Dating You / Hating You
Page 34
“Thousand?” My pulse takes off with a lurch.
“Then there’s the house,” he continues, “and the Rover. I already got rid of the other cars.”
“Jesus Christ.” I sink onto a kitchen stool. “Mom is—”
“Not going to find out.” His voice is deep with warning. “It’s none of your business and it sure as hell isn’t hers.”
“She’ll want to help,” I start to say, but I can already read the answer in his expression. She can’t help. Mom and Dad live a simple life on a small budget. The scale of this is beyond their comprehension, too. If I didn’t routinely see the money floating around California and my industry, it would be well beyond mine as well.
I sit back and think for a moment. Jonah has made a name for himself for a reason, and even though I think he should go back to the kind of photos he used to do—hell, our mom has had one of his earlier photographs, a black-and-white shot of a fence silhouetted by the setting sun, hanging over her fireplace since he was seventeen—it’s clearly not what he’s built a career on.
“We’ll figure something out,” I tell him.
He nods but doesn’t look up from the floor, and inexplicably, my heart twists with protectiveness.
People fucking love a comeback story. I can do this.
“Bring me your portfolio. I’ve got some calls to make.”
• • •
It takes a few hours and a lot of arguing from Jonah, but I think I’ve come up with a solution.
“What are you doing the seventeenth?” I ask him. I have no idea how I’ll get Evie to agree to something like this, but I’ll have to figure that out later.
“Working on my tan,” he says with a shrug. “Just like yesterday and the day before that.”
“In your leather jacket?”
He rocks back on the rear legs of one of his massive dining room chairs, staring at the ceiling.
I lean over and kick him to redirect his attention. “Evie and I have a shoot next week, and—”
“Evie?” he asks, grinning.
“Dude. Shut up. Listen. I have a really good friend from New York who’s a creative director at Vanity Fair. He owes me a favor, so I’m pretty sure he’ll do this for me. I hope.”
“For a feature film?” Jonah asks, and I nod. He considers it before wrinkling his nose like he’s smelled something bad. “Who is it?”
“Jamie Huang and Seamus—” I stop. “Are you seriously asking this? I’m trying to help you by putting my own ass on the line and—” I suddenly realize I have no idea what time it is. “Shit, where’s my phone?” I find it under a stack of photographs and let out a tight “Fuck!” when I see the time. “I’ve got to go.”
Jonah has the nerve to look upset. “What? Where?”
“I have a meeting I moved so I could come out and look for your dead body, and now I’m going to be late.” I shove my phone in my pocket and find my keys on the dining room table, beneath another giant portfolio. “Get whatever you need ready and be there by nine on Friday the seventeenth. I’ll have my assistant text you the address.”
• • •
After a somewhat late night Saturday spent Uncle-Carter-trick-or-treating with Morgan and a Sunday recovering and researching, I get an email from Evie asking for some time in the morning to talk about the retreat. The mere idea sends a sharp spike of dread through my chest, not to mention the change to the photo shoot I have to tell her about now. There’s no way she’ll easily agree to it. Hell, I’m not even sure I would if the tables were turned. I’d ask myself what I was thinking setting the whole thing up in the first place, but the truth is, I wasn’t. Never in my life have I been so frazzled.
We exchange a few short emails and agree on a time, and though it would be easier—not to mention quicker—for her to just text me, I get the feeling that after the odd intimacy-retreat of our dinner on Friday, she’s trying to put some walls back up.
• • •
The phone call from my friend at Vanity Fair comes in just as I’m getting out of my car the next morning, so I’m running a few minutes late. Pulling a folder from my messenger bag—it’s full of information and ideas I’ve gathered for the retreat—I pray to the gods of happy-flings-turned-rivals that this is enough to soften Evie up and get her to sign off on Jonah as our photographer.
Upstairs, Jess points me in the direction of the conference room. All the way down the hall, I can see Evie through the glass, her head bent so that her hair obstructs her face while she scribbles something in her notebook. Her skin is this insane combination of flawless and rosy that I’ve seen makeup artists try to mimic for years. Her brown eyes have thick lashes and a knowing gleam. Evie has that way about her, as if she’s not often noticed in a crowd—maybe intentionally—but to me, she’s like a beacon. Small but mighty. Unassuming but poised. I really wish I could fucking see her without it feeling like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. It would make feigning indifference so much easier.
