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  Like, scuse me? You are so hot? Did you make a mistake, or are you mentally fantasizing about yourself? Or are you working yourself up to compensate for what I would hope is just a whiskey dick situation here? And ALSO—I’m so hot right now? RIGHT NOW? How about ALWAYS, MOTHERFUCKER? It took everything in my alcohol soaked body not to hop off him right at that moment. Then I remembered I was having sex with a movie star, and since I knew it would make a great story for my eventual guest spot on The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon, I chose to battle through it.

  And while it wasn’t the mind-blowing type of encounter I had pictured, it also wasn’t dry humping either. After it was over (and Jake had screamed like a Girl Scout who’d just won the cookie contest), he smacked my ass and picked me up off him. I thought we would be able to forgo the whole cuddling thing, so I curled up on the far edge of his bed. Before I could fully pass out, Jake wrapped his arms around me and dragged me in to spoon. I was hot (ALWAYS, but this time I mean temp-wise), I was tired, and I was not into him right now. And, to be honest, it used to be my favorite thing in the world when Isaac would slide me across his sheets and do the same thing - so it stung a little bit.

  “So, how long have you been working for Carter?”

  Fuck. Pillow talk? “Uh, a few months now. I moved out here right before I started with him.”

  “He’s a cool guy.”

  “Yeah, definitely.” I answered slowly to indicate that I was falling asleep. I even snuggled deeper into his grip to give the illusion I was getting comfortable.

  “You guys ever hook up?”

  That snapped me awake. “Uh…no.”

  “Oh. Cool.”

  “Mhm.”

  “I just can’t imagine him not wanting to hook up with you. He’s a real ladies’ man. I’ve heard anyway. And girls really go for that whole ‘he was my crush during puberty’ thing. I would know.”

  “Well, he’s my boss,” I said, stiffening a little. Why would I want to talk about hooking up with my boss with a guy who had just finished on my stomach? I JUST WANNA SLEEP, BRO. Plus, that’s really weird that you’d be into girls who like you because they went through puberty drooling over you. You’ve only been popular for, like, the past couple years, which makes them probably still illegal. Add this one to the list of bad one night stands, Josie. You really know how to pick ‘em, girl.

  “This is Hollywood, sweetheart. People hire people they want to sleep with. The lines don’t just get blurred, they’re drawn crooked in the first place.”

  “Does this conversation have a point, or can I go to sleep?” I was being a bitch, and I didn’t care. A small part of me thought he would be too drunk to remember anyway, but most of me just didn’t give a shit. Life is hard, bitches. Don’t grow up. Don’t have sex with people because you’re searching for something that you used to have. And definitely don’t have sex with a guy you’ve seen have sex on screen. People clearly get paid a lot of money to make him look like he knows what he’s doing. At the end of the night, he’ll still be just a guy who doesn’t know your clit from a skittle.

  And then I realized why I was actually so irritated. It wasn’t him prodding me about Carter; it wasn’t even his limp, sweaty dick sticking to my ass-cheek.

  It was the fact that even in his arms—having just done something that has the ability to make you feel so whole, something that is supposed to be the closest (literally and figuratively) thing you can share with another human being, I felt so fucking alone. All I wanted was to be held and not feel lonely again because I had known that kind of serenity. I must have left pieces of me in those moments of calm, in those things that I had once loved.

  Maybe loving anything meant risking that you’d never get those pieces back. Risking that you’d be a little lonelier after that piece was gone.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Professional Tip: Don’t Do The Walk of Shame Into Work

  “How was the rest of your night?” Carter smirked as I walked in. Thankfully, I had gotten up and out of Jake’s early enough this morning to be able to put myself together pretty well before heading to work, so I didn’t look like a complete mess. I just knew now that I still was one internally, which Carter had to have picked up on last night.

  “He’s a good friend of yours?” was all I could muster. I was officially over my Jake Maron fantasy.

