Carter and I meet eyes and quickly look away. This is painful for both of us. I want to tell Rose to stop. I want to tell her she’s gone too far, this is a conversation for closed doors, with me or someone else who’s sympathetic—not here. Seven days of the week—even on holidays—Brad is out to win. He’s not going to worry about appearances and say something to ease her mind. He’s a predator, and if you show him a trail of blood he will hunt you down until he’s eating your entrails.
Graphic but true.
“Just depends,” Brad says with menacing quiet, “whether you’re more comfortable being a failure or a quitter.”
I down my wine, knowing I’ll regret drinking it so fast but also unable to stop myself because I need to do something other than stand here, listening to Brad give this poor, nice person her very negative year-end review in the middle of a party.
Snagging another glass from a passing tray, I turn and walk toward the Christmas tree, intent on admiring it and getting the hell away from the echo of that conversation.
But I can feel Carter on my heels, and he stops just behind me, staying quiet while we each take a few breaths.
“Wow,” he says quietly, and I nod.
A few more seconds pass before he whispers, “Evie?”
“Yeah?”
“What are Eskimo sisters?”
The anticipatory horror on his face when I turn is like a hammer to a pane of glass for the tension in my chest, and I burst out laughing. “Two women who have slept with the same man.”
If possible, the horror intensifies. “And this man would be . . . me?”
“I presume so, but I know I didn’t become a sister.”
His face straightens. “Only because of circumstances.”
“I assume whenever two people don’t sleep together, one way or another it’s because of circumstances.”
“Right,” he says, easy again now, with the smile and the eyes and the collarbones. “But those circumstances are entirely different from the ones surrounding why I didn’t sleep with Rose.”
I glance back over to where Rose is still in a tense conversation with Brad, having been abandoned by the rest of us. I want to joke some more, keep it light here with Carter, but it’s nearly impossible when the weight of the job seems to follow us everywhere. I’ve never been let go. I’m not even sure how to deal with that.
“You okay?”
I nod, numb. “Sometimes I just can’t believe I do this for a living.”
His brows pull together. “You don’t love it?”
Instinct makes me tread carefully. Why is it that the one person I want to confide in the most is the one who could use it against me so easily? “I do love it. I love making these things happen, and connecting people. I love the clients and the art they make. It’s the politics I hate. The team behind the curtain is starting to feel . . . terrible. I don’t want to become that.”
His hand is warm when it comes up and cups my shoulder. The touch feels like the most intimate thing he could do right now—beyond even kissing me—because it makes me remember. I remember his mouth there. I remember that Carter likes my shoulders. I remember how his eyes seemed to ignite when he saw them bare, in the dress, that first date, and again on Friday.
It doesn’t feel like an innocent touch, it feels like a message.
“You aren’t like that, Evie.”
But when I look up at his face, he smiles a little, and it carries a shadow of regret.
I know we’re thinking the same thing: But I’ve been like that with you.
chapter twenty
carter
Eighteen-hour workdays, no social life, and I’m boarding the plane for New York wondering if the fact that it’s December twenty-first and the only Los Angeles holiday parties I managed to attend were work-related makes me an amazing career man or a terrible single dude.
Michael Christopher and Steph were hosting one—no costumes this time, sadly—but it conflicted with the Paramount party. Jonah invited me to his new apartment in West Hollywood, but the only evening I was free overlapped with his meeting a bankruptcy lawyer. We ended up exchanging small gifts over lunch at a food truck outside my building.
I’ve barely seen Evie, but we seem to have reached a sort of cease-fire. I guess hand jobs foster goodwill? Or maybe it was because I told her she had a poppy seed between her teeth before a Monday meeting, and she gave me a grateful you’re no longer Satan look. Whatever the reason, things have softened between us, and I’m so goddamn grateful for it I nearly want to weep. I’ve never in my life been so busy at a job, so desperate to prove myself and make myself indispensable. But seeing her face as we pass in the hall or hearing her voice coming from her office has made the last three weeks more bearable.
It makes no sense, I realize that. Hers should be the voice that reminds me that the clock is ticking, that the direct deposit notice I find in my inbox every two weeks isn’t a sure thing. And still, hers is the presence that feels the most grounding, the most sane. It’s terrifying to realize that no matter how this turns out, I probably won’t have her as a colleague much longer. So I go into ostrich mode and just don’t think about it.
• • •
Christmas is in two days and I’m shopping with family. The mall is packed, but there’s this shared type of last-minute chaos that puts people in a good mood despite the number of bodies clogging the stores.
Doris and Dolores are my two favorite aunts. They’re my dad’s sisters—twins, of course—and although they might look identical, they couldn’t be more different. For as long as I can remember, if Doris was hot, Dolores was cold. If Doris wanted burgers for dinner, Dolores wanted fish. If one wanted to watch a comedy, the other was absolutely in the mood for sci-fi.
“Why so quiet, Scooter?” Doris says, apparently still refusing to believe I am nearing thirty. She peers at me across the clothing rack through glasses so thick her blue eyes are magnified to three times their actual size. “What are you thinking about?”
