Open Book

by Jessica Simpson

  The February interview in Playboy sealed it. He talked about me by name in the most degrading terms. You can look it up, because I had to be asked about those quotes in every interview I did for about two or three years. I scanned it more than read it, horrified at whatever paragraph my eyes landed on. He called me “sexual napalm” and said he wanted to snort me like a drug. If I had charged him $10,000 to sleep with me, he’d sell everything he had to keep doing it. He also used the n-word and said he wasn’t attracted to black women. He wasn’t even interviewing. He was “Johnning.” He opened the spigot of his mouth, and that’s what poured out.

  This time John emailed me a letter apologizing. It was the kind of letter that might have worked on me before I’d met women around the world who were facing their own reckonings on what they were willing to do or become just to be loved.

  Well, I sat myself down and wrote him a letter back. This one I didn’t have anyone proofread to impress him, because I had no interest in impressing him. Or ever even seeing him again. It was a goodbye letter. He did this to me just as I was about to do a press tour to promote The Price of Beauty, a passion project about female empowerment. And almost every interview began with a reference to me being sexual napalm. I found if I made a joke about it—saying he “gave away my game, because everybody thinks I’m the nice girl”—the interviewer at least moved on quickly. But the quotes followed me everywhere. Never had I felt men undress me with their eyes like then, and I was a freaking pop star. I was used to that, but this was something on another level. The guy got on the school intercom and said I was crazy in bed.

  I didn’t accept his apology. I deleted all his contact information from my phone. I was done with this man in a way I never thought was possible. When he reached out to me, I changed my number and changed my email.

  Delete.

  Look, I hold on to everybody. If I think about it, I can really start to hurt about past relationships. I can go there so easily, because I gave so much of my time and my self to these guys. You feel like you need some return on that investment, but sometimes it’s just personal growth.

  You probably have that someone, too. I think it’s okay every now and again to reflect on that time. Get down the box from the top shelf of the emotional closet and marvel at the things that used to mean so much. The keepsakes of our mistakes, the souvenirs of lost years. But know when to start making new memories with people who deserve the you that you are now.

  I can’t tell you how many of my girlfriends have warned me not to write about John. “He’ll come for you,” one told me, genuinely concerned. But I am grateful he removed himself from my life so spectacularly. It cleared the way for destiny to knock on my door.

  Part Four

  22

  Love Comes to My Door

  May 2010

  As I’ve started writing this section, we’ve had two earthquakes here in California. I am the first to admit that I am not good at earthquakes. I always tell my husband, Eric, that I’m a tornado girl, because I did so many classroom drills growing up in Texas. I know to shelter in place, find my foundation, and wait things out. Earthquakes throw me, because I am someone who relies on the ground beneath my feet. When I write or pray, I like to be close to the ground, and I draw strength from its sureness. When it shakes, something so permanent also seems fragile.

  I have that same need to hold on to something when I think about all the chance moments that brought Eric and me together. My hands move to touch him or one of my kids, just to feel that sureness that we five souls all really found one another. They are the foundation I have built my life on. I know God put us together, but it still seems incredible that love literally came to my doorstep on a beautiful May evening.

  So many things had to happen for our paths to cross—not just that first night—but in the thirty years we spent preparing ourselves for each other. I see us in a split-screen montage of scenes, crafted from the memories he’s shared with me, and I know his heart so well it’s like the faithful, musical girl in Texas is somehow there with Eric Maxwell Johnson, a smart and thoughtful boy growing up in Needham, Massachusetts. While I went to record companies in New York to pursue my dreams, he went to Yale, an Academic All-American wide receiver who graduated with nearly every receiving record in the book. If people talked about my voice, they talked about Eric’s hands. He remains legendary at Yale for being able to catch anything. While I was three days away from releasing my first album, he was at the Yale Bowl, diving to make the impossible game-winning touchdown against Harvard with twenty-nine seconds left in the game. It was a moment so famous in Ivy League football history, it’s still just known as The Catch, and by the time he graduated, the Massachusetts guy who’d broken Harvard’s heart also broke every receiving record in the Yale book.

