Dating You / Hating You by Christina Lauren

chapter four

carter

MC and I are the only people who are genuinely happy that I live in LA now. My brother, obviously, could not care less, and my parents . . . well, even two years on they’re just to the left of violently opposed. It’s fine for Jonah to live in Malibu because Jonah is young and chasing a dream and can do no wrong. But Carter moving to Beverly Hills? Hellfire.

I call my parents Monday night to verify for them that I’m not dead in a ditch somewhere.

“Well good,” Dad says. “But you should go see your brother more. He’s lonely.”

“Jonah?” I laugh, flipping my grilled cheese in the pan. “Trust me, he’s not.”

“Go see him,” Mom needles from the other extension. “He’s just next door.”

“Mom, he’s in Malibu. It’s like an hour away.”

Dad coughs. “It’s an hour from here to Brooklyn, but we make it to see your aunts every weekend, and you know what they have in Brooklyn? Sweaters on trees, Carter. I saw someone walking a goddamn peacock the last time I was there, and when I stopped for coffee? This weird little hipster place sold yarn, too. Coffee and yarn. Who the hell puts those things together?”

“Okay, so I’ll put you in the no column for Thanksgiving in LA,” I say, sliding my sandwich onto a plate. There are weirder things in LA than coffee and yarn.

There’s a heavy, meaningful pause before Mom speaks next. “Jonah said you were sleeping at Michael Christopher’s because you didn’t have a place to live.”

I rub my temples. Of course he did. “Jonah is a liar.”

“You be nice,” she chastises. “He also said you met a girl.”

Taking a bite of my sandwich, I chew and swallow to give myself time to hide my irritation with my brother. “She’s a friend of a friend, Mom. I met her at a party.”

“You met this woman at a party?”

“A costume party, not a rave,” I say. “She’s a friend of Michael and Stephanie’s, so I’m assuming she’s not a Hollywood madam.”

“You’re making that assumption based on Michael liking her?” Mom asks.

This makes me laugh. “We spent a grand total of three hours together. It’s not a thing. And I promise, she’s okay.”

“She lives in Los Angeles, Carter,” Mom growls. “That’s not okay with me. I don’t understand why you couldn’t find someone here. She’s probably got fake boobs and that—that—poison they put inside their foreheads.”

“Botox?” I guess.

“That.”

“All right, let’s take it down a notch,” I say. “Jonah lives in LA and I don’t recall you ever giving him this much shit.”

“One, watch your mouth. And two, I barely see your brother, so don’t use him as a shining example.” She sighs into the line. “Jonah has always been a dreamer. You’re my responsible one. Call him.”

“Okay, Mom. It might take some time to get our schedules worked out, but I’ll call him.”

“That’s my sweet boy.”

•  •  •

In this business, not hearing back from someone for seven days is nothing. We’re all busy, with stacks of scripts and books and audition footage to go through, phone calls to return, and emails to read. Callbacks get shuffled around and ranked in order of priority.

A week is nothing.

I gently remind clients of this truth on a daily basis. I remind them that no news is good news. No news means they haven’t heard no. But when it’s your dream on the line, time takes on an entirely different meaning, and even the most patient person can lose it.

“But wouldn’t they know right away if they loved it?”

“If they wanted me they’d have called by now, right?”

Being patient is a lot easier said than done. I should know, because despite what I told Michael Christopher about not getting involved with Evie, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. By the time Thursday afternoon rolls around and I haven’t heard from her, I’m devolving into a hot mess.

I think about what I said when I gave her my number Friday night: “I know what we said about dating someone in this business, but I could really use more evil friends. The ball’s in your court, and if you want to smack-talk our bosses or coworkers a little bit, or even just hang out and plot world domination with zero romantic expectations, you have my number.”

She’d laughed, ruffled my hair a little longer than was probably platonically appropriate, and then left.

What I should have said was “I really like you. Could we exchange numbers and make plans to see each other naked?”

My phone rings and I jump to answer, snatching it from where it vibrates across a stack of files.

“Hello?” I’m breathless.

“Hey.” It’s Michael Christopher. “How’s your day?”

Standing, I walk around the side of my desk and push the door closed with my foot. “Pretty good. I haven’t heard from her, in case that’s why you’re calling. Again.”

He pauses. “Did you have that tie on Friday night?”

I drop back into my chair and grin. “Which tie would that be?”

“You know which tie. The crime against humanity.”

