Dating You / Hating You
Page 60

“What is it exactly you’re looking for?” I ask, mentally filing through the stack of great scripts Brad recently sent me.
“What I’m looking for is an agent who sees what I am, but also what I can be. Jared Leto won an Oscar for Dallas Buyers Club but also gets to play the Joker.”
“He gets to be a rock star, too,” I say, and Dan laughs at this. “Pretty sweet gig if you can get it.”
“Exactly,” he agrees. “Nobody’s telling him he can’t pull off the Joker. He wanted it and he just did it.”
“He’s also got the talent to back it up,” I say, leading him.
“You think I don’t?”
“I wouldn’t be having this conversation if I thought that,” I tell him. “At least as an actor. I have to be honest, though, Dan. You’d be a shit rock star.”
He laughs again. “That’s what I need. An agent who gets me the parts I need but also the parts I want. And one who steers me away from the things that won’t work.”
“It doesn’t help anyone for me to kiss your ass,” I tell him. “Neither of us gets paid that way.”
“You think you’re that guy?”
“I’m positive I’m that guy. You are a career, not just a role.”
“Let’s do this then,” he says. “I need to get back on set, but Caleb can take care of the details. Let’s make some movies, man!”
“And win some awards,” I say in response and can hear his quiet “Hell yeah” as he passes the phone to Caleb.
I finish up the call, and when I hang up, I’m not quite sure if I imagined the entire thing.
There’s some official stuff to be done, but I’m Dan Printz’s new agent.
Me.
I push my hands into my hair and pace the room again before moving to pick up my phone, ready to call Evie with the good news when I stop, dropping it back to the bed.
There is absolutely no way I can tell Evie this today. She thinks Brad is trying to push her out, and after hearing their little altercation this morning, I agree. Not only did I pick up Dan from her in a semishady way, but I’m confident I can do things for him precisely because I have access to a stack of hot scripts that Evie never got to read.
I pick up my phone again, feeling the weight of it in my palm and wondering if there’s some sort of twenty-four-hour grace period I get on delivering a possibly devastating blow to my new girlfriend’s career.
I open the calendar app and send Justin a note to block out an hour on Tuesday, after I’ve had a chance to confirm the details with Dan. Best not to rush it. I’ll finish out the weekend, get us back to LA, and then talk to Evie about it as soon as possible.
• • •
There’s basically one goal for any team-building weekend: make a bunch of grown, moderately successful adults behave like idiots for a forty-eight-hour period all in the name of corporate bonding. This weekend is no different.
It’s not that the games themselves are silly—they’re actually a lot of fun—it’s just hard to immediately spot the real-world utility. I mean, how can fighting off a zombie in a locked conference room ever help me tell my coworker in a calm and rational manner that I’m upset he ate my lunch?
Aptly, the first game is called Zombie Escape. A “zombie” is tethered to the center of the room and gradually given more floor space. The other team members are meant to solve various puzzles before the zombie is freed entirely. The best moment in this particular game comes when Evie’s team sacrifices Ashton to get another three minutes.
The event planner, Libby, gives them kudos for real-world problem solving, but reminds them it wasn’t exactly in the spirit of the game. But let me be clear: I would have done the same thing if the situation were real. Ashton is an ass.
Next up is Office Trivia. We’re divided into new teams and earn points by answering questions correctly. The questions start out easy enough, and are meant to test our observation and recollection skills: On what floor is the shared bathroom? What color is the couch in Evie’s office?
See? Simple.
But when the exercise devolves into a scene right out of Cards Against Humanity, with questions like “What most accurately fits the description of: An hour of fun, perfect for lunch breaks” and half the group shouts, “Rose!” it’s time to pack it in.
The correct answer was break-room yoga, by the way.
It’s hard to keep from watching Evie during all this, making my way over to her team and coming up with excuses to touch her. By the time lunch is over and everyone meets for a nature walk around the lake, if you’d dusted Evie for my fingerprints, she would’ve looked like a powdered doughnut.
The temperature is just above freezing, and we good little Californians pile on our bought-specifically-for-this-trip winter clothing and start the walk. I run to catch up with my girl—my girl!—and then tug on her hand so we’re both lingering at the back of the group.
Evie’s cheeks are pink from the cold, and I move in as close as I can without looking like I’m up to something.
“What’s this all about?” she says, grinning as she watches the distance between us and the others grow.
I slip one hand out of my pocket and twist my pinkie around hers. “Just wanted to hold your hand.”
“You’re such a puppy,” she says, but she squeezes my finger anyway.
Speaking of puppies . . . Bear runs around, ducking and dodging through the group as we walk along the lake. At one point he gingerly steps into the shallows and begins crouching.
“Oh God,” I murmur, gently elbowing Evie.
She turns to follow my attention and lets out a quiet gasp.
His back legs shake, his spine is awkwardly curved, and if I had to guess, I would say Bear is feeling some intestinal distress.
“Bear!” Brad yells, and everyone looks awkwardly away from the pooping dog. “What in the hell are you doing? Get out of that water, it’s freezing!”
Bear will not be moved. He carefully steps a little farther in, crouches a little more, whines, and looks back at us all.
Evie glances up at me, and then we both turn to watch in horror as Brad continues to yell and Bear continues to . . . well, bear down. Everyone is standing at the water’s edge and it’s like a slow-motion car accident. Nobody can seem to look away.
I let go of Evie’s hand and make my way to the front of the group, on the verge of confessing and suggesting we run Bear to the nearest emergency vet, when the problem seems to solve itself. Bear barks happily and straightens, bounding back into the snow.
“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Kylie says. “I thought he was having puppies or something.” Every head in the group turns to look at her with the same confused expression when someone speaks up.
“Oh my God. Brad,” Rose says. “I think Bear has worms.”
We all look, because honestly, at this point what else can we do? Four pale yellow things are floating at the very surface of the water.
And I wince, turning toward Evie just in time to hear someone say, “Are those . . . wait, are those condoms?”
• • •
It is safe to say that I have never been more excited for a trip to end than I am right now. The retreat itself was fine—great if you count it was two nights and eight condoms (only seven of those used to completion)—but to say I was distracted would be a gross understatement. This weekend has felt like some kind of test, but aside from the Condom Incident, as we’ve decided to call it, and Brad and Evie’s little altercation in her room, it feels like an overwhelming success.