Let's Try This Again Read online

  Maybe Max had sensed that I was looking for the same thing—maybe he could see that I would work hard to help somebody else do this because I could sympathize; we were two people craving a blank slate.

  He was working on an album that was going to hopefully be a complete departure from his boy band days. It was acoustic, raw, more mature. Or that’s what Max told me.

  Now, a week into my new position, I had yet to meet Carter. He was on a short version of a publicity tour, trying to get his face back out there. It gave me a couple of days to prepare myself for the shock of meeting someone whose posters had been on the walls of my room, growing up. Thankfully, being in love with a different member of the group had given me enough perspective to know that I’d be able to act professional, but still, I was fucking human. I am not one of those idiots who believe all that “stars; they’re just like us” bullshit.

  The day I met Carter, I couldn’t get a read on him. He kept his sunglasses on the whole time and barely mumbled, “Hello.” But I got to listen to him play some stuff on his guitar, which was like my tween wet dream. He hadn’t written lyrics yet, so I basically didn’t hear him say a single word. I went home that day to Skylar and Trevor, who were dying to know what he was like, but I really couldn’t tell them anything. The next couple of weeks progressed like that.

  While I now had a job, my personal life was still a wreck. I was the conductor of the hot mess express the second I left work—especially on the weekends. I was glad my roommates were also sort of nutjobs, so I didn’t have to worry about them thinking I was psychotic. We went out almost every night, drinking like fish. And I became a bit of slut. Normally, I am opposed to the term—I think women should be able to have just as much sex with whomever they want as men do (as long as it’s safe and consensual and clean, stating the obvious). Being a slut either shouldn’t have a negative connotation or shouldn’t be a word at all, but I felt slutty. I had slept with a handful of men already, and I called them all Schmo (as in Joe) because they were all the same and none of them mattered. Molly loved to call me every morning to hear my latest story. Usually those had to wait until Schmo had poured himself out of my house or my headache had subsided.

  I wanted to have sex. I wanted to be touched and held and felt as much as I wanted to feel again. But I didn’t want to look in someone’s eyes. I didn’t want to remember that the person on top of me wasn’t Isaac.

  So I drank to fulfill both needs.

  One night stands are the strangest thing because it is the most personal act you could ever commit, committed with someone completely impersonal to you. Doing something so intimate with a stranger is the contradiction. I was scared that if I were to hook up with someone while I was sober, A, it wouldn’t be as good as it had been with Isaac (because that was basically a guarantee), which would spiral me into a deeper depression, and, B, I didn’t want to be hooking up with a guy and all of a sudden realize I had no interest in it because it wasn’t Isaac. I didn’t want to close my eyes only to open them and see that it wasn’t him brushing my collarbone or scratching my cheek with his scruff. It would be the most soul crushing sex ever. (And also, it gets really awkward when you sleep with someone the first time; limbs go everywhere, elbows poke accidentally, weird noises come from weirder places as you instruct someone into a new position. It’s all just blurrier when you’re drunk.)

  So, I covered my eyes with an alcohol blindfold because that’s not how sex should be—it shouldn’t ever make you feel sadder than before you started. Unless you’re sad that it’s over. Never be sad that it started.

  And though I was sad, I was sad during all the stages - before, during, and after. It didn’t really matter, anyway.

  The thing was that the sex with these randoms wasn’t ever bad. In fact, it was usually pretty good, and that’s saying something because it’s always harder for me to get off when I’m drunk. I’m just so all over the place mentally. And unlike men, it can take a lot of focus to get the job done for women. The guys were well versed in how to work a bedroom, but there was never a connection. There was nothing pulling me into the moment and there was everything pulling me out of it. Every time with Isaac was not only a gymnastics routine but also flecked with small moments that made me feel so close to him—him whispering that I was beautiful or kissing my shoulder or giving me a squeeze of my thigh that kept me right there with him.