I look down at my shirt and smooth the very same tie over my chest. He knows me pretty well, apparently. “Yes,” I tell him. “This tie is my good luck charm. Bonus points for being Harry Potter appropriate.”

He groans. “You’re wearing it today, aren’t you? It’s so bad, Carter.”

“Evie wouldn’t not call because of a tie.”

“Look, I’m a dude, and Stephanie still has to convince me that I can’t wear sweatpants when we meet friends for dinner, so I’m not casting any stones here. But even I—a slovenly wreck of a man—know that that thing should be shot and put out of its misery. I feel like I’m being visually assaulted whenever you have it on.”

“But not to be dramatic?” A cup of paper clips sits next to my monitor and I reach for one, absently straightening the end.

“I’m not saying it’d be the tie’s fault,” he continues. “What I am saying is that you should not be wearing something you wore while attending a sophomore-year Mathletes competition, Carter.”

“Winninga Mathletes competition,” I correct, tossing the paper clip in the direction of the trash can and raising my arm in victory when it hits the rim and falls inside. “Winning, not just attending. And for your information, I wore that same tie the day I had my scholarship interview, the day I took the SAT, and the night I got lucky with Samantha Rigby at freshman rush. Quality items get better with age, and that tie is one of them.”

“You are the most superstitious person I know,” he says.

“I’m a complicated man,” I tell him. “But you’re getting a little overly involved in this, I think. Did you really call just to hassle me?”

“That part was a bonus. I was sitting here at work, making plans with Steph for the weekend, when I realized the weekend means it’s been almost a week and we aren’t double-dating yet. Then I started thinking about that tie . . .”

I flip a pencil along my knuckles. “Michael.”

“You know I’m just yanking your chain. You’re my favorite third wheel.”

“Very funny.” My phone vibrates against my ear with an incoming text. My mom has called twice since we last spoke—to ask if I’ve reached out to Jonah yet, I’m sure—but I haven’t called her back either time. It’s terrible, I know this, and I know that if she’s texting me right now, I have two choices: man up and call my brother, or learn how to make my own lasagna when I visit. I really don’t want to do that because Mom is the best cook on the planet.

I pull the phone away to check, but it’s not my mom’s name on the screen. It’s Evie’s, and she’s texted me a few times already.

“I need to call you back,” I tell Michael, and quickly end the call.

Hi stranger.

Not to be a total creeper but, do you know an agent named Elsa Tippett?

She’s interviewing here.

We’re having drinks tonight and Steph mentioned she used to work with you.

I did work with her, at Bradford.

She was nice.

And hi back!

A few minutes pass and I wonder if that’s it, if that’s all she had to say.

Elsa worked at Bradford for four years, overlapping with me for three of them before I moved to LA. Some of the grosser men called her the Bone Collector for her propensity to sleep around the office. For the record: I never slept with Elsa, nor did I ever call her by that name. But the idea of her and Evie talking about me makes a nauseating hum take up residence in my blood.

I turn back to the open script on my desk. I read. I check my phone. Nothing. Another minute ticks by. I’m halfway down the page and have no idea what any of it said. I glance at my phone again.

Should I elaborate on my connection to Elsa? Say something else?

Probably yes.

Should I ask her out? Think, Carter.

My phone buzzes again.

I emailed confirming tonight and happened to mention your name.

Apparently she has a few Carter Aaron stories . . .

Oh Jesus.

/is intrigued

I have no Elsa stories. Others, however . . .

Heading out. I’ll report back later.

An hour goes by with nothing from Evie, and I’ve just forgotten about it when her name pops up again on my phone.

Oh boy. Elsa LOVES you.

Oh, God.

This is like meeting a Penthouse letter in person.

She joined the firm about a year after I did.

She may have . . . known some of the men there. I am not one of those men.

Ugh I feel faintly queasy imagining what yarns she is currently spinning.

Five minutes go by, then ten. Nothing. Crap.

Evil?

I’m watching TV almost two hours later when I finally get a response.

Okay drinks are over.

And yes her stories were really oversold.

Also lol @ Evil

Told you.

And my phone autocompletes it.

It’s like it knows.

I was hoping for some dirt.

Apparently you’re sweet, sexy and responsible.

Snore.

I want to point out you called me sexy.

Do you want to grab dinner next week?

Yes. Yes I do.

So of course I immediately text Michael Christopher.

ALL HAIL THE LUCKY TIE

No.

Yes.

NO!

YES!

We’re having dinner.

YES

I’M GOING STREAKING

Noooooooooooooooo