by Tia Williams
“Okay,” he said. “You’re gonna tell her why?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
He watched Jenna with barely-hidden amusement as she fidgeted and blushed and tried to convey a sense of authority.
“What?” asked Jenna.
“It was that good, wasn’t it?”
“Oh my God.”
“I’m kidding. I’m sorry; you just make it so easy. Look, at least work with me before you decide you don’t want to.”
Jenna shook her head and moved papers around her desk, mumbling to herself. “I shouldn’t have come back, I knew it was a mistake, I should never have come here…”
He leaned forward and put his hands on top of her papers. “Hey. Jenna, it’s cool. I’m not gonna, like, defile you in the hallway. I don’t even wanna be here. I can’t overstate how unhyped I am to be here. My short film won the Jack Nicholson Directing Award at the toughest film school in the country. Variety named me ‘One to Watch’ in their college special. And now my job is to roam around Lower Manhattan with a camera asking fake Miley Cyruses for interviews about their bra tops and neon Doc Martens? I’m an artist. I’m offended.”
Jenna frowned. First he made her feel like a fool for getting worked up over their little tryst, and now he was denigrating the place where she was grateful to be working?
Suddenly, she was irrationally mad at him. She was mad that he kissed her so good, mad that he knew it, mad at his smirky attitude, and mad that there was no escaping working with him.
“We’re all artists in this industry. And most people hate their jobs. Welcome to life.”
“Welcome to life, though?”
“You were basically just gifted a job by your mom!”
“With all due respect, ma’am, you know nothing about me or my relationship with that mini supervillain.”
“Please don’t call me ma’am.”
“It seemed age-appropriate.”
“Excuse me?”
“You can be rude,” he said, “but I’m supposed to kiss your ass?”
No one had ever spoken to her like that at work. “You can’t talk to me that way! I’m…you’re superior.”
“Superior? We’re partners on a project.”
Totally flustered, she tried to regain some semblance of control over the conversation. Jenna threw back her shoulders and went there.
“Don’t you know who I am?”
Eric’s face lit up at the boldness of the question. “Am I supposed to know who you are?”
Then Jenna said something she never thought would pass her lips.
“Google me.”
“Oh word? I’ll do that.” He nodded, like he respected her sudden burst of swagger. “You know, when I woke up this morning, I thought I knew what my biggest problems in life were. I had no idea that I’d end up working for a woman who can’t decide if I’m a career-ender or her boyfriend.”
“Stop talking about it,” she hissed through gritted teeth. She pointed to her door. “You have to go.”
“Shouldn’t we be brainstorming? We only have three days!”
“We’ll brainstorm separately for now.”
“Come on, we’re better together.”
“Go!”
“Fine.” In the doorway, he turned around. “My bad for the hickey. I don’t think anyone else’ll notice, do you?”
Then he shot her that crooked smile, and she stood up and closed the door behind him.
The next five hours were hell. Jenna had never had a panic attack, but if it felt like the walls were closing in and your life had become a telenovela, then she’d had several since Eric left her office. Too terrified of running into him, she’d stayed chained to her desk, quietly banging out her next six “Just Jenna” posts. Jenna never had to pee so badly in her life, but she held it until she took lunch at two thirty—at which point she scurried down the hallway to the elevators with her head down, careful not to meet anyone’s eyes.
In the abstract, Jenna knew she was being ridiculous. But she’d just returned to civilization, and was already on edge. Her week-old job, her apartment, her social life—nothing felt settled. It was still an effort to feel like herself in normal social situations, let alone one as ridiculous as this.
After a forty-five minute “lunch” where she scarfed down a street pretzel and then hid in the Hollywood history section of the Astor Place Barnes and Noble (always her safe place), Jenna realized that she was being insane, and headed back to StyleZine. She couldn’t run. The reality was that she was stuck in the office with Eric, and though it wasn’t ideal, she was a pro and would make it work. That morning, she’d been flustered and reactive because of the shock. But now, Jenna would just channel the good-natured, yet decisive and firm top editrix she used to be. True, it might be challenging to command respect from someone who’d had her ass in his hands only two nights before—but she could do this.
