Rodarte, Helmut Lang, Peter Som, Marchesa, Diane von Furstenberg. Jenna was at her desk, trying to sift through the massive stack of New York Fashion Week invites (and missing the days when she had an assistant). The shows were coming up in less than a week, and it was her first appearance at the New York collections in four seasons. She missed this! Many top fashion editors complained about the rapid-fire show schedules, overpriced snack food, impossible cab situation, and extreme weather (always a thunderstorm, heat wave, or snow)—but Jenna still adored the spectacle too much to become jaded. For her, the bi-yearly New York collections were the most magical time of the year.
But the RSVPs were taking forever because she kept stopping to swipe concealer over her hickie. It was Monday, and it still hadn’t faded. Fishing for her compact in her purse, the memory of the kiss washed over her. She stopped, smiling to herself.
So delicious.
That makeout session was, hands down, the silliest moment of her adult life. She’d never hooked up with a stranger—a baby, no less—and certainly not in public. A card-carrying career slut would call it pedestrian (after all, scores of sixteen-year-olds were dry-humping at parties all over Manhattan that night) but to Jenna, it had been empowering. It had been a restorative erotic charge.
Thank God he was a total stranger. If I had to see him again, I’d die.
Just then, Terry rushed up to her doorway.
“Jenna, Darcy wanted me to tell you she’s swinging by in two seconds to talk about your videos.”
Jenna never understood why Darcy made Terry run ahead of her, blowing the horn, before she made an entrance. The woman was egotistical beyond hope.
“Thanks, Terry. I see her coming up behind you.”
Terry grimaced with anxiety. “Cool, I’m outta here.” She scrambled away.
Jenna looked down at her desk, gathering the invites to make them look more presentable. When she looked back up, she froze solid. She blinked twice, thinking she was hallucinating. Latent optical side effects from violent vomiting on Friday night? But no. This was real.
It was Darcy. And him. Him. The barely-legal hottie.
In under two seconds, a thousand questions flew through her mind. How did Darcy find out? Am I in trouble for acting so slutty in public? Will I get fired from StyleZine in disgrace? When is the next Amtrak back to Facquier County, Virginia?
His face was a mask of bare-naked shock, his mouth forming a tiny “O.” Jenna’s sharp intake of breath was audible. But within seconds, they’d both recovered. Jenna threw on her brightest TV personality smile. Eric thrust his hands into his pockets and leaned into her doorway, attempting to look composed. He all but whistled.
“What the hell is wrong with you two?” said Darcy, looking from Eric to Jenna.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Jenna was talking too fast.
“This is our new videographer, Eric. He’ll be shooting all of the videos for our YouTube channel. His priority will be your web series. I expect you two to make magic together.” Darcy looked at Eric, who’s cool had dissolved, and was now staring at the floor, biting his lip, barely holding back nervous laughter.
“What’s so funny?” asked Darcy. “Oh I get it. You recognize her.”
“No! If I met this woman, I’d definitely remember.”
Darcy smiled, which was always a panicky experience for all involved. It usually meant she was about to drop a bomb.
“Well, you have met.”
Jenna began to sweat. “No we haven’t! He’s a complete stranger.”
“Jenna. You don’t remember my son?”
“Your…son?” she squeaked. Her brain was too overwhelmed to produce an intelligent response. Weakly, she looked up at Eric. “Darcy’s your…”
“My mother,” he said apologetically.
“You two met at Raymond and Joanne Chase’s wedding, like twelve years ago,” said Darcy. “Eric was little, he had braces…”
“And a lisp.” He glanced at Jenna. She almost choked on her Altoid.
“And the only reason I took him to that clusterfuck of New Money Blacks was because the New York Times’ style section was shooting us right after. A Mother’s Day spread with notable moms and their kids. Remember that, E? You were running past Jenna’s table, a bad ass kid, always. You knocked red wine all over her dress. Which improved it, I must say. DKNY was already over by 2000.”
“That was you?” Eric shook his head. “This is too embarrassing.”
“That was me,” said Jenna, nodding in slow motion. She remembered that wedding, the ruined dress, and the mischievous boy. He was adorable, a tiny milk chocolate drop with a handheld camera, interviewing pretty women about their Oscar picks. He’d announced to her table, “James Cameron’s terrible. Wanna see the biopic I made about Busta Rhymes? All my friendth are in it!” She and Billie had giggled about him for weeks.
“Of course,” continued Darcy, “everyone knew my feelings about you, so they thought I ordered my kid to destroy your dress.”
“Wait, you know each other, outside of work?” It was dawning on Eric that his mother and Jenna had a history. “You’re friends?”
“Well…”
“Definitely not friends,” interrupted Darcy. “We came up in the industry together. Remember my fiancé, Marcus? Ever wonder why I kicked him out? Well, this sweet-faced jezebel ruined our happy home.”
“I had no idea they were together,” Jenna blurted out, the words running into each other. She was mortified to her core. Now he knew that she and his mother had slept with the same guy.
Eric side-eyed his mom, and then glanced at Jenna, who pasted on her maniacal fake smile.
“You two shared a dude. Like, in the Bad Boy era.” He massaged a temple. “I’m nauseous.”
“Oh, grow up.” Darcy raised a brow in Jenna’s direction. “My son can’t deal with the fact that I’m a multi-layered woman. By the way, this isn’t a nepotism thing. I gave Eric the summer to pursue his Scorcese shit and if he didn’t land something with a real salary, he had to got a real job. The only place that was hiring was here. I made this kid do eight test shoots.” She put her hands on her hips. “We all know there’s no stability in the arts right now. Tell him, Jenna. He needs to drop his moviemaking fantasies.”