  Our separate lives began to accelerate. While I was landing in the papers for my first USO tour, the New York Times was profiling him for transforming his body to play tight end for the NFL. Hall of Fame coach Bill Walsh, then San Francisco 49ers’ general manager, watched a videotape of Eric’s workout that his agent had sent around to get interest going for the 2001 NFL draft. Bill believed in his potential, just like people believed in mine. Eric played first for the San Francisco 49ers for six years, then spent one year with the New Orleans Saints. We both married people for love, and we sat with our spouses watching each other on TV, catching glimpses of each other as channels flipped by. Me on Newlyweds, him on ESPN. How many times we must have seen each other and yet not known, “Oh, there you are.” Then each of our marriages had ended, his just as injuries forced him into early retirement, mine as I was forced to reevaluate who I really was.

  The first part of 2010 was a time of renewal for each of us. He was finalizing his divorce and studying ways to heal his body from the trauma of football. He studied meditation and researched nontraditional medicine with Master Ming Yi Wang, a teacher/healer based in California. Eric lived like a monk, first sleeping in a tent on a roof in San Francisco, and after a long trip to China with Master Wang, he moved to Venice, a beachy neighborhood in L.A. While he went for long walks with his dog, I had stepped back from the spotlight and was happy to be single and alone. I needed to clear my head and heart because everybody who I allowed in I gave everything to. For once, I gave all that to me.

  Here the memories start to quicken. Eric was going to go the University of Pennsylvania’s prestigious Wharton business school and visited for an orientation welcome weekend. While he was there, he met another guy from L.A. named Matt. When they were back home in L.A., Matt called Eric and asked if he wanted to go out with some friends of his, Dan and Bret, to the Village Idiot. Eric said yes, but then realized he had basically agreed to hang out with a bunch of people he had never met. He thought about canceling but decided against it. Life was an open door. He was up for walking through.

  Bret didn’t get the memo that the night was supposed to be a guys night, so he brought his girlfriend, Lolo, who is a childhood friend of my sister, Ashlee. Lolo was like a fairy that evening, flitting about with wide eyes and a great smile. She called Ash, who was at my house. I’d invited a bunch of people over to watch a basketball game, though I don’t even watch basketball. But it was a time when I didn’t want to go out much and liked my friends knowing they could drop by whenever they wanted. It was kind of a Grand Central Station of nice people coming and going, and I liked it that way. It reminded me of my youth group days in Dallas, only with booze and rock music.

  Lolo got right to it. “I’m stuck at a boys’ night at the Village Idiot,” she said. Ashlee told me what she said, and we made faces at each other like Tinker Bell was trapped on the pirate ship.

  “Tell her to get over here,” I said. But Lolo thought she could hang in, hatching the beginnings of a plan for Eric. Lolo had found one of those rarest of birds, a man in L.A. who was single, cute, and cool. At about midnight, Eric got tired of all the small talk with strangers.

  “I’m gonna go,” he said. “
It was nice meeting all of you.”

  “Wait,” Lolo said, practically jumping up at him. “I have a friend for you. Should I call her?” she asked. “See if she can come out?”

  “Maybe . . .” Eric said.

  “You’re going to love her,” she said. “Her name’s Turkey.”

  No, that’s not my nickname. She was thinking of setting Eric up with our friend Stephenie, who we called Wild Turkey because she was legendary in her pursuit of a good time. I’ve known Turkey since I became her babysitter back in Dallas when I was fourteen. She’s fantastic, and I remain grateful that Turkey was in a songwriting session that night and didn’t want to leave.

  Eric went to go, and just as destiny’s door was about to quietly close shut, Lolo asked, “Do you want to go to Jessica Simpson’s house?”

  He turned. “Well, that was out of nowhere,” Eric said. “Okay, sure.” He caught a ride with one of the people he barely knew to go to the house of a woman he’d only seen on TV.

