Let's Try This Again Page 12
“YOU SLEPT WITH HIM?” Ellie’s squeal followed.
“You guys…you’re too excited, and I need you to try to guilt trip me,” I begged. What was I going to do? I was so fucking stupid, sleeping with my boss. Sleeping with the one person I am paid to have to see every single fucking day. “I’m gonna have to quit.”
“You can’t quit! This is the best job you could’ve ever hoped for. You’re making money, you’re writing, you’re happy.” Molly was reasoning with me.
As if I was a logical person.
“But what have I done?” I groaned. “I’m the mayor of Slut City; it’s not cute. And it’s now affecting my professional life.”
“It didn’t seem like Carter was too bothered by your unprofessionalism,” Ellie pointed out. My voice of reason was even making jokes.
“I apologized and everything, so…”
“Apologized?” Ellie burst out laughing. “When has a man ever required an apology for you letting him sleep with you?”
“I just didn’t want him to think this has always been my goal, and it obviously crosses more lines than I can even count.”
“Who cares? He clearly wasn’t sorry about what happened. He went out and got you breakfast. And coffee. Your coffee. Have you ever even told him what kind of coffee you drink?” Molly pointed this bit of romanticism out, Molly, whose motto is “fuck men, figuratively but more importantly literally”. What was going on here?!
“I mean, I’ve gotten him coffee a million times, yeah,” I responded.
“So you should know what he drinks…that doesn’t mean he should know what you drink,” Molly said.
“That’s a bold move,” Ellie agreed. “He’s showing you he notices things about you. It’s important to him. You’re important to him.”
“You guys, please. Do not turn this into something it’s not. Something it honestly can’t be. It was a one-time thing. It has to be; he is my employer,” I told them. Any part of me that would wish or even contemplate that Carter and I could become anything real was silenced by the memories I was still holding onto—memories that proved just how wrong trusting somebody else to make you happy could go.
“This is so embarrassing.” I spoke up again. “I really should quit…” And then, on the radio, I heard it. My voice coming through my speakers cut off the voice coming from my throat. “Oh. My. God.”
I turned it up—there it was, me singing about the breaking of my heart. Carter singing about the breaking of my heart. For the whole world to listen to. My friends and I screamed together, celebrating with one another despite the thousands of miles between us. I had almost forgotten absolutely everything I had just been so worried about until Molly piped up, “Hey, superstar, there’s no way you’re quitting now.”
***
I did go back over to Carter’s that night. We popped a bottle of champagne to toast our single playing on the radio, and his manager had joined us, so I felt protected. We didn’t have to talk about anything because we couldn’t. Sometimes I thought I could sense him looking at me, but every time I checked, his eyes weren’t on me. I’d think it was wishful thinking, and then I’d mentally smack myself because I shouldn’t be wishing that in the first place.
“Alright kids, I’m calling it quits,” Max said, pretty early into the evening. “You two have a good rest of the night. Relax, enjoy it. The real work starts now.”
“Oh, Max,” Carter called out. “I’m gonna be needing a new assistant. Josie’s been promoted to my musical partner full time.” He winked at me.
“I’ll get right on it. Congrats, Josie,” Max said as he shut the door behind him.
Wow. A single on the radio and now I was being asked to commit myself more fully to becoming a pop star. Life in LA had barely started, and it was already revealing dreams I hadn’t even really known I’d had, before. Carter raised his glass to mine. I sipped, and over the edge of my glass, I noticed his hand move to my leg, patting my knee as if simply being congratulatory.
Something ballooned inside me, filling my stomach and making me a little nauseous. It was like maybe I’d had too much champagne, but that was a silly thought because there is no such thing as too much champagne.
Wait, wait, wait. Was this about what I had said that morning? Was he doing this just so he could keep sleeping with me because I’d said it made me uncomfortable? That he was my boss? I finished the rest of my glass of the champagne I had not had too much of. “So, what?” I asked. “Are you firing me?”
“If that’s what promoted means to you, then I guess so.” Carter laughed.