Dolores picks through a table piled high with brightly colored polo shirts and looks up at her sister. “He’s a boy. He’s not thinking about anything.”
I slide my eyes to her. “Easy, Dolores.”
Holiday music plays on a loop overhead and Doris squints at me. “Look at him. He’s percolating.”
My mom lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. “You stressed about work, honey?”
As far as she knows, work is fine. I haven’t told her that in the past two months her eldest son began bronzing women without their consent and dealing in contraband glitter and hot sauce. I haven’t told her about my boss and how it’s like working for a real-life Ron Burgundy. I certainly haven’t told her that there’s a small chance I could be transferred back here, because the sabotage I’ve seen from Evie would pale in comparison to what Mom would do to make that transfer happen. And I haven’t mentioned that the girl I met at the party all those months ago is becoming my favorite person in the world and I’m feeling mildly lovesick.
“Just wondering,” I say, pointing at the pile of shirts Dolores is upturning, “what kind of monster digs through clothes during Christmas shopping and pulls every single shirt from the pile, unfolding it?”
Dolores throws me the stink eye.
“Don’t you know how long it takes to fold all of those, Double D?” I started calling my aunts this long before I knew—or appreciated—what it meant. They’ve always found it hilarious, but after twenty-plus years of hearing it, my mom no longer finds humor in Double D: The Twins. She gives my aunts a reproachful look for encouraging me by laughing. I adjust the bags in my hands and follow her as she moves to another table.
“Honey,” she says. “Tell me what’s bothering you. Are you in some kind of trouble? You know, I saw this episode of Law & Order where it talked about the underbelly of Hollywood.” She lowers her voice on that last part, the tiny bells on her earrings jingling as she sorts through shirts. “Anyway, they exposed it all. About the prosti
tutes and gangs, the drug dealers.” She looks at me with wide eyes. “You’re not near that, are you?”
“No, Mom. I think the underbelly is on the other side of LA. The side Jonah is on.”
This time the reproachful look is all mine.
“Mom, I’m fine. Was just thinking about him, actually. Wondering if he’s going to be all alone on Christmas.”
I am an excellent manipulator, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned growing up in this family, it’s that the way to change the tide of any conversation is to steer it directly toward Jonah.
Mom frowns, and even though I’m sure she knows exactly what I’m doing, her desire to defend her can-do-no-wrong son wins out. “You know how busy he is,” she says to me, but also toward Dolores and Doris, who’ve stopped to listen. “He said he’d be fine. He has friends. I’m sure he has some important job he’s wrapped up in, it being the holidays and all.”
I nod, remaining silent on the topic of Jonah’s schedule. Old Carter would have spilled all the details about my brother’s fall from grace, his money troubles, his current adventures in bankruptcy, because—at least for a few minutes—it would mean I’m the good one. But this strange guarded sensation in my chest feels something like protectiveness.
Toward Jonah. I think . . . I might be starting to like him?
“He does have a lot on his plate,” I say.
My mom puts down a particularly hideous shirt and pins me with narrowed eyes. “This is usually the point where you call him something colorful and tell me how many days it’s been since he last visited.”
“Maybe I’m being a grown-up.”
“Maybe you’re full of it,” she counters. And there it is, there’s that little spark I love. I sometimes wonder how much Mom knows about the particulars of Jonah’s life. They obviously talk because he told her about Evie, but he rarely comes home, and getting my parents onto a metallic death tube piloted by alcoholics (their words) is unlikely.
I’m twenty-eight years old and moved out of my parents’ house when I was nineteen, but I still miss my mom sometimes, my dad, the rest of my crazy family. I’m really not sure how Jonah does it. Then again, maybe that’s exactly how. If he came home, she’d probably figure out what a mess he is right now. Maybe he’d rather be the perfect Jonah they all remember than the one he actually is.
“LA is just . . . a lot,” I say finally, lamely.
It must communicate what I mean it to, because Mom nods, refolds the terrible shirt. “Just be sure you don’t become a lot, too.”
I sit in the backseat next to Doris on our way back to the house. Ten minutes into the drive, she’s asleep, which doesn’t make for the best conversation but does allow me to scroll through my texts and maybe mope a bit without anyone reading over my shoulder.
I’m not going to lie: it’s a little depressing to open my text window with Evie and realize how much time has passed since things were so good between us. I start to reread some of our exchanges, wondering if it’s possible I made then-Evie out to be funnier, smarter, or sexier than she really was.
I didn’t. The Evie in these texts is just like I remembered, and basically just like the one I see every day—maybe with just a touch more fire.
• • •
My phone rings as I’m carrying packages into the house, and I double take when I see the name on the screen.
Zach Barker is one of my stage-to-film clients. He was offered a last-minute role in an action movie when one of the supporting cast had to be replaced. Despite the fact that he and his wife, Avya, were living in New York and expecting a second child, he was needed on set right away. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but the last I heard, Avya decided to stay behind and wait for their son to finish up the fall semester before joining Zach in California around the time the baby is due.
“Zach, hey,” I say into the receiver, looking up to see snow beginning to fall. “You back in New York?”
