Dating You / Hating You by Christina Lauren

chapter sixteen

carter

It’s been two days and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what Evie said to me.

“You’re doing it again, aren’t you?”

I lie: “No.”

Michael Christopher looks up at me from across the table at Creme de la Crepe. “Yes, you are.” He nods to Jonah. “Doesn’t he always do this?”

Jonah nods.

I look between them. “What do I always do?”

“Obsess over something someone might have said, or the possibility that—heaven forbid—someone might not like you. You’ve been like this your entire life. Maybe that’s why you’ve escalated this thing with Evie. She doesn’t like you and so you make sure it’s because of something you’ve done, rather than the possibility she might not like you as a person.”

Ow. That hits me right where it hurts. “No, she was pretty clear: she used to like me, but was glad to find out who I really am before we got too involved. Essentially: I’m a prick.”

“You’re not a prick,” Michael says, and waves a spoon in front of Morgan, trying to divert her attention away from basically every other moving thing in the restaurant. “You’re just dumb.”

“Don’t lie to him, MC. He’s a total prick,” Jonah says, and I glare at him. Aside from a few texts to set things up for the photo shoot, Jonah and I haven’t really talked since I found out about his little money situation. I invited him to join us for breakfast so I could go over the details for Friday and reiterate how important it is that he not fuck this up. So far all he’s done is stare at his phone and make wisecracks at my expense.

It’s nauseating to think how much I have riding on my brother here. Brad thinks I brought him in because I have some sort of master plan, which means that if Jonah screws up and the shoot is any flavor of diva, there’s no way Brad won’t find out. There would be no coming back from that. The new contract will be Evie’s and I’ll be on a plane back to my parents’ house.

“He’s not a prick,” Steph says to Jonah. Apparently she caught this last bit from him as she was returning from the bathroom. “Why would you say that?” It’s heartwarming to see both MC and Steph sticking up for me, but let’s be real, I deserve at least some shit for the other day with Evie.

“You’ve been quiet today,” I say to her. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just . . . you know. Work,” she says, repeatedly stabbing her ice water with a straw.

She seems off, but when I look at what she’s eating, who could blame her? Her husband is shoveling down the Oh La La—an enormous plate of waffles smothered in Nutella, strawberries, bananas, and mango—and she’s having egg whites with sautéed spinach before she heads to yoga. Yoga. As if that’s not bad enough, she’ll essentially be doing it on an empty stomach.

I think I’m only now realizing how hard it must be to be a woman. Too thin or not thin enough. Do your job flawlessly, but don’t show up any of the men. Speak up, but don’t be bitchy. Smile. And then you have people like Brad totally playing into it.

I rub my finger along the side of my water glass, watching the condensation drip onto the napkin underneath it. I’m feeling like a dick for playing into it myself.

“Do you ever have one of those moments when something seems like a good idea, and then you realize later that you are in fact a total fucking moron?”

Michael doesn’t miss a beat. “Every day.”

Jonah looks up from his phone again, as if the topic of my failures is the only conversation worthy of his attention. “What did you do?”

I jab of piece of sausage with my fork. “Nothing. Never mind.”

“Come on,” he says. “In case you haven’t noticed, my life is in the toilet right now. I’m a total fucking moron, give me something here.”

His honesty catches me off guard. “It’s just a series of really stupid things that snowballed,” I tell them, “and now I’m legitimately afraid to go to work on Monday.”

Steph coughs.

“Okay . . .” Jonah says.

“Let’s see, where to start,” I say. “I guess we could go with when our boss knocked Evie’s breakfast into the trash because he’s a sexist dick, and I just sat there and watched. Or when I let her sit through a meeting with two of her shirt buttons undone. Two very important buttons,” I clarify.

“She didn’t tell me about that,” Steph says, and her expression is a little terrifying.

“How were the tits?” Jonah asks, bringing it all back to the important issues. “Nice?”

Before I can reach across and smack him, Steph does it, then turns to Michael. “Did you know about all this?”

“I . . . heard that . . . something . . . untoward had occurred,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “I told him it was wrong. Very wrong.” He gives me a stern expression that says he’ll murder me in my sleep if I so much as hint at the truth.

Steph groans. “I knew about Jonah and the weird Dan Printz situation, and that you’d flaked out on the meeting with the retreat coordinator.”

“I—”

“All of that is professional stuff between the two of you. But playing into Brad’s sexism? That makes me angry at you, Carter. It’s hard enough for a woman to be taken seriously in this business and seen as a person with a brain and not an object. Men get passes for acting like it’s 1960 and every woman in the office is their secretary. Evie will have to be smarter, faster, and better at her job than you are, for possibly less money and a whole lot less recognition, all while appearing totally grateful for it.”