She has some sort of smoothie in front of her, and it matches the little jewels on a barrette in her hair.
Ugh, I am in deep.
“Sorry I’m a few minutes late.” I take the seat across from her. “Some stuff came up.”
“Stuff?” she asks, pushing the straw around in her drink.
“Work stuff,” I clarify, and I hate the way my words come out like I’m explaining myself to her, laced with guilt. “Anyway, Kylie sent me some things from the planner they used last year. I printed them up and added a few new ideas I thought might work.”
I place the packets on the table in front of her, avoiding her eyes and hoping she goes for the subject change. I’m sure she’s wondering why I’m suddenly so helpful and Johnny-on-the-spot about this retreat.
I can feel her watching me, narrowed eyes tracking my movements as she picks up the papers I’ve given her and holds them warily. She still hasn’t said anything and when she looks down to the printouts, I busy myself straightening the rest of my papers, making sure she has a pen, and generally behaving as though I’m being a lot more helpful than I am.
“Oh, right,” I say casually, “I should mention before we get started: I need to switch the photographer for the VF shoot next week.”
She turns her face up to me. Her brows come together in confusion. “Why?”
I debate whether I should lie and realize it’s safer to just be honest. “I thought we might hire Jonah.”
“As in your brother, Jonah?”
“Right.” Scratching my eyebrow, I tell her, “He’s going through a bit of a rough patch, and I told him I’d try to get him on this job.”
She sets down the packet. “You think they’re going to be able to switch it out last minute?”
I lean in, relieved her first reaction wasn’t rage. I try on a smile I hope feels like the expressive version of triumphant jazz hands. “They already did.”
Only when her eyes go wide do I fully register what I’ve just said.
Oh. Oh, fuck.
“You did it without talking to me?” she asks slowly.
Shaking my head, I say, “I dropped my friend a line yesterday to see if it would even be possible, but he called and said it was a go before I got in this morning.”
“Then there’s the house,” he continues, “and the Rover. I already got rid of the other cars.”
“Jesus Christ.” I sink onto a kitchen stool. “Mom is—”
“Not going to find out.” His voice is deep with warning. “It’s none of your business and it sure as hell isn’t hers.”
“She’ll want to help,” I start to say, but I can already read the answer in his expression. She can’t help. Mom and Dad live a simple life on a small budget. The scale of this is beyond their comprehension, too. If I didn’t routinely see the money floating around California and my industry, it would be well beyond mine as well.
I sit back and think for a moment. Jonah has made a name for himself for a reason, and even though I think he should go back to the kind of photos he used to do—hell, our mom has had one of his earlier photographs, a black-and-white shot of a fence silhouetted by the setting sun, hanging over her fireplace since he was seventeen—it’s clearly not what he’s built a career on.
“We’ll figure something out,” I tell him.
He nods but doesn’t look up from the floor, and inexplicably, my heart twists with protectiveness.
People fucking love a comeback story. I can do this.
“Bring me your portfolio. I’ve got some calls to make.”
• • •
It takes a few hours and a lot of arguing from Jonah, but I think I’ve come up with a solution.
“What are you doing the seventeenth?” I ask him. I have no idea how I’ll get Evie to agree to something like this, but I’ll have to figure that out later.
“Working on my tan,” he says with a shrug. “Just like yesterday and the day before that.”
“In your leather jacket?”
He rocks back on the rear legs of one of his massive dining room chairs, staring at the ceiling.
I lean over and kick him to redirect his attention. “Evie and I have a shoot next week, and—”
“Evie?” he asks, grinning.
“Dude. Shut up. Listen. I have a really good friend from New York who’s a creative director at Vanity Fair. He owes me a favor, so I’m pretty sure he’ll do this for me. I hope.”
“For a feature film?” Jonah asks, and I nod. He considers it before wrinkling his nose like he’s smelled something bad. “Who is it?”