  He shrugged and nodded simultaneously. “I mean, as much as anybody really is here, doing what we do. We get each other on lists, see each other out and snap some good publicity shots, help get each other girls…”

  “OH! Adorable.” I grimaced.

  “No. No, that was not why I brought you out. In fact, if I had been able to find you at the end of the night I probably wouldn’t have let you go with him.”

  “Why? Besides his obvious personality disorder, which I found so charming last night.” I rolled my eyes.

  “You’re too good for him.”

  Aw, shucks. “I’m sorry if I…if that was unprofessional or weird of me or something. Going home with him,” I apologized. Carter just shrugged it off.

  “Don’t think twice. We’re buds now, not just co-worker buds. I wouldn’t cockblock you.”

  I shoved him with my shoulder. We laughed.

  At least during the day, I didn’t have to feel lonely.

  “Have you seen this, by the way?” Carter’s smile was devious as fuck, so I knew whatever it was I was not going to like it. He handed me his phone, which was a feed of tweets from E!, People, Cosmo, etc. Basically all the gossip twitters had a picture of Jake leading me by the hand out of Bungalow. Jake Maron’s Mystery Girl, the tweets headlined. All of them.

  “What. The fuck!” I exclaimed after I had read through a few of them. “This one describes me as ‘the nobody who stole Jake Maron’s heart,’ and I get called lanky by all of them. This is a terrible picture! And my hair is not ‘mousey!’ This one even claims I was dancing on tables with him before we left! They’re lying! They can just lie like that?”

  Carter laughed. “Welcome to Hollywood.”

  ***

  I didn’t want to go home for Christmas. While I obviously wanted to see Molly and Ellie, and I had begged them unsuccessfully for weeks now to come to California with my fam, I couldn’t stomach being anywhere near Isaac. Or Christy, Shitsy. Plus, I hate snow.

  So, my mom, sister, and brother came and stayed with me, Trevor, and Skylar.

  We had a small, warm Christmas and even went to the beach that night. My sister, Becca, was thrilled because we saw Kourtney Kardashian running around West Hollywood the next day, and Ethan mustered up as much enthusiasm as I’ve ever seen from him because we saw some Laker at the place we went for lunch. Finally it felt like they understood why I kept saying I never wanted to leave after I had seemed so miserable during the days leading up to my move.

  “Celebrities walk around us like regular people, you’re tan all year round, and you can eat out and never get fat because all the food is locally sourced and organic. This is your literal heaven, Jos,” Becca pointed out. She wasn’t wrong. I am who I am, and I accept that.

  My mother loved—and I mean la-la-looooved—Trevor. She thought he was just the dolliest of all dolls. He made us all breakfast on Christmas morning—gluten free French toast with berries and organic maple syrup—and he and Skylar gave everyone in my family a gift.

  “You gave us just the best gift in Josie,” Trevor said when my mom told him she felt horrible for not getting them anything. I have never seen her smile so big, and I remember my brother being born.

  The three of us had exchanged gifts before my family got there; we had secret Santa’d pointlessly because we all ended up getting each other something anyway. We each insisted we’d seen something that made us think of the other person, and we just had to get it for him/her. I mean was I supposed to not get Trevor the Team Jen mug? We had shared many a morning discussing the atrocity that is Brangelina – something we had initially bonded over. And Skylar, who was m
y OG secret Santa recipient, I had to get her the huge headphones that read “I woke up like this” on one ear and “***Flawless” on the other since she was the most avid Bey fan I’d ever met (and that’s saying something since I know myself pretty well), and she listens to music every morning on her runs that kick start her insanely unmaintainable energy level. I got things that all had a distinctly Britney Spears theme, which was all a girl could really hope for.

  My mom took us all out for a huge Christmas dinner that included multiple bottles of wine. Which then made me decide to text Carter and see how his holiday was going. He’d given me a few days off, but we’d been texting pretty nonstop every other day.