I want to crawl under the table.

“That’s exactly what I told him,” Michael says, nodding feverishly. “That it undermines her credibility. Didn’t I tell you that, Carter? If I had a shame bell I would follow him around. Very disappointed in you.”

“I felt trapped,” I say. “If I said something, would she have been more embarrassed? Plus she would know I was looking at her boobs.”

“Which you were, I’m sure,” Steph says.

“Well, yeah. Because they’re great.”

She reaches across and smacks me this time.

“I don’t see the problem,” Jonah says. “None of this sounds bad so far.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” I say, and then look back at Steph. “Like I said, it escalated. I don’t even know how it happened. One minute I was in line at the store getting caffeinated K-Cups for the office, and the next I look over and see this giant display of bronzer. To summarize, I’m pretty sure I’m going to end up in a ditch somewhere.”

“Wait—is this the girl from the party?” Jonah asks around a mouthful of potatoes. My potatoes. “The one you couldn’t close the deal with?”

I toss him an icy glance. “Why are you even here?”

“You asked me to come, dickbag. You wanted to lecture me about this stupid shoot. You do understand this is what I do, right?” He straightens—a sign he’s getting riled up. “You think I’ve made it this far because I need you to show me how to do my job?”

Annoyance flares in my chest, but I do my best to push it down. I reacted almost exactly the same way when Evie told me it was time to move on Dan.

“Just remember, I made sure they could work with your schedule and the new shoot time is eleven,” I tell him. “We’re doing makeup at eight thirty. Be there at nine. Don’t be late. And no attitude, either. I put my neck out for you on this. Not to mention Evie’s.”

“Fucking hell, I’ll be there, Carter.” My brother shoves his phone into his pocket and stands. “Why are you such a dick all the time?”

“Dick!” Morgan screams, and we watch Jonah storm out of the restaurant.

“On that note,” Steph says, checking the time, “my class starts in ten.” She kisses each of us on the head—Morgan twice—grabs her gym bag, and heads out.

Michael Christopher cuts up some more of his waffle into bite-size pieces and slides them onto his daughter’s plate. But Morgan, tired of sitting quietly, has climbed out of her seat and relocated to my lap. Michael watches us, his face slowly melting into a floppy expression of fondness. I know what he’s thinking—he wants this for me. He wants us to meet for breakfast on Sundays and watch our kids play together; he wants our wives to be the best of friends. I don’t need to be a genius to know he still wants me to find that with Evie. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I wanted it a little, too. I was never on the right page with Gwen, but something tells me I might have found it with Evie. We’d probably kill each other first, but who knows, that might have been part of the fun.

“You have your dad’s face on,” I tell him.

“I do not have my dad’s face on.”

“Yeah you do.” I lift a hand, drawing a vague circle in the air. “You get all glassy-eyed and sentimental, like you’re mentally embroidering our names on a quilt.”

“All this talk of sabotage is going to make it really awkward for me to make the toast at your guys’ wedding.”

“I hate to break it to you, but I think that ship sailed about the same time I was refilling her lotion bottle on Friday afternoon.”

Michael picks up his mug and looks at me over the top of it, smug. “I forgot Steph had a cat for a week when she was on a trip in college, and I’m still here. You never know. Besides, you seem strangely optimistic—dare I say, chipper—for a man who plans to die this week. One might even think you’re enjoying this a little.”

My face says no, but the jump in my pulse as he mirrors my earlier thoughts says otherwise. Evil would cut off my balls and hand them to me if she thought it would give her an edge. And while that’s not particularly appealing, the idea that I have to constantly keep up is. Evie is smarter, and there’s a rush of adrenaline in having to work to stay one step ahead.

If only I knew how to do that.

•  •  •

Mildly obsessing over my next move, I barely sleep Sunday night, and feel like a walking time bomb the next morning.

I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Burning bags of excrement on my porch? To be accosted by hired ninjas in the stairway? Both of these possibilities seem highly unlikely, and yet I look out the peephole before I leave, peek around the corner as I head to the stairs, even check beneath the hood of my car before I start it.

Get a grip, Carter.

I try to laugh off my nerves as I turn the key and the engine comes to life without exploding into a ball of fire. Maybe the best retaliation is no retaliation at all. Damn you, Evie.

Traffic is better than usual this morning, and with my second cup of coffee down by the time I get to work, I’ve regained a bit of my nerve.

Justin is out sick today, and I make small talk with a couple of the interns as I pass. Kylie looks frazzled about something, but I steer clear, stopping by the Keurig in the break room before officially starting my day.

It’s regular. I check.