  When Eric walked through the courtyard of my Hansel and Gretel home, people were scattered both inside and outside. Ashlee sat at the glass table on the porch outside my kitchen, singing show tunes. She was wearing a black circle-brimmed hat and didn’t stop singing as Lolo kissed her cheek hello. Ashlee nodded at Eric, and Lolo spotted me in the kitchen. I was with my friend Jeannia, standing next to a dream interpretation book on the counter.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi, I’m Eric,” he said, looking down at the book. It was dog-eared, with tons of Post-it notes marking pages. “You analyze your dreams,” he said, smiling at me.

  Did I say something poetic? Something about how, as an artist I try to harness what my subconscious tells me? No.

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “Because last night I dreamed I pooped out a pig.”

  His eyes got wide, and he started to laugh.

  “Wait,” I said. “Then that pig had a pig. And then all of us played together.”

  “Okay,” he said. “That’s cool. I like dreams.”

  I looked up at Eric, a foot taller than me at six foot three. I was in my Uggs, wearing a big gray sweatshirt and short shorts, my signature look then for gatherings at home.

  “Your place is beautiful,” he said.

  I offered them a tour of the house, and I could see Eric taking it in. I was proud of my home, the first one that was all mine. It was girly but sophisticated. The Old Hollywood style of Marilyn Monroe and Jean Harlow. Justin Kredible, a comedian who also did magic, had stopped by, and a bunch of people watched him do card tricks. I joined in, and he correctly guessed the card I pulled, a three of spades. People kept asking how he did it, but I was content to just let the mystery be.

  It’s sweet now to me that my first conversations with Eric were about dreams and the magic happening around us. I know the pig thing was silly—and maybe a little gross—but I see Sarah’s hand there with her love of pigs.

  We migrated back to the kitchen, he and I, making small talk. We then moved to make room for people dancing by and sat down in the little stairwell in the nook of my kitchen. It was one of my favorite parts of the house, a narrow hallway that snuggles you in with steps just wide enough for two people to sit. We talked, shoulder to shoulder, and an hour went by, then another. It was like we were catching each other up on our lives. We got deep real fast, talking about our own spiritual journeys. With other men, I was afraid to talk, but with Eric, there was no fear of judgment. This was completely new.

  As it got late, people started to leave. I saw Eric’s new friend Dan saying his goodbyes.

  “You’re cute,” I said to Eric, before I even knew what I was saying. “You should stay.”

  “Stay?” he said. “Um, okay, I can stay, but you have to mean that because my ride is leaving.”

  “No, I want you to stay.”

  “All right,” he said, smiling. “I’ll stay.”

  We talked another two hours, the house finally emptied of people hugging us goodbye. It was like the end of a wedding. We kissed on those steps, and I led him up to my room.

  The next morning, which was not far away, he was going to an all-day Marianne Williamson seminar about learning to apply spiritual principles to your career. He’d committed to going with a friend, who was coming to pick him up. I was dead asleep in bed, so he left a note on a paper towel in the kitchen, next to the three of spades I got from the magician. The note read: “Jessica, I had to leave early. Thanks for having me over last night. Will call/text later. —Eric.”

  “This guy just left Jessica Simpson naked in bed to go see Marianne Williamson,” I said aloud.

  He waited a day to text me. He told me later he didn’t want to “push it.” I wanted to meet him sober and didn’t want to risk paparazzi. Why ruin someone’s life if things don’t work out? I invited him to come over to watch the American Idol finale with me that Wednesday. He told me he had a yoga teacher training that night and could come over after. When I hung up, I said, “Who is this guy?”

