Dating You / Hating You by Christina Lauren
“Oh, it’s totally funny. As parents we put our kids through the strangest things because we think it’s giving them some sort of advantage.”
The instructor has the mothers-to-be move into a squat that looks a lot like they’re sitting on a toilet, and explains the benefits of this position, including what it’s doing to the perineum, and some other things I can’t focus on.
“How’s the perineum?” I say. “Good?”
Avya shakes her head like she can’t believe we’re doing this. “Relaxed. Thanks. Now, more about this Evie.”
I sigh, then just let it all out. “Simply put, Evelyn Abbey is my former almost-girlfriend-turned-archnemesis-turned-tentative-ally whom I would now very much like to permanently seduce.”
The glee on Avya’s face tells me I should continue. “It’s a long, complicated story involving first dates followed by corporate greed, competing for a single position, and sabotage.”
“Okay, that is decidedly not as fun as I imagined.”
“The thing is, she’s smart and gorgeous and funny and amazing at her job, and it was infuriating. We were essentially told they could only keep one of us, and it made us into maniacs. I’d be listening to her in a meeting, totally mesmerized, then I would snap back to the conversation and want to let the air out of her tires for distracting me from my goal.”
“And your goal was . . .”
“Total annihilation, of course.”
We move to the next seated position, with Avya in front of me and between my legs, her back against my chest.
“And now?” she asks.
“Now she seems like the best person there.”
“Have you two . . .” she starts, letting the question hang in the space between us while she practices her breathing exercises.
“I mean . . . almost? There was some under-the-clothes touching to completion, if you know what I’m saying.”
She snickers. “And it was good?”
Fuck. “Yeah.”
“I’m assuming you’d definitely like to do it again.”
“Shouldn’t you be focusing on something wholesome?” I ask.
“How can I be expected to focus when there’s all this forbidden love and pining going on?”
“You can focus because at this point I fear there’s a better chance of me touching to completion with any one of these ladies”—I say, motioning to the pregnant women around us—“than there is with Evie.”
“Why? Because of the job? That feels like a detail to me.”
“It’s a pretty big detail, though. We’re both married to our jobs. Jobs that may not even be around in three months. Not to mention we have this retreat thing in Big Bear coming up. I want to be around her, but we always fight. I really don’t want us to end up stabbing each other. She’s too bossy for prison and I have a hard time saying no.”
“Okay, so big question here,” Avya says. “Would you be with her if there were no job or anything else on the line?”
“That’s a pretty fucking big if, Avya.”
“You didn’t answer the question, Carter.”
“Would I be with Evie if there was nothing else in the way? Probably.” I scratch my jaw, wincing at this cop-out. “No, not ‘probably.’ For sure I would.”
“So fix it.”
“Oh my God, why didn’t I think of that?”
“Carter, women are not that complicated,” Avya says, half turning and smiling back at me. “Smarter? Yes. Complicated? Not really. We want progress, not perfection.”
• • •
That night at my parents’ house, I think about what Avya said.
Progress, not perfection.
I don’t have to be perfect; I don’t necessarily even have to fix everything with Evie, but I can at least own up to the things I did that even I’m not okay with. I can try to be a little less terrible.
Reaching across the bed, I find my phone where it’s charging on the table. I scroll through the conversations until I find the one labeled Evil and open it.
I do the time zone math in my head; just after ten here, just after seven there. Definitely not too late.
Hey.
I hold my breath, staring at the phone and hoping to see the little dots indicating she’s typing. Just when I let out a long exhale and start to put my phone down, the bubble pops up. My heart bounces into my throat.
Hey, you.
Here goes. Time to get it all out there.
I feel like I need to go back a bit.
Starting with: I should have called you to talk about Dan Printz first.
I should have told you your shirt was unbuttoned. I should have ASKED you about Jonah doing the shoot.
Have you been visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past?
Something like that.
Well, thanks.
No problem.
I can’t apologize for the glitter though.
The glitter was pretty great.
And honestly, I’m sorry, too.
But not for the onion.
You’re forgiven.
The onion was terrible/genius.
The mixing room, however, was enjoyable.
Will she appreciate my understating the obvious? Will she agree? Another minute goes by. My heart is basically inside my mouth, in my eyes, pounding my head off. Finally, my phone vibrates again.
You can say that again.
I exhale and roll into my pillow. Thank God.
Are you in New York?
Yeah. What are you up to?
I had dinner with Daryl and have to finish up my expense reports before I go to Burbank tomorrow.
Expense reports over the holiday?
Hiss.
I know, but I think I’m the only one they’re waiting on to finish up the audit.
What is it they think they’re going to find? The vodka I expensed after dealing with Brad?
I bet that’s a whole lot of vodka.
Well, by the case makes it cheaper at least.
You’ll see Michael and Steph while you’re there?
They usually stay with Steph’s parents, so yeah.
Is it weird that I’m excited to get together with them out here?
Like, we live in the same city.
It makes no sense.