  Me —What’s up? How’d Santa treat you? Carter—Since I am Santa…pretty well Me—No fam today?

  Carter—Nope.

  No one on Christmas? I would’ve been miserable if I hadn’t made my family fly to me to bring me presents. I understand that’s a complicated emotion because I also would’ve been miserable in Connecticut, but no one to spend the day with? Me—Come hang, we’re just about to leave dinner.

  I fully expected him to pass. Even with no family to give him poorly wrapped boxes of underwear or sweaters with the price tags still on them (love you, Mom), Carter Coleman had to be doing something on a major holiday. Anyone would want to hang out with a celebrity.

  Carter—Really? You sure?

  I typed and backspaced a few times, hoping he wasn’t looking at our open convo and seeing the little tattletale bitch dots appear and disappear. I hate those things. Of course I was sure, but a), I was extremely taken off guard by his yes, b), did I want to expose my boss to my family, and c), did I think Trevor could control himself around Carter, his ultimate boy band crush that had first taken him down the road that led him “right out of the closet?”

  But that all got overridden because I grasped that even though anyone always wanted to hang out with Carter the celebrity, maybe Carter the person didn’t always want to hang out with just anyone.

  Me—Course I’m sure.

  ***

  “So you have to spend every day with this one, huh?” Becca teased Carter over a piece of chocolate cream pie Trevor had made that morning. I thought Trev was going to literally piss his pants when Carter had described it as “very good.”

  “I do, I do, yeah…it’s a constant struggle,” he teased in response, throwing a smile at me and taking another bite. I swear Trevor came with each forkful Carter ate.

  “For both of us.” I nodded, falling in step.

  “You do what you gotta do to get through the day. Drinking profusely helps,” Carter said.

  “Sure, or calling the numerous therapists on his speed dial…” I continued.

  “Overeating seems to be a tactic she’s employed.”

  “Is that a fat joke?”

  We cracked each other up, doing what we do all the time—bantering and laughing, regardless of whether those around us can keep up. It was a feeling I had only ever really experienced with Molly and Ellie, but I hadn’t ever thought about how strange that kind of was until I saw the looks on everyone else’s faces.

  My mom was staring intently, very surprised at the ease with which we fell into sync with one another. They all were quietly following along, waiting for what would come next like we were putting on a show. It was so good to have found a familiar rhythm with someone here.

  “When’s the wedding?” my brother mumbled through a mouthful of pie. It was one of his first conversational contributions to the night, which made it more impactful than it needed to be. We just laughed awkwardly, and Trevor started clearing the table, which could’ve been out of jealousy just as much as it could’ve been that he wanted to inconspicuously touch Carter as he grabbed his plate of crumbs.

  “Carter?” My mother broke the silence. “I just want to say I’m very happy that Josie has found a way to keep writing. That was her main goal, coming out here. When I heard she got an assistant job I thought her writing might fall the wayside. I’m grateful that you’ve given her that outlet. She’s so talented, and –”

  “Mom. Chill.” I stepped in, embarrassed that she was going to slide into her spiel about all my high school writing awards. Or worse, start crying for no reason. My mom was very emotionally charged.

  “I didn’t even know that.” Carter leaned forward, cutting me off completely. “She never told me she was here to write. I just figured she was a natural lyricist. Seems like fate that we met, huh, Jos?”

  “Well, yeah, I’d never written music before, but I’m a writer by nature. It was definitely part of the point of moving.”

  “Following your passions should be the whole point of doing anything,” Carter said as my mom clutched her heart dramatically and nodded in agreement. I swear to Christ I even saw a tear in her eye. The woman who had screamed at me in my youth to turn down this guy’s albums was now his number one fan.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Moving Right Along

  A few weeks later, Carter sprang the news on me that he had booked us a small gig at a local bar to showcase the music we’d been fine-tuning for a couple months now. I kept saying we weren’t ready when, really, I just wasn’t ready. I’d never sung for a crowd other than chorus concerts where a dozen other voices sheltered mine. It was no big deal for him to think about a crowd of 50 or so people—for me it was basically playing fucking Madison Square Garden. AND he had called Trevor and Skylar to let them know about it. So, while I was perfectly happy to keep this “little” show our secret, I wasn’t even given a choice in the matter.