This time, when Jenna exited the elevators, she pasted on a smile (for no one, since the staff was busy at their desks), and strode breezily to her office—where she saw a white box from Cupcake Café on her desk, wrapped in a bright red bow.
She excitedly sat down and tore open the box. It was an enormous red velvet cupcake. Turning the box upside down, she looked for a gift card and didn’t see one. At first, she assumed it was a fashion PR gift. Ever since her first day last Monday, she’d been getting a steady stream of “welcome back” flowers, champagne, and high-end gift cards from colleagues.
But now that she thought about it, being gifted a cupcake by an industry acquaintance seemed odd. All those calories? Fashion people didn’t eat. She wondered who it could be from.
And then it hit her.
Jenna grabbed her office phone, typed in “E” and an “R,” and Eric Combs’ number popped onto her screen. It rang twice, and then he picked up.
“I need to see you in my office.”
“Nothing good ever came out of that sentence.”
“Now, please.”
She hung up, and positioned herself in the most poised, professional manner possible. When Eric came in—this time, clutching a handheld camera—she was prepared.
“I feel like I’m in trouble,” he said, from her doorway.
“Have a seat,” she said, calmly and firmly.
He did.
“Why do you have a camera?”
“I always have my camera. My hand feels itchy without it.”
Jenna nodded, her face the picture of control. She handed him the opened cupcake box. “I can’t accept any gifts from you. I’m not entirely sure what your motivations were, but if this was an attempt to…keep things going? To flirt? Please understand that I am not available. Are we clear?”
Eric nodded, his brow furrowed. As soon as he opened his mouth to protest, the gift card caught his eye. It had fallen to the floor next to Jenna’s desk—and she obviously hadn’t seen it. It read “Cupcake Café” in sparkly cursive on the outside, and on the inside he could faintly make out a note and a signature.
Proof that he didn’t do it. “I did it,” he lied.
Jenna clasped her hands together, trying to stay composed. “Eric, why are you making this so hard? What the hell were you thinking?”
“You really wanna know?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I just want you to stop. No snappy comebacks, no gifts. Be professional, and stop.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you.” Jenna sat primly, with her hands folded. Eric sat across from her, looking sad and dejected.
Jenna threw her hands up with exasperation. “Fine! Tell me why you did this.”
Eric exhaled slowly. “I’m haunted by you.”
“What?”
“You’re the only thought in my brain. That night, the way you looked, the way you tasted…” He stopped, looking soulfully into her eyes. “I could’ve kissed you, only kissed you, till this morning.”
Jenna’s mouth dropped open.
“I know you’re someb
ody and I’m nobody, but I don’t care. I’m obsessed with you. And the most memorable way I could think to communicate this was through…a giant red cupcake.”
The absurdity of this statement went right over Jenna’s head. Once she caught her breath, she said, “I can’t even express how dangerous every last one of those words were. You’ve just crossed every line of corporate conduct. I won’t tolerate it.”
Eric shrugged. “You asked.”
“Please understand that if you address me that way again, I’m calling HR.”
“No, it’s cool. I get it,” he said, and then gestured to the floor. “Will you at least read the card? It’s right there, on the floor.”
Glaring at him, she snatched up the tiny white card. She opened it and read the message scrawled in slanted black cursive:
Dear Jenna,
Congrats on a fabulous first week of work (and, I hear, an even better Friday night). You’re back, baby!
Love, Billie
Jenna looked at the note, read it two more times, and then shut it slowly.
“Oh,” she said.
“Yeah. Oh.”
“I…well, I just…thought…”
“I know exactly what you thought.” Eric’s voice bristled with real, not-jokey, irritation. “This was all fun and games until you insulted my manhood with a cupcake.”
“But…”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Mrs. Robinson. First of all, I’d never stoop to woo a middle-aged woman with a fucking pastry. Secondly, if I wanted you, I’m confident I could get you without a prop. And third, the only way we’re gonna survive this shit is if you calm down and get what happened out of your head. You can’t get all blushy and mean every time we speak. Chill. Please. I beg of you.”