It’s because you miss partying at Areola.
I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh, having forgotten I’d told her about that. Are we flirting? Is that what that is? She’s bringing up our past conversations and I’m being . . . what?—charmed by it? Think of something clever, Carter.
Noted.
Nailed it.
Can you do me a dumb favor?
I live for dumb favors.
If you do something outdoorsy, can you take a picture of the snow?
That’s not really that dumb.
I’m disappointed.
California Christmas not doing it for you?
Maybe . . .
How’s this, I’ll make a snow angel and even write your name next to it.
As long as it’s not in yellow.
In yellow?
You’ll get there.
Wait for it . . .
Oh. OH.
Bazinga.
You’re broken.
I think you like it.
Goodnight, Carter.
Night, Evie.
chapter twenty-one
evie
My first morning back to work after the holidays, I am a mess of nerves. It’s impossible to keep my calm, reasonable voice in my head because it’s basically closed up shop for the winter.
Carter walks into work in what my stalker tendencies tell me is a new outfit, and looks . . . breathtaking. His pants are charcoal gray and slim cut, stopping just at his ankles and exposing a little flash of some exuberant socks. Are guys taking over the ankle flirtation game? I am here for it. His shirt is a cool purple print, and in general he just looks way too hip, even for an office full of Hollywood power players.
I’m s
Obviously, I’m not there. I call out to him, my heart dropping somewhere in the vicinity of my vagina when he turns toward my voice and smiles.
Man. I am in deep.
“I brought you something.” He walks toward me and holds out a cellophane-wrapped package. The tape is barely holding together and the ribbon looks like it was used as a handle. “Cookies. From my mom.”
“You brought me cookies all the way from New York?” I ask, handling the small package carefully.
Whether he intended it or not, Carter seems to realize the implication of this.
“I . . . There were a lot of extras?” He gives me an adorable self-deprecating smile. “I made it weird, didn’t I?”
My heart is thrumming, my skin is all flushed, and the vision of grabbing him by the collar and kissing him is flashing like a Vegas billboard in my head.
“No, it’s sweet.” I gingerly pull apart the wrapper. The scent of chocolate and butter fills the air.
“Carter,” Kylie says, winded as she jogs up. “I’m glad I found you.”
He turns to her. “I just got in. What’s up?”
“Brad wanted to know if you had a chance to look over the scripts he sent you.”
“Oh, not yet,” he says, clearly caught off guard. “I only saw the email last night.”
Kylie laughs easily. “He wanted me to follow up. I was like, ‘Brad, there were five of them! Give him time!’ ”
Carter laughs easily now, too, but my own smile is totally forced. A gallon of ice water could not have changed the tone of this conversation any quicker.
It’s not that Brad doesn’t forward along a script to an agent when he has someone in mind from said agent’s list. It’s just that he doesn’t send five out, to one agent.
I’m trying to keep calm, but is this the golf weekend thing all over again? “Brad sent you some scripts?” I ask.
“Yeah, for one he wants to give the screenwriter some feedback and asked for my thoughts.”
“I see.” I put the plate of cookies down on a nearby table.
“Brad also wants Carter to help him decide how to best distribute to the team,” Kylie adds helpfully.
I bite my lower lip to keep my jaw from falling open. So now I need to position myself with Carter in order to have him send work my clients’ way?
When I’m sure I can ask it without yelling, I say, “Just Carter?”
“Yes, just Carter,” Kylie says, shrugging a little helplessly.
We’ve finally arrived here. I can’t even say I’m surprised.
“I do have some experience in this,” he says, with a gentle lean to his voice. “In New York I did some playwright work. For what it’s worth, I also have a decent eye for pairing talent with roles . . .”
I nod, forcing another smile. Why do Carter and I do so much better when we’re not in the same room? After the texts, I was so excited to see him, and now I’m confused all over again about who he is. It’s like fate keeps telling us there’s just no way to make it work.
He glances quickly over to Kylie, who is watching us with flat curiosity.
“Well,” I say, swallowing my pride, “let me know if you need some help, okay?”
Carter nods, but I don’t stick around to see if he’ll say anything else.
I’m so worked up I can barely concentrate. The worst part of being this mad is that I’m no longer rational. I hear Carter talking on his phone with his door open and I want to hurl a stapler at him for being loud enough for me to hear. I hear Brad thanking Kylie for the coffee she’s handed him in the hall, and I want to yell, “If she was a male assistant, would you expect him to bring you coffee every goddamn hour?”
And I’m so angry that when my phone buzzes with a text from Carter, I can’t even read it. I flip my phone facedown when a second comes in, a third, a fourth, and dive into the process of answering emails, returning calls, and making deals. In essence, the anger fuels me—and if I don’t have five hot scripts in my inbox, at least I have a motherfucking productive day.
Only when I’m home later—way past nine, and with a fishbowl-size glass of wine in my hand—do I read what he wrote.
It’s time for us to cut the shit.
I don’t know what kind of game Brad is playing.
