Dating You / Hating You
Page 25

The situation with Evie isn’t any better. We went from this budding thing, to sharing one of the hottest nights I’ve ever had, to clipped conversations as we pass in the hall at work. After our conversation on Tuesday night, I figured we would band together and talk this through, but she’s been so busy with meetings, I barely saw her yesterday. All week, really.
And as much as I’d like to hope we’re starting on equal footing with Brad, I know that isn’t the reality. I don’t think I’m wrong in my sense that he really liked me, and in my read that there’s some old animosity between them, but she’s also worked for him for years. Not to mention that she has the benefit of all her local contacts. I also get the sense that she’s aligning with a group of select colleagues and setting up an artillery in this position, hoping to be invaluable . . .
But didn’t we agree we could work together?
“Can you sit down and eat something?” Michael says. “I’m going to need a Dramamine if I keep watching you.”
I push my hands into my pockets and make my way to the bench beside him. He pulls something from a brown paper bag and slides it and a Ziploc full of potato chips across to me. “Eat.”
I look down. Grape jelly, diagonal cut. “You made me lunch?”
He shrugs and takes another bite. “I knew you were preoccupied.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m guessing there’s been no update?”
I’d gone straight from work to Michael and Steph’s on Tuesday night, and in what had to resemble some sort of manic episode, I’d told them everything I knew about the merge, including the meeting where Brad dropped a bomb on us. Neither of them knew what to say, and I couldn’t exactly blame them. Hello, shitty situation with no good solution. So, after I called Evie, I decided to stay at their place for a Buffy marathon and somehow managed to eat an entire coconut cream pie.
“No update,” I tell him, setting my food down and leaning my elbows on the table.
“I do know that Brad doesn’t like Evie,” Michael says, “and yet he keeps her around like it’s some kind of game.”
That sounds about right. “He had the nerve to bring up Field Day right there in front of me. Sort of a dick move.” I groan, pressing my forehead to the table. “I really liked her, Michael. No, present tense: I like her. There is no angle where this doesn’t suck.”
“I know, man.” He reaches over to give my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
I sit up again, looking out over the grass and the cars moving along the street in the distance. Michael is quiet for a moment and slowly taps his fingers against his thigh.
“There’s really only one thing you can do,” he finally says. “You’re going to have to get rid of her.”
“Get rid of her?”
He nods, taking a huge bite of sandwich. “Make her look incompetent.”
I gape at him. “What kind of asinine plan is that? I like her!”
He blinks, watching me as he chews.
“Besides,” I continue, “Brad might’ve tried to throw her under the bus a little, but he also made sure I knew what I was up against. No one is going to think she’s incompetent.”
He stares blankly at me, which only makes me explode. “Not to mention, she’s your friend, too, jackass!”
He pops a chip in his mouth with a satisfied grin. “Christ, I know you so well. You’re such a Boy Scout, Aaron. I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”
I stare at him. “Thank God you brought me lunch, because otherwise you’re quickly veering out of helpful territory.”
He laughs, wiping his mouth with a pink paper napkin. “Look, you like Evie, she likes you. You’re both problem solvers, and if anyone can find a way to coexist, it’s you two. Show these guys they’re wrong and that they need you both. Isn’t that what agents do anyways? Talk people into things they’re not sure they want?”
“That is literally the opposite of what agents do. Do you ever listen to your wife when she talks about work?”
“Whatever. Do whatever it is that you guys do. Save your job, get the girl.”
I ball up my bag of chips and throw it at him. “You’re an idiot.”
“Keeps people guessing.”
I stand, picking up my trash and walking to the bin, tossing it all inside. Save your job, get the girl. He might be an idiot, but the thing is, a part of me can’t help but wonder if maybe this time he’s right.
• • •
After lunch I head back inside, bidding a tragic farewell to both Michael Christopher and the perfect sunny day. I’m still learning my way around a new office, memorizing names and positions, getting a read on who I need to keep close and who I need to keep closer.
The building smells of fresh paint and carpet cleaner, and relative to CTM’s funky 1970s vibe, everything here feels new new new. My steps are accompanied by the steady hum of voices, the ringing of phones, and the clicking of keyboards. In New York, we could always hear the traffic, even twelve floors up. It was the ever-present backing track to each conversation, the sound we fell asleep to every night. It grew so familiar that aside from the occasional horn or siren, it’d be easy to forget there were cars outside the building at all. At CTM, we were just beside a fire station, and the sound of the siren turning on and wailing out of the gate became so familiar, we never even remarked upon it when we’d stop talking midsentence in the conference room, waiting for quiet to return.
Here, it’s quieter—and yet it feels louder. The lack of street noise inside the fancy, double-paned windows makes every other interior noise stand out. And as I walk into my office, I’m reminded again that the view couldn’t be more different, too.
She’s not there now, but Evie’s office is just across the hall. I’ve noticed she likes to meet with clients at the little couch and chair just inside the door, and if I bend to reach the garbage can—coincidentally, not on purpose, of course—I can just see her legs through the glass, the way she crosses them, the way she—
The new assistant on my desk, Justin, knocks on my door before peeking in. I inherited him from a P&D agent who was cut loose, and he’s a bit like a rescue dog brought home from the shelter. If he’s still here, he’s obviously considered good, but we’re working out a rhythm. He’s excitable, seems like the kind of guy who would use emojis in lieu of words in texts, and uses we when referencing anything on my to-do list.
We have a call with Patricia from Fox at eleven.
We have a one o’clock lunch with Peter in Legal.
We’ll just make a note here that we need to talk to Brad about this.
He’s also not Becca. I took a long shot and asked if there was any way to retain her; there wasn’t. Apparently mergers don’t work that way.
Becca used to argue with me, and she was right ninety-eight percent of the time. Becca would snap in my face when I wasn’t paying attention and yell at me for leaving my empty coffee cups around. Becca would fix my grammar on Post-it notes. Becca, and her loopy script I could never decipher. I miss Becca.
“You’re back,” Justin says as he walks into my office. Like most of the interns and assistants here, he’s barely old enough to drink and looks like he just stepped out of a Topman ad.
“Hey. Yeah.” With my hands on my hips, I survey the newly unpacked office. It feels so empty.