It wasn’t funny to me.
“Is it like you take me off your payroll so technically it’s not offending my morals? Because I told you it made me uncomfortable to sleep with my boss? Because you could tell that I don’t really like the idea of technically being a hooker?”
“Josie. No.” Carter stood, walking towards me as I backed up. “Of course not.”
“But that’s what it would be, when you think about it. You didn’t want to keep me on as an employee to sleep with you whenever you feel like it? You know, a lot of people thought she had it good in that movie, Pretty Woman. I always saw it as kind of a raw deal…”
I was getting angry. I didn’t want this “promotion” or this life, not if it just meant I was trapped in another one-sided situation. Molly and Ellie seemed sold on the idea that Carter cared about me, but how could that be true if he was willing to do something like this? Trap me into a relationship with my job? Already I was reading meaning into everything and working myself up over things and we weren’t even together.
This was what I didn’t want.
“Holy…will you relax? This is me doing you a favor. Just in case you don’t know what that looks like. “ He spread his arms, gesturing to prove his point.
“I appreciate what you’ve done for me, Carter. Truly. But I want my promotions to be based on my work, my merit. I don’t want any favors.” I crossed my arms and, okay, so I felt like a little girl who has been called out for eating cookies before dinner but refuses to give up on her lie, never mind her face full of crumbs. I believed he was trying to be a good guy, but I also believed guys are inherently not well-intentioned.
Well, not intentioned well for anyone but themselves.
“You could’ve fooled me last night.” He was smiling. “You seemed to like my favors then.”
“See! You’re not going to take me seriously? After what I just said?”
Carter shook his smile right off. “I’m sorry. It’s just ridiculous that you would think I wanted a different assistant just so we could sleep together. I honestly thought you’d be happy about this. You’re an awesome song-writer and singer, and I want you to focus on that and not on scheduling my flights.”
I studied his face the way we girls do. Sure, as women we are known to maybe “over think” some things. We may spiral out of control when you don’t text us back within an hour; we may believe you casually went to grab coffee, met the girl of your dreams (as if someone dreamier than us could exist), and fell in love, therein forgetting our unanswered text message and that we exist. We may stalk every girl you have ever dated so that we will know how many of her photos you are in and how many you’ve ever “liked.” And it is possible that we may apply these delusional thoughts and detective skills to every action and reaction you have during our encounters.
So I felt confident in my ability to analyze Carter’s body language.
Eye contact—he was telling the truth. Head tilted—he was confused by my reaction. Eyebrows furrowed—he wanted compassion.
Okay, I believed him. And, God, did he look cute.
“It’s just that what happened last night was weird…right? Like I am—was—your employee. But also, we’re friends.” I tried to cushion my somewhat rude tone just now with a positive. Carter looked at me as if I had told a joke that he didn’t quite get, but he was working on it.
“Friends.” He stuck out his hand to sh
ake mine. To solidify our friend-ness as men do. I took the bait. He pulled as soon as his fingers wrapped around my hand, and I stumbled into him. “Is this weird? I’m sorry. I shake hands with all my friends like this.” His breath was sweet and bubbly from the champagne, his lips hovering right at the tip of my nose. If I looked up into his eyes, we would kiss.
I wasn’t going to. I really wasn’t.
I was going to keep my eyes straightforward, pull my hand away and get the fuck out of there. But we were chest to chest (or head to chest), and I could practically hear his heart beating; it was fast. He was nervous.
And then I just wanted to kiss him even more.
“I’m more of a pat on the back girl…not really used to the conventions of hand shaking, so this could be normal for all I know,” I said into his shirt. I bit my lip as if to drag my head down, keep it away from his lips. But science had never really done anything great for me before, so I wasn’t surprised when gravity didn’t work like I expected it to (that’s how gravity works, right?), and I looked up instead of down.
So.
This was a thing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Later That Week
“I have to ask. I have to, you know I have to, so don’t act like you’re stunned or anything ridiculous like that.” Trevor ate a French fry and took a deep breath. “How big is he?”