  Those gestures never felt forced; they were compelled. Like he couldn’t help but adore me, and I felt it back. That’s not how it was with all my casual slumber party guests.

  So one day I went into work with a particularly bad struggle-bus hangover. I pulled a Carter and wore sunglasses all morning, napping behind my shades as he recorded some tracks. Today his green eyes were out and about and I couldn’t even appreciate it because I couldn’t fully open my eyes without starting a migraine.

  “Rough night?”

  I looked over at him. It felt like he was talking a little too loudly, but at least he spoke. “No, no. I’m just trying to get into the spirit of LA. Fit in a little better,” I groaned.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Carter took his guitar off, put it down and held out his hand.

  “You’re still booked here until 4,” I said, squinting towards my way too bright phone to double check his schedule. “And then you’re not here again until next week. You kind of need this time.”

  “It’s Wednesday. If you’re this hungover on a Wednesday, I think you kind of need some time. To talk.”

  ***

  Carter took me to this little café that had bacon mac and cheese GRILLED CHEESE – it was like he had peered into my soul and seen exactly what I needed to survive this day (slash life).

  “Not into the whole kale craze, huh?” he joked.

  “Not today.” I laughed through bites. “Well, not ever actually.”

  “So?” Carter leaned back into his chair. “What’s your deal?”

  “I’m really not this much of a hot mess, Boss. I’m completely worthy of employment. I was ready to drive the struggle-bus all day for you.”

  “I’m not worried about that. I’m just trying to figure you out a little bit. I’m an observer—pretty much everything interests me.”

  Such an artiste. I paused with a mouth full of pure bliss. “So you’re researching me? For what—songs?”

  “I kind of research everyone, but I feel like that’s what makes art. The little bits and pieces of the human experience. People forget how fascinating that actually can be.” He said this with no smile on his face. Homeboy was serious.

  “You know you were in posters with, like, fuzzy cheetah hats and shit, right? Real classic boy band poses. I think I had a CD jacket where you had frosted tips.”

  Carter smiled at this. “That was not my favorite shoot. So you were a From the Boys fan?”

  “I was. I liked Marcus, though.”

  “Ah, a girl who likes the bad boys.”

  “Unfortunately. My best friend Ellie was all about you, though. She’s really freaking out over all of this.”

  “I have a hard time believing people are still freaking out about me. I’m no Justin Bieber.”

  At this point I was contemplating licking my plate completely clean. I decided that that would probably be pretty unprofessional. “Well that’ll change once your new stuff comes out.”

  “Maybe.”

  We both leaned back into our chairs, taking each other in.

  “So,” he broke the silence. “Do I get to hear the reason behind the sunglasses now that you’ve been fed?”

  “Is that a fat joke?” I smirked. Thankfully, he understood this was sarcasm—sometimes I really throw people off with that one. “I kind of went through a bad break up before I moved out here. If you can even call it a break up.”

  “Your ex really did a number on you, huh? What’s that story?”

  “One with a lot of history.” I nodded. “And it actually has a whole chapter on grilled cheese, so it’s a miracle I c
an even eat this right now. It’s just complicated.”

  “It always is.” Carter drank his iced tea.

  I took a breath. I felt like his comment should’ve rung sarcastic but it vibrated with sincerity. I felt…understood…for the first time in a while. So I opened up a little more. I said something I’d only been thinking in the privacy of my mind, which felt like a sponge that had been wrung completely dry at this point.

  “It probably really was mostly my fault. Reading into everything more than…well, just being too much of a girl, I guess.”

  “Why? Because you assumed you actually mattered?” he asked. “That’s not being too much of anything besides human.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Three Months In

  I really started to like going to work every day after that lunch. Carter and I got along super well, and I found a rhythm in organizing and planning his days. I was good at living for him—which is pretty much what a PA does. That and basically becoming best friends with your boss because you spend 24/7 together. Luckily, I had a cool guy to do this with. And I had even cooler roommates that made transitioning to life as a true blue (or tan) California chick even better.

