’t feel like it can wait. The line rings once before being answered by a gruff voice.
“Dan Printz’s phone,” it says.
“This is Carter Aaron—”
“Aaron, hey. This is Caleb, Dan’s manager.”
“Caleb, I remember you. We met in New York. We had drinks at that little place—”
“—in Brooklyn, right! I remember. I kicked your ass at pool that night.”
“You did, you little hustler. Still not sure I’ll ever be man enough for a rematch.”
“That’s right,” he’s saying. I can hear him clapping on the other end of the phone and I know I’ve hit my mark. Caleb heavily influences a lot of Dan’s decisions, and having him on my side is another point in my favor.
“Listen, Caleb, I was wondering if I could talk to Dan.”
“He’s on set right now, reshoots and shit, but I’ll tell him you called. I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear it.”
I silently fist-pump into the air.
“I appreciate it. Let him know I’m available all weekend, no need to wait till Monday.”
“Sure thing. You stay out of pool halls,” he says, laughing at his own joke.
I smile as the line disconnects.
• • •
Forty minutes to drive six miles on a Saturday? Someone help me.
There were just as many cars on the road in New York, but there we had buses and the subway; we could walk. Everything was interconnected and taking public transportation was nearly always easier than driving. Within the LA city limits there are 181 miles of freeway and over 6,000 miles of surface streets—I know, I Googled it—and yet I still sit in traffic wherever I go.
Which of course means I’m in traffic on Sunset when my phone rings through the Bluetooth. I jump, clamoring to answer and hoping it’s the call from Dan I’ve been waiting for, only to see my mom’s name flash on the screen.
I answer only because it’s better than putting it off until later.
“Hi, Mom.”
“How are you, baby? Are you in your car?”
“On a Saturday?”
“On a Saturday,” I say, knowing what comes next.
“You know you wouldn’t be working Saturdays if you had a normal job.”
I ignore this, reaching up to rub my forehead.
“Is the call from Jonah?” she asks.
I pause, confused for a beat. “No, why would he be calling me?”
She’s silent in response, and too late I realize what she’s thinking—Because he’s your brother and you live in the same city, not to mention I specifically told you to call him—but instead she says, “I haven’t heard from him in a week and he’s not answering his phone. It goes straight to that obnoxious message.”
This makes me smile, because his bare-bones voicemail greeting really is horrible: “Yeah, it’s Jonah. You know what to do.” It does me good to know that it makes even our own doting mother want to punch him in the throat.
“I’m sure he’ll call you back when he can,” I tell her. “You’re the one always reminding me how busy he is.”
“This is different,” she says, voice tight. “He’s terrible about visiting, but he always answers my calls. I’ve called four times without hearing back from him, and now the phone’s not ringing at all—it just goes straight to voicemail. Your father is so worried about him.” In the background I hear my Dad shout, “No, Dinah, I’m not!”
I take a deep breath. “Mom, what do you want me to—”
“I want you to call him,” she cuts in, “and if he doesn’t answer, I want you to drive up there and make sure he’s okay.”
My preferred response to this would be to tell her—honestly—that I don’t have time to go out to Malibu today. But the conversation plays out like a chess game in my head: She would follow it up with some version of how she didn’t have time to carry me around for nine months, but she did it anyway. Or how she didn’t have time to do our laundry or make our meals or clean up some of the horrifying things she found in our bathroom, but she did that, too.