“Jamie Huang and Seamus—” I stop. “Are you seriously asking this? I’m trying to help you by putting my own ass on the line and—” I suddenly realize I have no idea what time it is. “Shit, where’s my phone?” I find it under a stack of photographs and let out a tight “Fuck!” when I see the time. “I’ve got to go.”
Jonah has the nerve to look upset. “What? Where?”
“I have a meeting I moved so I could come out and look for your dead body, and now I’m going to be late.” I shove my phone in my pocket and find my keys on the dining room table, beneath another giant portfolio. “Get whatever you need ready and be there by nine on Friday the seventeenth. I’ll have my assistant text you the address.”
• • •
After a somewhat late night Saturday spent Uncle-Carter-trick-or-treating with Morgan and a Sunday recovering and researching, I get an email from Evie asking for some time in the morning to talk about the retreat. The mere idea sends a sharp spike of dread through my chest, not to mention the change to the photo shoot I have to tell her about now. There’s no way she’ll easily agree to it. Hell, I’m not even sure I would if the tables were turned. I’d ask myself what I was thinking setting the whole thing up in the first place, but the truth is, I wasn’t. Never in my life have I been so frazzled.
We exchange a few short emails and agree on a time, and though it would be easier—not to mention quicker—for her to just text me, I get the feeling that after the odd intimacy-retreat of our dinner on Friday, she’s trying to put some walls back up.
• • •
The phone call from my friend at Vanity Fair comes in just as I’m getting out of my car the next morning, so I’m running a few minutes late. Pulling a folder from my messenger bag—it’s full of information and ideas I’ve gathered for the retreat—I pray to the gods of happy-flings-turned-rivals that this is enough to soften Evie up and get her to sign off on Jonah as our photographer.
Upstairs, Jess points me in the direction of the conference room. All the way down the hall, I can see Evie through the glass, her head bent so that her hair obstructs her face while she scribbles something in her notebook. Her skin is this insane combination of flawless and rosy that I’ve seen makeup artists try to mimic for years. Her brown eyes have thick lashes and a knowing gleam. Evie has that way about her, as if she’s not often noticed in a crowd—maybe intentionally—but to me, she’s like a beacon. Small but mighty. Unassuming but poised. I really wish I could fucking see her without it feeling like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. It would make feigning indifference so much easier.
She has some sort of smoothie in front of her, and it matches the little jewels on a barrette in her hair.
Ugh, I am in deep.
“Sorry I’m a few minutes late.” I take the seat across from her. “Some stuff came up.”
“Stuff?” she asks, pushing the straw around in her drink.
“Work stuff,” I clarify, and I hate the way my words come out like I’m explaining myself to her, laced with guilt. “Anyway, Kylie sent me some things from the planner they used last year. I printed them up and added a few new ideas I thought might work.”
I place the packets on the table in front of her, avoiding her eyes and hoping she goes for the subject change. I’m sure she’s wondering why I’m suddenly so helpful and Johnny-on-the-spot about this retreat.
I can feel her watching me, narrowed eyes tracking my movements as she picks up the papers I’ve given her and holds them warily. She still hasn’t said anything and when she looks down to the printouts, I busy myself straightening the rest of my papers, making sure she has a pen, and generally behaving as though I’m being a lot more helpful than I am.
“Oh, right,” I say casually, “I should mention before we get started: I need to switch the photographer for the VF shoot next week.”
She turns her face up to me. Her brows come together in confusion. “Why?”
I debate whether I should lie and realize it’s safer to just be honest. “I thought we might hire Jonah.”
“As in your brother, Jonah?”
“Right.” Scratching my eyebrow, I tell her, “He’s going through a bit of a rough patch, and I told him I’d try to get him on this job.”
She sets down the packet. “You think they’re going to be able to switch it out last minute?”
I lean in, relieved her first reaction wasn’t rage. I try on a smile I hope feels like the expressive version of triumphant jazz hands. “They already did.”
Only when her eyes go wide do I fully register what I’ve just said.
Oh. Oh, fuck.
“You did it without talking to me?” she asks slowly.
Shaking my head, I say, “I dropped my friend a line yesterday to see if it would even be possible, but he called and said it was a go before I got in this morning.”