But I get that I’m coming out favored in part because I’m a guy. And that’s fucked up.
I like you. I liked us.
I don’t know how to manage this weird competition. I need you to tell me how I can fix this.
The problem with deciding to cut the shit is that it’s easier said than done. I could reply to his texts, addressing everything, but in a lot of ways that feels like cheating. We know we can text. We know we can get along outside of work. What we can’t seem to do, yet, is interact like rational humans when we’re together at the office, and given that approximately ninety-eight percent of my life revolves around my job, I can’t just accept the text-and-out-of-work approach to our relationship.
So I reply with a simple I feel the same about all of this. Let’s talk more in person—that’s where we always get stuck, and try to get to bed early.
• • •
Life has to go on, and because we all took time off to be with family for the holidays, there are a million things to handle. We each have endless producers to follow up with, staffing season to plan, directors and actors to call and cajole, schedules to massage.
It all makes me want to sledgehammer Brad for thinking mid-January was a good time for the department retreat, and my nerves climb higher in my throat with each day that passes without my speaking a word to Carter. I feel Brad’s New York Decision looming like a dark thundercloud.
It’s only about a two-hour drive from LA to Big Bear, but because we’d all planned to drive ourselves, and everyone works until the last second, we end up leaving at the worst possible time—four in the afternoon on a Friday. And yet, when I come outside, everyone is happily piling into a handful of limos parked out front.
A swank ride up to the retreat: a surprise from Brad.
“Limos!” Rose cries, and eight-year-old me can totally relate to the excitement of this, though thirty-three-year-old me remains cynical.
“Gotta treat my people well, don’t I?” Brad says magnanimously, and claps me on the back. “I have high hopes that this retreat is the best one yet. Don’t let me down, kiddo!”
“And Carter!” Carter adds with a nervous laugh, but Brad doesn’t hear him.
Carter and I exchange brief looks, and despite the unspoken everything between us, I know we’re both thinking the same thing: Brad wouldn’t increase the budget for the lunch we planned, so we had to do a lame sandwich bar, yet he can be the big guy and bring everyone to the retreat in limos?
Jess grabs me as we’re about to head out, dropping a small stack of files in my arms. “The invoices for this little adventure,” she says, slightly out of breath. “Sorry that took so long, but the mailroom said they were labeled to go to Brad and I basically had to wrestle them away.” She opens the one on top. “There are a bunch of vendors here I didn’t book, so have a look to make sure it’s all there, and we can talk when you’re back.”
“Thanks, Jess,” I say, and take a deep, cleansing breath. I can do this, I remind myself. “I wish you were coming with us.”
“Ha. Not to hurt your feelings, but hell no. Good luck and”—she looks meaningfully over my shoulder to where Carter is climbing into one of the cars—“have fun.”
Right. Fun.
Amelia and Daryl stand near the sidewalk, waving and smiling their Good luck, you’ll need it smiles. I give them my best I wish you were suffering along with me, assholes smile in return before climbing into the limo.
As nice as it would be to talk and smooth out some last-minute details during the drive up, Carter and I end up sitting on
I for one am giving that decision hallelujah hands and a hell yes, because we need this entire crew to have as good a time as possible, and that means getting everyone day drunk, immediately.
With a glass of bubbly headed my way and my inability to do any work in the car for fear of getting carsick, I can only join in the shenanigans.
Timothy shit-talks Ed Ruiz from Alterman for a little while—apparently he did some shady things to pull a potential client out from under Timothy—and I silently enjoy the hell out of the story he’s telling, because Ed is a complete fuckwit.
“Didn’t you work with him?” Andrew asks me.
“Yeah, but not much directly.”
And that’s all I’m going to give. I won’t share the time that he vomited on my shoes in a cab on our way back from a work dinner, or that he slept with Ken Alterman’s assistant and got so obsessed with her that he kept her underwear in a drawer in his desk, or that he once reassured an actor on his list that it was totally fine that he “accidentally” had sex with a seventeen-year-old and that Ed would be happy to hide any evidence.
Gossip is fun—don’t get me wrong, I live for it—but I’m rarely the one letting on that I have anything exciting to share. So when Andrew starts telling us about how he saw a very huge A-list actress at a full-nudity sex club with a very important—and very old—male director, I tuck this story away in a little jewel box in my memory.
No one bothers to ask why the hell Andrew was there, mind you.
After everyone’s spent their gossip currency, we still have over an hour left to drive, and we shift into the kind of silence that will result in at least three of us falling asleep with the champagne drowsies. I can see Kylie working up the nerve to move over toward Carter, and it is exactly like watching some elaborate bird mating ritual. She crouch-walks from her spot next to me at the back of the limo and sits next to Carter on the side bench, slowly scooting closer, leaning in like she wants to read over his shoulder. But . . . I mean . . . he’s reading a contract, I can tell by the legal paper and prong fastener at the top. This isn’t canoodling reading. This is legalese pouring off the page like a violent mudslide.