Jenna sat very still, unblinking and mortally humiliated.
“This was… a misunderstanding,” she finally uttered. “It is out of my head.”
“Yeah, okay. That’s why you jumped to this cupcake conclusion. You set me up with that ‘I’m so obsessed with you’ stuff! You deliberately tried to embarrass me!”
“No, you did that all by yourself. You did it big, too. Like ‘embarrassment’ in all caps. ‘Embarrassment’ accompanied by pyrotechnics and the Grambling State marching band.”
Jenna stood, fiery indignation rushing through her veins.
“This conversation is…”
“Yeah, I know. Over.” Eric stood up and tossed the Cupcake Café box onto her desk.
“Good! And…I’m not middle-aged!”
“Stop acting it, then,” he said, already out the door.
She plopped down in her chair and buried her face in her hands. After a moment, she swiveled her chair around to face her beloved poster. If she were Nina, what would she do next? Actually, Jenna was positive that the vampy flapper was too sexually savvy and self-possessed to have ever found herself caught in a situation like this.
How did I get here, Nina? Where did I go wrong?
She wanted to evaporate.
“One more thing,” said Eric, who’d appeared in her doorway again. Startled, she swiveled back around.
“No, this isn’t my dream job, but I’m good and I don’t do anything halfway. I won’t leave without a product I’m proud of. If it’s between creating your web series and shooting girls on Bleecker theorizing boyfriend jeans—there is no choice. So let’s stop bullshitting and start impressing the fuck out of each other.”
And then he left again. If nothing else, he definitely shared his mother’s must-have-the-last-word gene.
www.stylezine.com
Just Jenna! Style Secrets from our Intrepid Glambassador
Q: “I think high-waisted denim shorts are everything. But this guy I have a crush on says they make my butt look long! Whatever, I know I slay in them. In a Kylie Jenner way. But am I being unwomanly? Should I alter the way I dress to please a man?” -@itsnotmeitsyou1982
A: When I was younger, I used to dress differently for my boyfriend than I did at work. I’d rock all my weirdo avant garde pieces to Darling magazine, but my boyfriend liked me in tight, bodycon stuff, so when were together, I’d dress like Chrissie Tiegan going to the MTV Movie Awards. I spent half my life doing costume changes. And here’s the thing—we broke up anyway. Now he’s with a relentlessly preppy woman who dresses like James Spader in Pretty in Pink.
Honestly, who knows what men want? Being yourself is easier than guessing. The right guy will love your shorts, because you’re in them. By the way, American Apparel makes the hottest ones.
CHAPTER 5
Tim Milagro-Carroll was used to Eric’s dual personas. Either he was Mr. Personality, soaking up all the attention in the room, or a brooding, intense son of a bitch. Today, he was broody. Eric had showed up at the well-worn Milagro-Carroll family Murray Hill townhouse for their usual Monday night activity—shouting obscenities at ESPN, smoking weed, and playing video games on Xbox. He’d let himself in with his key, hugged Tim’s adopted nine-year-old sisters (the Ecuadorian twins were leaning against a piano, getting singing lessons from Jessie L. Martin), and busted into Tim’s spray-paint-splattered, disgusting downstairs bedroom. With a grumbly, “What’s good?” Eric collapsed into a director’s chair and receded into stormy silence.
Eric met Tim on his first day of fifth grade at Manhattan’s Dalton Lower School, that bastion of good breeding on the Upper East Side. Only a week before, he was barely staying awake in his war zone public school in Bed Stuy, Brooklyn—and suddenly, he was not only residing in a ritzy Manhattan zip code, he was thrust into an institution flush with the children of Old Money gazilionnaires. Tim was the only other black boy in their grade, and the pint-sized troublemaker made a B-line for Eric in the cafeteria, making it his mission to school him on how to get away with murder at a posh prep school.
