Dating You / Hating You (Page 48)
This seems to frustrate him even more. “We’re all swamped. But maybe if you joined in these things, you wouldn’t feel like such an outsider. I’m trying to help you, Evie. Jesus.”
I try to focus on my monitor and feel a crushing bleakness in my chest when I hear him slip out of my office back into the revelry.
I’m tempted to follow, engage with honest anger for once, but am immediately choked by my own voice in my head, telling me to hold strong to that desire to be myself in this business. As soon as I give an inch, I’ll lose a mile.
• • •
Brad’s driveway is a quarter mile long and lined with tiny glittering lights. I’ve been here before. One year, his wife—an executive at Warner Bros.—threw a wrap party for a film starring one of my clients. That night, amid the champagne and hors d’oeuvres and live music, I watched Brad slip away with my actor’s girlfriend.
Brad caught my eye as they wound up the staircase just off the downstairs guest bathroom and knew he was busted. I guess that’s one of a hundred pieces of dirt I’ve got on him, though I never said anything to anyone.
Rule one: get neither invested nor involved in actors’ or bosses’ private lives.
The tires of my Prius crunch down the gravel, and I pull up in front, handing my keys off to the valet and thanking him with a smile.
Memories of parties and betrayals and the simple madness of personal relationships in this town all filter through my thoughts as I walk to the front doors, making the situation with Carter seem somehow so insignificant. We had the workplace equivalent of a couple of pillow fights and then tucked away our bratty sides and made out in a closet. Even when I do drama, I do it so tamely.
I think what worries me the most about it is that there’s no sign of resolution anywhere. We’re both on tenterhooks, with the clock ticking down to the end of our contracts. And while I know I’d be devastated if I lost this position, it’s not as though I would be particularly happy if Carter lost, either. I might want to watch him suffer, but I don’t want him to be miserable.
Because you like him, my brain teases in a sneering whisper. Really, really like him.
My brain is such an asshole.
Brad’s wife, Maxine, greets me just inside the foyer, taking my coat and telling me where to find the alcohol and—with decidedly less emphasis—the food. I never try to meticulously time my arrival at these events, but glancing around I realize I’m one of the last to show up.
Looking for my lifelines, I immediately search for Amelia, who sometimes attends these gatherings. There are only about fifty people here, but the buzz of conversation makes it sound far larger. As usual, Maxine has arranged for live music, appetizers, and flutes of champagne on trays circulated by waitstaff. The main living area is expansive and faces a backyard with a view of the Hollywood Hills. Three sets of French doors are thrown open to the night, but heaters are placed just outside, keeping the mild chill at bay.
It’s gorgeous, it really is, and at times like this I’m overwhelmed with how lucky I am to be able to dip in and out of the lavish aspects of this world. It is a world of privilege and excess, and whenever I register how easy we all have it, it makes me realize how petty I am to ever complain about a few asshole personalities. By and large the people in this room are good. This is a cutthroat business, but few of us are as terrible as our actions would lead one to believe. Insecurity and competition make us all monsters.
I should know.
There’s no Amelia in sight, but I spot Carter with Brad across the room, near the open doors. Knowing he grew up in New York, I wonder what it’s like for him here, in November, where we shiver when it dips below sixty-five and wear fur coats out to dinner. I also wonder what it’s like to be celebrating with an almost entirely new team this year. The reorganization has been slow, but the first transition was deft, and the majority of the cuts were from CTM’s side of the table.
He’s changed into a sapphire-blue dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and exposing those forearms I alternately want to lick and amputate.
I hate to think that there is some fated connection there, but I can’t deny that when he looks up and sees me walking toward him it makes my stomach flutter a little.
His expression betrays his happiness to see me, and then immediately pinches inward and he returns to the conversation with Brad. It hadn’t even occurred to me to come over and interrupt Carter’s one-on-one time with the boss . . . because I wasn’t coming over there for Brad. I was coming for Carter. Of course, he has no way of knowing that.
But the hesitation in his face makes me hesitate, taking a detour toward the tray of wine headed in my direction. Swiping a glass, I say hello to a few colleagues and stand admiring the towering Christmas tree on the far end of the room.
Each ornament is gold, but there are enormous balls and tiny balls; horses, sleighs, and snowflakes. The tree seems to shimmer beneath the warm light of the room.
I can still hear Brad’s voice, which is low but carries in an odd, booming way. “So, you think you’re up for it?”
“Vegas and golfing?” Carter says. “I’m up for it any day of the week.”
“Good man. With you on board, I think we’ve got the whole team.”
A boys’ golf trip to Vegas?
I roll my eyes and turn to make my way over there. Things are strained enough as it is, and I know I should tread lightly, but I can’t let this one slide.
“Hey, guys!” I say.
“Evie!” Brad crows, leaning in to kiss my cheek in a way he would never dare do at the office.
Carter doesn’t kiss my cheek, but he does offer a half smile. “Hey, Evie.”
I smile at him, then turn to Brad. “Just overheard you—a department trip to Vegas? How cool!”
My game face is always on. I wish it weren’t the case, but I can never, ever let my guard down. Of course Brad hasn’t mentioned Vegas to me, and I would bet a large chunk of my salary that he hasn’t mentioned it to Rose or Aimee, or any of the other female agents. The only vaginas they want on their trip are the ones two inches from their faces at the strip clubs.
“Right,” Brad says, deflating just slightly but hiding it pretty well. He’s good at the game, too, after all. “You coming?”
“When is it, again?” I smile at him, letting him save face and act like he’s mentioned this to me.
“First week in March.”
He shifts on his feet. No doubt he assumed that the female agents, who weren’t invited to—or interested in—hungover golfing in Las Vegas, would be fine without an invitation. An added bonus? We’d be here to put out any emergency weekend fires. Those of us who are left, anyway . . . and I’m up for renewal in February.
Carter is March. Interesting.
“Should work for me.” I smile over at Carter, whose expression tells me he’s putting two and two together about the non-invites for the ladies.
I want to hug him for working to be more aware of Brad’s sexist shit, but also give him a patronizing head pat and a singsong Of course Brad didn’t invite any of “his girls,” poodle.
“Great!” Brad says, and flags down a passing waiter to bring him a scotch, neat. “You know, I meant to ask you the other day, but I have a friend who does a local podcast. Yeah, Here Today. Ever heard of it?”
I shake my head. “Can’t say that I have.”