  The days turned into weeks and months, and I was tan and freckly and happy. When I went to yoga, though, I discovered that when my mind had time to travel it always picked the same destination. He wasn’t a constant thought anymore, but he hadn’t disappeared, either.

  I never asked Molly or Ellie about him anymore. They never brought him up, and he never tried to contact me to see how I was doing. That had made me really fucking angry for a while—like what the fuck, do you just have a switch in your stupid fucking brain that you flipped so you cannot give a fuck about me anymore? And why weren’t girls born with that? Sexism rears its ugly head again. Thanks, Jesus. Or Charles Darwin. Or I guess that would be nature’s fault. Whoever the fuck made girls without the off switch in the brain.

  So when it came time to go home for Thanksgiving, part of me dreaded it and part of me wanted to show off the cool vibes (us Californians say “vibes”) I possessed now as a Cali girl (us Californians never say “Cali” but no one knew that at home). With that, there was small part of me that was terrified of seeing Isaac and an even smaller part that was excited about the prospect. Give me a break; even at my strongest, I still have a little bit of crazy, stupid chick in me (all girls do).

  My best friends picked me up from the airport with my mom, brother, and sister. I dropped all my bags and leapt into Molly’s arms like she was my long lost lover, and I was coming back from war after surviving both cancer and stepping on a landmine. It was magical is all I’m trying to say. I would go so far as to say that time was actually moving in slow motion for everyone around us.

  I had been reluctant to leave LA, but Carter had given me a full week off because he was going to be with his family in New Jersey, too. What a guy. And I had been kind of annoyed at the idea of a full week with nothing to do but see people I had wanted to leave behind (obviously not the six people I still loved in CT) - but now, getting home, I had never been more thankful on any Thanksgiving before. Not even the one when my grandpa made three chocolate cream pies and told me to hide one all for myself to take home.

  It’s a little known fact until you are legally able to drink, but the night before Thanksgiving is huge. It’s a holiday that everyone has off, pretty much, so it’s a free-for-all in your hometown bar. Every Susie, Mark, and Tommy High-Schooler you never wanted to see after graduating is there, orchestrating the makeshift reunion you’re already planning to avoid in ten years.

  Molly, Ellie, and I joined the masses at Hogans. We had drunk some tequila shots beforehand, knowing the scene that we were going to subject ourselves to. I knew that the possibility of seeing people I hated was high, but I was so wrapped up in being with people I loved that I didn’t care. And my toes were warm from the tequila.

  We hugged the few acquaintances we ran into that are the type of people you’d never text to hang out with but didn’t mind catching up with on occasions like this. We ignored the stupid fucks who didn’t matter (like Katey Kelsee who, I think, had probably moved into Hogans at this point). But when Carter texted me to see how my night was going, just friendly, non-work related conversation, Ellie made sure that all those fuck-nuggets knew about it.

  “OH! Tell Carter COLEMAN we say hi! This girl is Carter COLEMAN’S personal assistant. Are you still working at Gap, Lizzy? Are you still managing a Chipotle, Dan? Our best friend is best friends with Carter fucking COLEMAN.” She sloshed her drink around, talking to people who were named neither Lizzy nor Dan.

  Fuck, I had missed her.

  I smiled, happy with my life in LA, happy with my life in CT—just happy. I ordered another drink and texted my famous boss, asking about his Thanksgiving plans.

  “He just sent you a SMILEY FACE, Josie! Carter Coleman is sexting you!” Molly yelped.

  “Molls, you cannot shout things like that out. That could end up on TMZ tomorrow,” I laughed, only slightly worried about the reality of that concern.

  “Who the fuck at Hogans is connected to TMZ in any way? Other than Katey, who probably mailed a sex tape to them in hopes of becoming Kim Kardashian, but in reality she would be much more like that Teen Mom pornstar. And it would make guys limp instead of hard,” Molly slurred.

  I laughed way too hard and looked down at my blurry phone to try and answer Carter, but the light on it illuminated a face standing just inches away from me.