  “I knew they would force you to do it,” Carter explained. “Me, you have no problem disappointing. You do it every day,” he joked.

  “You’re an evil genius.” I gave him my best glare. “Trevor would kick me out if I took away an opportunity for him to see you sing. He’d probably rather live with the inevitable homophobic-but-actually-gay high school bully I bet he had than me, if I did that to him.”

  Carter smiled in true evil genius fashion.

  The night of the show came, and I was a fucking mess. Not even a hot one. When we got to the venue, there weren’t fifty people there. Nope. Not fifty. There was, like, at least a hundred people there. The crowd was a mix of locals, who probably had just wanted to get a casual beer and hadn’t realized that they were walking into a Jonas Brothers concert, and screaming girls.

  Very diverse.

  “Whoa. Whoa. No, I can’t do this, Carter. How did all these people even know about this?”

  “I don’t know. Must just be a busy night for the bar.” He lied. I knew him better than that by now.

  “All these chicks did not just show up at this shady dive bar for a random girls’ night out,” I hissed. “What did you do?”

  “Okay, I may have put something up on Facebook.”

  “CARTER! I can’t do this!” I hyperventilated.

  “You can, you will, you have to. It’s your job. Sorry,” Carter said sternly with a look in his eyes that was anything but. He was almost amused.

  Thirty minutes and three shots later, I sat on stage behind a mic. It took a few rounds of Carter strumming for me to actually start singing, and when I did sing my voice sounded thin and small. Carter asked for a minute, his voice sounding blanket-y through the microphone as the girls squealed.

  “Hey. You’re alright,” he said just to me, his back to the rest of the world. He put his hand on my arm, squeezing a little. “It’s just us, playing in my living room, having a beer, singing some songs. It’s just me and you. Forget the rest.”

  He sat back down to a chorus of screams and once the horn dogs settled, Carter started again. I looked at him, trying to forget what was going on in front of me, beyond the hazy lights and I sang. Like we were just in his living room, having a beer, singing some songs.

  This was his happy place, I could tell. He smiled like it was part of the music. B chord/smile, C chord/laugh. It was so natural for him. So even though I was on the stag
e, just as much part of the show, I just watched him as if I was an audience member. It was just him and me.

  I forgot the rest.

  A half hour later, I was off the stage and having another drink, celebratory this time instead of trying to numb my nerves. It wasn’t until a few minutes later that I realized Carter wasn’t next to me.

  “I just have one more song to sing,” I heard his voice echo around me through the orchestra of girly cries. He sat on stage again, this time in the center. “It’s going to go out to the great girl that just did a killer job up here with me. Give Josie another hand,” he said into the mic. The applause was thin, jealous, and reluctant. I blushed anyways.

  “What?” I mouthed to him, shaking my head as I waved away the light that shone down on me.

  Carter started singing something I didn’t fully recognize; it was probably something he had worked on in the studio before we started our little project because the melody sounded vaguely familiar.

  “It was the sixth of March/I told her that I loved her.

  She looked at me and smiled, silent/I wasn’t sure if she heard.

  I woke up in the morning/seeing it was just a dream/

  Cause the real girl I want to tell/she won’t get what I mean.”

  Then it dawned on me—he was singing an acoustic version of a From The Boys song, one of their most famous singles from their prime, a track played at every school dance and on repeat in my own bedroom for hours. I hadn’t heard it in years, but I used to pretend it was written specifically for me, as all girls had at the time. And now it was being sung specifically for me. He strummed through the whole track; I tried to stay present, but the entire time I felt like I was going in and out of consciousness. This could not be fucking real. I literally had to pinch myself. Seriously. I drew blood.