Even though Tim wasn’t from real New York money, his theater-royalty parents had cultural capital. He was the oldest of a multi-ethnic, adopted clan of kids whose parents were Carlos Milagro, the famous Filipino Broadway director; and his Irish husband, Jay-Jay Carroll, a Tony Award-winning costume designer. They ran their house as a salon for stage gypsies, which kept them distracted—and gave Tim carte blanche to wreak havoc on the city. He brought Eric along.
They bonded, falling into the roles that would follow them forever—Eric was the golden boy and Tim was the fuck up. Eric skated through adolescence with a bulletproof GPA and enough part-time Foot Locker money saved to buy the sexiest equipment for his Canon C300; Tim barely made it to tenth grade without catching a drug charge and getting caught in a PR-nightmare after an orgy with two Disney Channel stars. Tim gave Eric an edge, Eric gave Tim an alibi—and together, they were tighter than brothers.
They were complete opposites, but had the same sensibility, born of a thousand high-low city kid influences. They were steeped in hip-hop but prep-schooled, jaded but adventurous, privileged but underground, sophisticated but street. They wouldn’t step out of the house without vanity sneakers, ironic tees and fitteds, but they could give a compelling argument for why Basquiat was the Junot Diaz of art. On more than a few occasions, Eric had been referred to as a “blipster”—a black hipster—which deeply offended him. So what if he liked Bloc Party and had once co-hosted a street art show at Mighty Tanaka? He was cultured, just like everyone he knew. The moniker should’ve been Person of Color Who Doesn’t Live Under a Rock.
While Eric was horrified to be an adult living in his mother’s house, Tim was downright pleased with it. His visual arts degree from Rhode Island School of Design hadn’t landed him a job, so he was doing a thousand things at once—tattoo design, managing strippers, and blogging his bedroom wall graffiti. And since Tim’s dads were cool about weed, his room was their perfect chill spot. Eric’s goal over the next hour was to smoke himself into a coma.
At the moment, Tim was beating Eric at his favorite video game, “Legend of Zelda,” while giving his thirteen-year-old brother, Thuong, advice on how to handle a ‘video model’ h
e’d been having a direct message relationship with on Twitter. Eric was lost in his own thoughts, which was a challenging feat, since Childish Gambino’s latest mixtape was cranked full-throttle and the game was blaring.
“Oh shit,” said Thuong, peering at his iPhone. He was Vietnamese but staunchly black-identified.
“What’d she say?” Tim didn’t take his eyes off the screen. He was a wiry 5’5”, covered in tats, and sporting an authentic Eric B. and Rakim concert tee with a denim vest and orange throwback Pumas. He hadn’t left the house once that day, but he was fresh.
“She called me Daddy.”
“Shit just got real,” said Tim. “Now demand a nude. Tits, ass, any unclothed region. She’ll friend-zone you if you don’t make your intentions clear.”
Eric broke his half-hour silence. “Yo, why’re you such a consistent degenerate?”
“He speaks!” cheered Thuong.
“Why I gotta be consistent, though?”
“Wait,” started the eighth grader, “how do you know you’re in the friend zone?”
“When you’re dog-sitting for her. Installing her Apple TV. Meeting her for brunch.” Tim paused. “Upon further review, nah. If it’s brunch at Minetta Tavern on MacDougal, you’re good. Bouchout mussels and truffled pork sausage? Bring a condom, dog.”
Thuong looked overwhelmed. “The friend zone sounds stressful.”
“And it can sneak up on you if you don’t establish yourself as a sexual gladiator off the rip. Demand a nude.”
Eric looked at him. “You’re speaking to a child, son.”
Tim took a deep drag off the herbal vaporizer and, holding his breath, pronounced, “Those who teach children should be more honored than those who produce them.’” He exhaled. “Aristotle, bitch.”
“Hold up, E, I’m not a child! I have a fake I.D. and three-fourths of a mustache!” Thuong punched Eric in the shoulder. Eric punched him back. “Besides, Cherry thinks I’m a small business developer.”
“You realize she’s Catfishing you, too, right?” said Eric. “Has this woman expressed any interest in meeting you?”
Thuong hesitated. “No, she’s a…model. She has stalkers, she’s cautious.”