My door is still locked, a good sign. Evie’s light is on, but her door is closed, and if I’m careful not to jangle my keys or make any unnecessary noise it’s because I’m considerate, not scared.

Nothing has changed. My computer is where I left it; my stapler is still on the corner of my desk. The words DIE CARTER DIE aren’t scribbled on the wall in poop or blood.

I’m calling it a win.

Still, I close the door quietly and tiptoe to my desk. I log into the network, wincing, but the computer seems normal, too. I pull up an address and answer a few emails, grab the papers I need, and then casually lean to the side, where I can usually get a view of Evie’s legs. No dice.

I’m just about to head out when my phone rings.

“This is Carter.”

“Hello?” I think the caller says. I fiddle with the volume.

“Hello,” I repeat. “This is Carter Aaron. Hello?” The voice on the other end is so faint, I find myself squinting as I try to hear. “I’m sorry, I think we have a bad connection. Can you call back? Hello?”

The line disconnects, only to ring a moment later.

“Carter Aaron,” I say.

“Carter, this is Caleb,” I make out. Caleb Ferraz, Dan Printz’s manager. We’ve been playing phone tag for two weeks now.

“Caleb, there’s . . . Can you hear me? I think there’s something wrong with my phone.” I’m shouting. I look at the handset, shaking it before bringing it back to my ear. “Can you call my cell?”

“Can’t,” I think I make out. Followed by “Taking off.” There are more words, but I’m not sure whether I’m hearing them or just making them up. “Dan . . . talk . . . trip . . . weeks.”

Fuck.

“Caleb, send me a text when you can and I’ll talk to you soon!”

I think he says good-bye, but I’m not even sure. I hang up and dial Michael Christopher’s number. He answers and it’s more of the same. I think he can hear me, but there’s no way to tell because I can’t hear him. I send him a text letting him know I’ll explain later.

Grabbing the needed files, I head out, a little disappointed when I find that Evie’s door is still closed. Why am I in a hurry to run into her? I’m sure she’s furious, and the last thing I’ll see before I die will be an orange-tinted Evie with her hands wrapped around my neck.

With Justin gone, I stop at Kylie’s desk on my way out. She’s talking to some guy from the mailroom and so I pull out my phone while I wait.

“Just make sure that anything with a PO box goes straight to Mr. Kingman, okay? He was very specific about that.”

“Post office box. Got it,” the kid says, typing a note into a little handheld machine. “Later, Ky.”

Kylie peeks around the departing employee and smiles widely at me. “Carter! How are you?”

“I’m well, how are you?”

“Great! Want to grab lunch today?”

I make a show of looking disappointed, when in fact I’m a little relieved to have an excuse. “I’m meeting a client,” I say, and her face falls into an attractive pout. Something tells me that look almost always works. “I was just leaving, but wanted to see if we could get someone to check my phone.”

“Your phone?”

“Something’s wrong with the volume,” I tell her.

She follows me down the hall, picking up the handset and holding it up to her ear, pressing the volume buttons a few times before unscrewing the earpiece.

“Oh,” she says, and I lean in, too. “There’s a piece of tape in here. That’s weird.”

Carefully, she removes the offending item and puts the handset back together.

I stare at the curl of plastic in her outstretched palm. “Yeah. Weird.”

On her way out, she leans against the doorway instead. “Glad I could help. Don’t be afraid to call if you, uh . . . need anything else,” she says, pausing at the sound of Evie’s opening door. “Or want to grab lunch sometime . . .”

Evie steps out into the hall and pauses behind where Kylie stands, now straighter in awareness.

With a little smile and a quiet “Hi, Evie,” Kylie heads down the hall.

Leaning against her open doorway with a pair of—thank God—normal-colored arms folded across her chest, Evie smiles at me. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Close your door next time?”

Ignoring this, I tell her, “Funny story: my phone wasn’t working and Kylie helped me figure out why. Seems someone put a piece of tape over the earpiece. Wonder who would have done that?”

“No idea,” Evie says with a shrug. “I just got in. But if we’re going by the number of people who are out to make you look bad, there’s probably a few to choose from.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, genuinely offended now, and following when she pushes away from her door and heads into the break room. “People like me. You’re the one they’re afraid of.”

She pulls a mug down from the cupboard and pours herself a cup of coffee. “Okay, Carter.”

“What do you mean—?” I stop in my tracks. “Don’t do that.”

She slowly pours cream into her cup and looks up at me. “Do what?”

“Pretend that none of this gets to you. Play some juvenile mind game.”

“You’re the one who followed me down here.” Unaffected, she puts the cream away and heads for the door.

“Fine,” I say.

“Fine.”

Her evil laugh rings down the hallway.