“I don’t think,” started Jenna, unsteadily, “that I could discourage someone with talent from following their dreams.”
Eric’s mouth curved into a crooked half-smile. Jenna swallowed.
Was it possible that he was even cuter in the light of day? Standing there tall and cool in his just-rumpled-enough cargos and perfectly cut tee (perfectly cut arms, too) looking like he just returned from Iraq, but did a quick drive-by at Alexander Wang? Why did he have to have style, too?
“You wouldn’t discourage him?” Darcy chuckled with condescension. “Spoken like a childless woman.”
Jenna flinched.
“I have to run. People, I’m giving you carte blanche to make the series whatever you want. Just make it a winning idea. It better go viral. I need a rough cut of the first video by end of day Wednesday.”
With that, Darcy disappeared. And then Eric and Jenna were left to deal with each other, alone. Again.
Eric sat across the desk from her, tapping his fingers on the arms of the chair. Jenna stared at her hands, which were clasped so tightly that her fingers were turning white. She was unable to look at him.
“So,” he said, his voice breezy. “Miss me?”
“Listen,” she said, flipping her head up, her curls tumbling everywhere. She lowered her voice to a whispery hiss. “I want you to know that I barely remember anything. I was wasted. It’s a total blur.” Feeling like her face was on fire, Jenna put her hands on her cheeks. “Christ, I’m mortified.”
“If you don’t remember anything, why are you mortified?”
“This isn’t funny. This is terrible.”
“I’m not laughing. But I do need to know one thing.”
“What?”
“You still love me, or nah?” He grinned.
“Please don’t make this worse. What happened? No one can ever know. This job is too important to my career right now.” Jenna took a deep breath. “You’re the boss’ son. Darcy loves to hate me and she’d murder me over this. Plus, besides her, we’re the only two black people at Belladonna Media. This is your first job, so you don’t know, but in white office culture, we’re watched more closely than everyone else. Especially in fashion. We can’t slip.”
“You think this is my first experience being the only black guy in the room?”
“My point is, we cannot give anyone a reason to think we know each other outside of work. No one will ever take me seriously again. Especially after…”
“After what?
“Nothing.” Jenna shook her head, unable to believe this situation. “By the way, what kind of guy takes advantage of a drunk woman at a party?”
“First of all, I was drunker than you. I woke up with a hangover worse than Hangover 3. Secondly? You ordered me to kiss you. And then climbed on top of me…”
“Please,” she wailed. “Don’t say anything else.”
“You wanted to have your way with me and you did. You’re just as bad as me.”
“If you’d told me who your mother was, this could’ve been avoided.”
“Yeah. ‘Cause that’s normal, mentioning your mommy mid-kiss,” he said. “Besides, you know her pretty well, right?”
“Right.”
“If Darcy Vale was your mother, would you lead with that?”
“Fair enough.”
“I can’t believe you’re her…peer.”
“I can’t believe you’re her son.” She sat back in her chair, overwhelmed. “What must your childhood have been like? That woman as a mother?”
“My mom is…hmm, how do I describe her?” He chewed the inside of his mouth. “On the scale of shitty mothers, from Hamlet’s mom to Delora on ‘The Wire,’ I’d say she hovers right in the middle. For my sanity, I can’t engage. Especially here. The day I do, I might lose it and commit momicide.”
“She’d commit Jenna-cide if she knew about this.”
“Jenna-cide! Nice.”
“This is very bad. I don’t have a great history with her.”
“So I hear,” he said, making a face. “You and her were with the same dude, who I don’t remember because I had more ‘uncles’ than fucks to give. And then I made out with you, which means I basically kissed my mother. Yo, that shit is mad disturbing. I’m inconsolable.”
“You’re inconsolable?”
“Irreparably.” Then he settled down into his chair. He looked around her office, taking in her surroundings. He stopped at the vintage Nina Mae McKinney movie poster above her head. Then he looked back at Jenna. “I can get over it, though. Ma Cherie.”
He blinked innocently at Jenna, who was distracted by his obscenely long lashes. A shadow of a smile passed his face, and God help her, she noticed a tiny dimple under one of his cheekbones. Seriously? It was almost obnoxious. Eric knew exactly what he looked like—and even worse, the effect he was having on her. Jenna glanced away from him, pretending to pick lint off of her skirt.
How am I going to sit two feet from him? I can’t even look him in the face.
“Why are you getting so worked up?” he asked. “If this can’t be funny, we’re fucked.”
“You don’t understand. This is my career, my life!”
“I’m just saying,” started Eric, “you’re blowing this out of proportion. We made out at a party. It happens. You don’t even want to know what I did with a RAC in the bathroom of Lit Lounge.”
“RAC?”
“Random Asian Chick.”
“You did not just say that.”
Of course he did. Their makeout session was probably one of fifteen he’d had on Friday night. He barely remembered it—but secretly, it had been a sexually empowering moment for her. Jenna felt ridiculous. And old.
“I can’t do this,” she said.
“Look, neither one of us expected to see each other, today. I know it’s mad awkward, but so?” He shrugged. “It’ll never be boring.”
“You actually look excited. Are you enjoying this?”
“A little.”
“How do I know you’re mature enough to keep it a secret?”
“I have an emotional maturity that belies my age,” he said, totally deadpan.
Jenna just looked at him.
“I’m not a zygote, Jenna. Give me some credit.”
Trying to project assertiveness, she chucked up her chin and looked him directly in his eyes. Huge mistake. An instant sensory replay went through her mind—Eric biting her lip, sucking her neck—and her stomach flip-flopped.
She cleared her throat. “I…I should tell Darcy that we can’t do this together.”
“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.
“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.”
“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 somebody 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.”
“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.
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.