I feigned shock, my hand to my heart, mouth wide open, the whole act.
Skylar laughed so hard she choked on a piece of spaghetti. We had taken to doing roomie dinners once a week since we barely ever saw each other anymore otherwise. Trevor had gotten a job at a trendy gym full of celebrity members and would’ve slept there if they’d let him. I was sleeping where I worked (most of the time), coming home to shower and change before going back to Carter’s to write music and have the occasional sex break (or was it have sex with the occasional write music break?). Skylar had been promoted to buyer at the department store she worked at, so she was always gone early in the morning and back late at night—dressed head to toe in glam and more glam.
We were so LA.
I wiped the surprise off my face. “Big.” I winked at him, knowing it would drive him crazy. Of course, Trevor involuntarily knocked his knees into the table underneath us, making every dish vibrate and almost spilling his water. He was in the middle of chewing food, so, since he couldn’t open his mouth to scream, he just flapped his arms and smacked the table. He looked like that psychotic parakeet your parents thought would be the perfect “first pet,” but whenever you let him out of his cage he just flew around like a possessed horror film bird that you had to keep dodging until you tricked him into trapping himself back in his cage. Limbs flailing everywhere. Like I said, it was a big moment for him.
“Details, girl! I need details!” He yelped as soon as he had swallowed his mouthful of food.
“Okay, so he has a tattoo of an elephant’s face on his pelvis just above it and it’s the trunk,” I took a bite of my lamb and Gouda meatballs (if you come to LA for nothing else, come for the food, people). I managed to keep a straight face.
“It’s true. She told me that the other day,” Skylar piped in, thankfully with her own concrete expression. She had proven to be a worthy teammate in sarcasm.
“I’ve nicknamed him Snuffleupagus.” I managed to get it out before Trevor’s head, swiveling back and forth between Skylar and me, made me crack a smile.
“Wait,” Trevor said. “Snuffy is a wooly mammoth not an elephant, you lying, sneaky rats!” We all burst into laughter, drawing the attention of almost every other restaurant patron. Just the way we liked it.
“Really though,” he pressed onward.
“It’s very nice. It’s very good.” I wiped laughter tears from my eyes. “One of the better ones I’ve ever encountered.” Which I wish I hadn’t said. Because it just made me think of the only other “very nice” junk I’d met. Truthfully, I hadn’t thought much about Isaac lately. He wasn’t in every coffee shop; his car wasn’t in every parking lot. But it’s like the background music in a movie – you don’t notice it’s even there until there’s silence. I think he played in the back of my mind always, but he only asked for attention when all was quiet. When I was tucked in bed and drifting to sleep, his face would pop up and beg for a push on the swing.
I guess they could read this on my face because Trevor asked, “How’s that whole…everything going?”
I just shook my head, like it wasn’t what I was thinking of. “It’s not really. Carter’s actually the first guy I’ve been with that doesn’t make me wish he was Isaac when we’re together.”
That was true. It was nice to feel connected to the person I was sleeping with again—but it wasn’t the same. I liked Carter as a person, as a friend, and not just a friend for the night. Obviously I was attracted to him, but I didn’t feel the insane, illogical, goosebumps-all-the-time way I’d felt about Isaac. It was more relaxed; we’d laugh about changing positions or when he got a leg cramp. We’d talk each other through it; where to kiss, where to touch, what speed to go. It was sexy in a very different way than it had been with Isaac. That was all throwing each other around, pure heat, wildly sexy.
Carter was a comfortable sexy, a funny sexy. In some ways, it felt more real. I had always had the fear that all of that with Isaac was just too good to be true—nothing could ever be that fiery forever. At some point, it’s got to rain.
“You don’t miss him anymore?”
That was a question I wasn’t prepared to answer. I didn’t want to miss him anymore; it was too long to be missing him still, wasn’t it? But I did wonder if he missed me at all, if he ever looked over at Christy and wished she was me. If his friends were asking him these same questions, so many months later, because they could still see me in his eyes when they got cloudy with beer. I wondered if he heard the sound of her legs rustling in his sheets in the morning and smiled, thinking for just a second that it was me before he woke up and had a chance to remember.