  That night he came over with a four-pack of Guinness. I’d already invited my friend Lauren to watch the show, and I was excited that they seemed to click instantly. They were both from out east and had a similar smart sense of humor. We watched the show, talking during breaks about the performances. I am good at critiques of technique and material from all my years working with my vocal coach Linda and then the A&R with Teresa. I felt confident as I talked this way and not afraid that I might be showing off. There was no need to dim my light around this man. As soon as it was over, I got out my laptop to take him down a YouTube rabbit hole of live performances. Things like Mariah Carey’s first-ever appearance on TV singing “Vision of Love” and Queen completely mesmerizing 72,000 people at Wembley during Live Aid. Then I made him watch every episode of The Price of Beauty, which I was so proud of. I realize now that I was unconsciously saying, “Here, these are my heroes. The Price of Beauty is who I really am. Let’s get to the heart of this.” I wasn’t naive. I knew that I had been in the public eye long enough that Eric would have preconceptions of me. I could tell he was seeing past all that.

  When he said goodbye to us, I invited him to a photo shoot I was doing the next day. “Maybe you’d want to stop by?”

  “No, not really,” he answered quickly. “That is absolutely not my scene.” I wasn’t hurt because it made sense. He wasn’t interested in being some guy hanging out waiting.

  “If we go out after maybe I’ll call you,” I said, having every intention of doing so. Once the shoot was finished, we met at Nobu in Hollywood, and Eric got a crash course in most of my girlfriends, my mom, and some of the girls who work on the Collection. Turkey showed up, a slash of red lipstick on her gorgeous mouth, and Lolo explained that Eric was originally meant for her. They thought that was hilarious, each certain it would never have worked out. They turned out to be soulmates in a different way and have become best friends.

  It was at Nobu that I found out Eric was vegan and almost did a spit take. Well, I’m changing that, I thought. I did for a time, but he went back to eating that way. I watched him eat what amounted to salad stuffed into rice rolls and asked, “How are you happy? Aren’t you starving?” But I liked that athlete’s focus on his health, and I thought about my Papaw, and how he was always in tune with his body.

  Eric and I kissed at the restaurant and then at the bar we all went to after. It’s a miracle no one saw us and told the press, but for the first time in years, I wasn’t even thinking of that. We came home and made love. It was Memorial Day Weekend, and he just stayed. In the morning, I watched him sit outside, with his feet in my koi pond, meditating. Who is this guy? I thought. I started taking pictures to send to my friends.

  They got to see the real thing, because my friends were in and out all weekend. Through Eric’s eyes, I appreciated them even more. Other times, a boyfriend had meant I’d gone into exile, abandoning my girlfriends to focus on a relationship. But now it was like he was holding each one up like a gem, tur
ning it to see the glorious uniqueness of each one. They saw something special in us, too, and the care we took with each other.

  “Why are we acting like an old married couple?” Eric asked me that weekend.

  This light walked into my life, and I remember the moment I realized I didn’t have to give him my light. We could share it and make things brighter for everybody. Welp, I thought, that’s refreshing. Yes, I was instantly infatuated with Eric. You know I fall in love too easily, but with him, we were both ready for the real deal.

  Eric told his parents that he was dating me early on. Stephen and Mary Jo are from Boston and are very New England in their demeanor. They are brilliant and not very engaged with pop culture. His mother, who was a big firm lawyer at the time, expressed shock when he said he was dating Jessica Simpson, “the pop singer.”

  “The one that shaved her head? She has two kids, right?”

  “No, no,” he said. “I think you’re thinking of Britney Spears.”

  “Well.”

  When I met them, I could see how they raised someone like Eric. His parents were best friends, but they were also in love. My parents were just best friends. Meeting them showed me you could be both.

  One night in June, Eric was reading something that quoted a Pablo Neruda line he repeated to me: “My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.” A poem in just one sentence. It stayed with me. I’d felt like that for a long while. Waiting for somebody to come along so I could be of use. But now I was a girl who ran to the carousel, gliding through the lights and the music, holding my breath as the horse went up and down. I felt exactly what I should: happiness. I wanted to go on this ride again and again, and I was always first in line to get back on, laughing as I whipped around one more time.

  IN THE MIDST OF THIS, I’D PLANNED A GIRLS’ TRIP TO ITALY’S ISLE OF CAPRI for my thirtieth birthday in July. As we got closer, I realized how much I was going to miss Eric. My housekeeper Evelyn is the one who told me that I had to take him with me. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.”