Dating You / Hating You
Page 42

“She didn’t tell me about that,” Steph says, and her expression is a little terrifying.
“How were the tits?” Jonah asks, bringing it all back to the important issues. “Nice?”
Before I can reach across and smack him, Steph does it, then turns to Michael. “Did you know about all this?”
“I . . . heard that . . . something . . . untoward had occurred,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “I told him it was wrong. Very wrong.” He gives me a stern expression that says he’ll murder me in my sleep if I so much as hint at the truth.
Steph groans. “I knew about Jonah and the weird Dan Printz situation, and that you’d flaked out on the meeting with the retreat coordinator.”
“I—”
“All of that is professional stuff between the two of you. But playing into Brad’s sexism? That makes me angry at you, Carter. It’s hard enough for a woman to be taken seriously in this business and seen as a person with a brain and not an object. Men get passes for acting like it’s 1960 and every woman in the office is their secretary. Evie will have to be smarter, faster, and better at her job than you are, for possibly less money and a whole lot less recognition, all while appearing totally grateful for it.”
I want to crawl under the table.
“That’s exactly what I told him,” Michael says, nodding feverishly. “That it undermines her credibility. Didn’t I tell you that, Carter? If I had a shame bell I would follow him around. Very disappointed in you.”
“I felt trapped,” I say. “If I said something, would she have been more embarrassed? Plus she would know I was looking at her boobs.”
“Which you were, I’m sure,” Steph says.
“Well, yeah. Because they’re great.”
She reaches across and smacks me this time.
“I don’t see the problem,” Jonah says. “None of this sounds bad so far.”
“That’s not very reassuring,” I say, and then look back at Steph. “Like I said, it escalated. I don’t even know how it happened. One minute I was in line at the store getting caffeinated K-Cups for the office, and the next I look over and see this giant display of bronzer. To summarize, I’m pretty sure I’m going to end up in a ditch somewhere.”
“Wait—is this the girl from the party?” Jonah asks around a mouthful of potatoes. My potatoes. “The one you couldn’t close the deal with?”
I toss him an icy glance. “Why are you even here?”
“You asked me to come, dickbag. You wanted to lecture me about this stupid shoot. You do understand this is what I do, right?” He straightens—a sign he’s getting riled up. “You think I’ve made it this far because I need you to show me how to do my job?”
Annoyance flares in my chest, but I do my best to push it down. I reacted almost exactly the same way when Evie told me it was time to move on Dan.
“Just remember, I made sure they could work with your schedule and the new shoot time is eleven,” I tell him. “We’re doing makeup at eight thirty. Be there at nine. Don’t be late. And no attitude, either. I put my neck out for you on this. Not to mention Evie’s.”
“Fucking hell, I’ll be there, Carter.” My brother shoves his phone into his pocket and stands. “Why are you such a dick all the time?”
“Dick!” Morgan screams, and we watch Jonah storm out of the restaurant.
“On that note,” Steph says, checking the time, “my class starts in ten.” She kisses each of us on the head—Morgan twice—grabs her gym bag, and heads out.
Michael Christopher cuts up some more of his waffle into bite-size pieces and slides them onto his daughter’s plate. But Morgan, tired of sitting quietly, has climbed out of her seat and relocated to my lap. Michael watches us, his face slowly melting into a floppy expression of fondness. I know what he’s thinking—he wants this for me. He wants us to meet for breakfast on Sundays and watch our kids play together; he wants our wives to be the best of friends. I don’t need to be a genius to know he still wants me to find that with Evie. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I wanted it a little, too. I was never on the right page with Gwen, but something tells me I might have found it with Evie. We’d probably kill each other first, but who knows, that might have been part of the fun.
“You have your dad’s face on,” I tell him.
“I do not have my dad’s face on.”
“Yeah you do.” I lift a hand, drawing a vague circle in the air. “You get all glassy-eyed and sentimental, like you’re mentally embroidering our names on a quilt.”
“All this talk of sabotage is going to make it really awkward for me to make the toast at your guys’ wedding.”
“I hate to break it to you, but I think that ship sailed about the same time I was refilling her lotion bottle on Friday afternoon.”
Michael picks up his mug and looks at me over the top of it, smug. “I forgot Steph had a cat for a week when she was on a trip in college, and I’m still here. You never know. Besides, you seem strangely optimistic—dare I say, chipper—for a man who plans to die this week. One might even think you’re enjoying this a little.”
My face says no, but the jump in my pulse as he mirrors my earlier thoughts says otherwise. Evil would cut off my balls and hand them to me if she thought it would give her an edge. And while that’s not particularly appealing, the idea that I have to constantly keep up is. Evie is smarter, and there’s a rush of adrenaline in having to work to stay one step ahead.
If only I knew how to do that.
• • •
Mildly obsessing over my next move, I barely sleep Sunday night, and feel like a walking time bomb the next morning.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Burning bags of excrement on my porch? To be accosted by hired ninjas in the stairway? Both of these possibilities seem highly unlikely, and yet I look out the peephole before I leave, peek around the corner as I head to the stairs, even check beneath the hood of my car before I start it.
Get a grip, Carter.
I try to laugh off my nerves as I turn the key and the engine comes to life without exploding into a ball of fire. Maybe the best retaliation is no retaliation at all. Damn you, Evie.
Traffic is better than usual this morning, and with my second cup of coffee down by the time I get to work, I’ve regained a bit of my nerve.
Justin is out sick today, and I make small talk with a couple of the interns as I pass. Kylie looks frazzled about something, but I steer clear, stopping by the Keurig in the break room before officially starting my day.
It’s regular. I check.
My door is still locked, a good sign. Evie’s light is on, but her door is closed, and if I’m careful not to jangle my keys or make any unnecessary noise it’s because I’m considerate, not scared.
Nothing has changed. My computer is where I left it; my stapler is still on the corner of my desk. The words DIE CARTER DIE aren’t scribbled on the wall in poop or blood.
I’m calling it a win.
Still, I close the door quietly and tiptoe to my desk. I log into the network, wincing, but the computer seems normal, too. I pull up an address and answer a few emails, grab the papers I need, and then casually lean to the side, where I can usually get a view of Evie’s legs. No dice.