“I don’t really think about it,” I said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
That Night
“So,” Carter said. “There’s this thing.” He traced his finger in a zig-zag from freckle, to freckle, to freckle on my arm. I had already partially drifted off to sleep—naked and happy.
“Again?” I reached down to feel between his legs.
“No, no. A real thing. I mean, that’s a real thing. But I mean an event thing.”
“A gig or something?”
“Well, yes,” he said. “But not a you-and-me gig.” I sat up reluctantly since I was so warm and tucked in. “It’s the fifteenth anniversary of From The Boys’ first album release. And since things are starting to take off with this new music venture,” he poked my rib, “Max thought it would be a good idea to set up a reunion show. Cause the timing’s pretty perfect with my ‘comeback,’ if you will, and the anniversary.”
“Who would’ve thought you would be the rocketing solo star of the group,” I joked, poking him in the ribs playfully. “I mean, you have the voice, but everyone knew Tommy was the token pretty face. And it’s usually the least talented, yet most beautiful that reap all the Hollywood glory, right?” I ruffled his hair.
“The pretty face! Tommy was getting Botox by seventeen,” Carter rolled his eyes, faking annoyance with me. He was trying to out-sarcasm me, and it would never work.
“I’m just saying that you expect sacrifices like that—to help him carry out a pop star career until he’s forty-seven, while looking twenty-two. It’s impressive.” I shrugged, my excellent sardonic abilities winning the round. “You should be so proud you beat out the prettyboy.” Carter grabbed me at my ticklish sides, having to resort to this as a means of shutting me down.
“You should come. If you’re not doing anything that night,” he said, super casually after letting me go.
“Are you…joking? See the band—whose posters were basically my wallpaper as a child—reunited, and I’m going with
one of them? Uh, yeah, I’ll be there.” I pounced on him. If he had been wearing a shirt I would’ve pulled him by the collar, making it clear just how much I would be there, but he wasn’t, so I just shook his shoulders violently. “I mean. Going together, not going together, whatever.”
“Cool. That’s awesome. It’s Saturday night, downtown so…I’ll just pick you up around 7?”
“You don’t have to do that. My place is the opposite direction for you. I can meet you there.”
“No. I’ll pick you up,” Carter said, slipping on some boxers and walking out of the room before I could object again. I settled into the covers, and a moment later he came back in, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe that he had forgotten something. He kissed me and left the room again.
I had missed being kissed.
Obviously, I had had no shortage of kissing men since my west coast move. But I missed being kissed. Kissed just because someone wanted to kiss you, not because it was the polite thing to do before you have sex. A kiss goodbye, a kiss hello, a kiss that was a short but complete sentence. An excellent, long, deep kiss could make you see lights with your eyes shut. Having someone to kiss like that was something you could start to take for granted when it’s there it’s just another nonchalant moment in a day. But when it’s gone, it’s all you want. Like when you have a stuffy nose and hate yourself for a week for taking clear nasal passageways for granted, but when you can breathe again you don’t think twice about it. Every woman (not including the ones I hate) should be kissed like that every day.
In a way that makes them feel beautiful and enough.
***
The night of the show, I was getting ready in my room when Trevor came in. He looked all set for a date night with Netflix—the uniform for this type of evening being sweats, an open bathrobe, and a beer (okay, a hard cider). He contrasted severely with my lacey LBD (the notorious staple of every chick’s wardrobe, yet any time she decides she wants to wear that little black dress, she’ll buy a new one), pumps, and blown out hair situation. The thing about being dressed up is that we all romanticize it; we want to dress up, we buy things for the nights “we’ll all go out and get dressed up because I don’t need to wait for a fucking guy to look pretty,” we set aside hours to do the whole thing. But the second we look like I did right now, we want to look like Trevor.