“I’m still in LA. Avya and Josh are there. That’s why I’m calling.”
My heart speeds up and my mind races with thoughts of impending disaster. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Jason broke his ankle,” he says, and I wince.
Jason Dover, the lead.
“Okay, what does this mean?” I ask, walking to the edge of the driveway.
“We’re almost done, so they think they can shoot the remaining scenes around him and use a double for the rest, but they had to rearrange the shooting schedule and I won’t be home until tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to call someone, or . . . what can I do?”
“I need to call in a favor from Friend Carter, not Agent Carter.”
“Yeah, whatever you need.”
He laughs. “You might regret that in a second.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I was supposed to make it back yesterday, in time to go with Avya to birthing class tonight.”
“To what?” I bark out a laugh and a cloud of condensation hangs in the air in front of me. My mom’s little garden is frozen over, forgotten vines covered in ice and snow. A group of teens huddle together on the corner a few houses down, the end of a joint glowing in the fading daylight.
“Yeah . . .” Zach says, trailing off before laughing again. “I told you.”
I squeeze my eyes closed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “No, no, it’s cool.”
“You are such a liar.”
“Are you sure Avya’s fine with this?” Avya and I knew each other before she started dating Zach, but I don’t want her to be uncomfortable.
“She’s the one who suggested you.”
I open my eyes, staring up at the foggy, snowy sky. I love the day-to-day interactions with my clients. This is just . . . an odd one.
How could I possibly say no? Birthing class it is.
• • •
If you were to have asked me what I thought I might be doing tonight, there are a lot of answers I could have given you: Xbox with my cousins, wrapping presents with Double D, rereading Evil’s old texts again and again until I eat a box of ice cream sandwiches solo and blame it on my dad somehow.
The possibility of ending up with someone else’s wife in a room full of pregnant women and their partners would not have occurred to me.
Yet here I am.
I meet Avya out front and we hug, exchanging a few pleasantries and a comment or two about the weather. It’s a little awkward at first because I don’t know where to look or what to say—or really even how to hug a very, very pregnant woman.
Per usual, Avya breaks the ice. “Ready to go talk about my vaginal birth?” she says, yoga mat rolled up under one arm.
I don’t even know what to say to this. With a smile, I open the door, motion for her to lead, and follow her inside.
As far as birthing classes go, this one doesn’t seem too bad. It’s in a large open space and feels a lot like hanging out in sweatpants in a friend’s living room. It’s a plus if you’re trying to keep things natural, I guess.
Natural seems to be an ongoing theme: managing pain as best you can through natural methods, but not placing judgment on yourself or anyone else if a situation arises where you change your mind. An aside: if modern science ever figures out a way for men to experience the miracle of birth, put me down for a No. If the No option is full, I’ll take drugs. Lots of them.
Our teacher’s name is Meredith. She’s knowledgeable and soft-spoken and walks from couple to couple adjusting posture and widening a stance, or moving a foot here and there. We go through a series of stretches, the first with all of us on our hands and knees, gently rocking our hips back and forth in some sort of air hump, and I am so glad in this moment that Avya and I never had sex before Zach came along.
“That’s good,” Meredith says, looking out over the class. “Arch that back, swing those hips in a figure eight. Feel the motion. Back and forth, back and forth. Enjoy that movement, because who knows when you’ll feel it again after this, am I right?”
<
br /> Avya catches my eye over her shoulder for a beat before we dissolve into laughter.
“God, Evie will not believe this,” I say, helping Avya into the next position.
“Evie, Evie,” she repeats slowly. “Don’t think Zach’s mentioned that name before.”
“She’s an agent back in LA.”
“Same agency?”
“Yeah. Sort of. It’s a long story.”
“You’re dating an agent you work with? My life is so boring right now—thank God I made Zach ask you to come.”
“Not dating.” Even I hear the ew, girls implied by my tone.
“Snooze,” Avya complains, bending forward, her long black hair hiding her face. “Then why would she particularly care about this class? Entertain me, Carter.”
“She was with P&D before the merge,” I say, and Avya nods. “Anyway, she goes with the wife and child of one of her clients to a sensory class in Beverly Hills.”
“Let me guess: they paid the equivalent of one month’s rent on a one-bedroom in Queens to have their kids play in some totally basic thing, like pudding or bedsheets.”
“Pasta, actually. How’d you know?”
“I went to something similar when Joshua was little, but with parachutes.”
“Parachutes?”
“We adopted Joshua from his birth mother when he was a newborn,” she explains, “so I missed the whole birthing thing with him. Hence this class.” She gives me another smile over her shoulder. “We laid all the babies down in a big circle, and all the mommies lifted this giant, circus-tent-looking parachute over them, fanning it up and down. It sounds great in theory, but the babies were just way too young to enjoy it. You’re basically yanking this parachute out of their faces and scaring the shit out of them. Half are crying, a few are trying to get away, and the rest are too scared to move.”
“Oh my God,” I say, biting my lip and looking around for the instructor. The last thing I need is to get a client’s wife kicked out of her birthing class. “I’m sorry, that’s not funny.”