  “Hi, Josie.”

  There he was.

  The face that had been stuck like a poster to the back of my skull for months now.

  Right there in front of me.

  “Isaac.” I looked back down to my phone, which had gotten significantly blurrier. Around him I wasn’t just drunk—I was intoxicated. I typed random letters into the text box.

  “How have you been?” he asked after a minute, stepping forward as I rocked back on my stilettos.

  “I’ve been—“I stopped myself short. I didn’t even really want to answer. Then, in my pause, Isaac took it upon himself to say hi to a group of passing girls, placing his hand on the small of one girl’s back and giving her a smile. My smile. My blurriness instantly cleared, and I was immediately fucking livid. And wasted. Not a good combo. I felt like hitting him even more than I felt like kissing him.

  “How have I been? You’ve made it abundantly clear that you don’t care how I’ve been, Isaac,” I inflected his name with a tone that only a mother about to ground you would use.

  “What do you mean?” He didn’t sound drunk, and he didn’t have a drink in his hand, either. This conversation was already unfair—he was in control of his words while mine tumbled out of my mouth without my consent.

  “You could’ve asked me how I have been months ago when I moved 3,000 miles away. You could’ve asked my friends any time you saw them anywhere. You could’ve acted like you gave a shit that I had made a huge life change and maybe wanted to make sure that I was doing okay. But you ignored it. You ignored me. And I am so mad at you.” That was all there was to say. I turned to walk away, and he grabbed my hand.

  I yanked it away from him and made my way through the crowded bar. I found Molly and Ellie towards the back, taking shots. I got to them as they swung around to hand me two, knowing what I needed before I even did. I grabbed both and downed them.

  ***

  Two hours and way too many drinks later, Molly, Ellie, and I stumbled out of Hogans in the wee hours of Thanksgiving morning.

  “Let’s cab the call,” Ellie said through a burp. I searched my bag for my phone, but it was nowhere to be found.

  “Fuck. Do either of you have my phone? Did I put it in your bag, Molly?” She rifled through her clutch, coming up empty.

  “Fuck! Fuck! My whole life is in that phone. Everything I do for work is in that phone. I cannot lose it!” I staggered almost into the middle of the street in full panic mode.

  “Rela
x, hold on.” Molly calmly pulled me to the sidewalk. Even when blackout drunk, she could always get it together to solve a problem at hand. “I’ll call it and see if someone picked it up.”

  She held her phone up to her ear, realizing after a minute that she had never put my number in. Once that issue was resolved, someone answered on the second ring.

  “Hello? You have my friend’s phone, she left it at –” Molly froze midsentence. Fuck, she mouthed. Isaac.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Twenty Minutes Later

  “Sir…here, sir…yeah, pull over here. The left. LEFT,” I directed the clearly deaf or maybe drunk himself cab driver into Isaac’s driveway. Fuzzy flashbacks of pulling my own car into it many times before clouded my brain. Molly and Ellie started to slide out next to me.

  “No,” I held my hands out dramatically. “I’m going to talk to him myself. Clearly he has something he wants to say to me, and I don’t want him to puss out in front of you guys.”

  “How are you going to get home?” Molly asked me.

  “You HAVE to go home, Josie,” Ellie added.

  “I’m GOING to go home, you guys, please. He wasn’t drinking, I’ll make him drive me. It’s the least he can do.”

  I could tell they wanted to argue. Ellie had the look in her eyes that said, “You’re lying right through your teeth, bitch,” but they were both too tired and drunk to give it their best effort. Instead, they slumped back onto one another in the seat and promptly passed out. I gave the driver Molly’s address, told him to wake them when he got there. I then said I had an app that tracked both of their phones and if he tried to kidnap them I would know, and he would wish he only had the FBI coming after him. I gave the car my most movie-like hood tap to send him on his way, but he kind of started moving after the first tap, and I stumbled a few steps forward.