Forty-five agonizing minutes later, Jenna and Eric were still in the cab. The midday traffic down Sixth Avenue was locked to a standstill on 29th. The temperature had risen to ninety degrees, and the cabbie’s AC wasn’t working. The air, so clear earlier that morning, had gone humid and oppressive. The cab smelled like kimchee and onion rings.
They were too far from Soho to walk (Eric had too much bulky equipment). The closest train, the F, was rerouted that morning due to a bed bug infestation. Jenna and Eric were stuck in hell. They were starving, wilting, and ready to crawl out of their skin.
Jenna had rolled the arms of her shirt up to her shoulders and was fanning it out from her chest (she’d stolen the slightly cropped, micro-sweatshirt idea from the Marc Jacobs runway, buying a little boy’s version from Marshall’s and shrinking it in her oven). Her cluster of chunky pearls felt like they were choking her, so she unhooked them—at which point the cheap, Claire’s Boutique beads popped off, bouncing to the floor.
Apt metaphor for my life. It’s about to fall apart. How much longer can I pretend to be fancy when I’m really a knockoff? How much longer can I act like I can handle this job, when I’m in over my head?
Embarrassed that her necklace was now pooled at her feet, she scooped up the plastic pearls and dumped them in her purse. Then, she glanced over at Eric. He hadn’t noticed. He was swiping away on his phone. Clearly exasperated, he suddenly dropped it and, with an angsty groan, he stretched a little, trying to make his 6’2” frame fit in the tiny space. His shirt slid up to expose the briefest glimpse of ridiculously taut abs. Jenna’s mouth went dry. His stomach was ridiculous. It could’ve starred in a weight loss supplement ad.
“I need air,” she mumbled, fanning with a Marie Claire from her purse. “I can’t breathe.”
Eric didn’t even look up, which was fine, because she wasn’t addressing him. They weren’t ignoring each other, but neither one of them had spoken to each other the entire time. At random intervals, they would mutter exasperated exclamations under their breath.
Eric: Yooo this heat, son! I’m gonna die in this bitch.
Jenna: I completely sweated out my hair. I am offensive.
Eric: I want Shake Shack. We’re near Shake Shack.
Jenna: What are those cars honking at? There’s no point, no one’s going anywhere!
Eric: Yo, why does this cab smell like the Bloomin’ Onion appetizer from Outback?
But soon, they accepted that they were stuck in there—together and indefinitely—and gave up on bemoaning their fate. Jenna laid her head against the windowsill, closing her eyes and trying to breath in some fresh air. But Eric was all antsy, pent-up energy. First he listened to music, bobbing his head to a rap song with a bass so throbbing that Jenna heard it through his Beats by Dre headphones. That ended, and then he zeroed in on his phone, tweeting, playing video games, watching WorldStarHipHop.com—loudly. Eric had the volume turned up on his phone. Every “click” of a key, every sound effect, reverberated through Jenna’s head at the eleventh decibel.
Finally, she spoke up.
“Do you mind turning down the phone?”
“My bad.”
“Thanks.”
Eric went to adjust the volume, but before he could, the unmistakable “ding” of a new text rang out. He checked it, and then sat up straighter and began texting in a flurry. Over the next two minutes, his expression ran the emotional gamut (frowny, hopeful, bummed, smiley).
If it’s that important, thought Jenna, why doesn’t he speak to that person on the phone instead of texting?
Like clockwork, the phone rang. Eric froze, looking at it like he’d never seen it before. Then he glanced at Jenna. It kept ringing. And ringing.
“Aren’t you going to answer?”
“It’s cool,” he said, stalling, “It’s rude to talk while we’re both trapped here; I don’t want to bother you. You seem so serene. A calm you is a happy me.”
“Eric, answer the phone!”
“Okay.”
He put it to his ear and leaned even closer to his door. In a low voice, almost a whisper, he said, “Hey. No, I can’t talk right now. So…I’m sorry too. I will. But right now I gotta go. I…umm…” He lowered his voice even more. “I miss you, too.”
Eric turned off the phone, slid it in his pocket and slumped in his seat. Jenna folded her arms and eyed him, a surprised smirk on her face.
“Oh really?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.” He rubbed his temples.
“So, who was that goddess among women?”
“Here we go.”
“Eric, do you have a girlfriend?”
“An ex-girlfriend. Ex.”
“And how long has she been your ex? Were you…together when, you know…”
“No, I don’t cheat. I never got the point. Why be in a relationship?” Deeply uncomfortable, he rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans. “We just broke up.”
“How long ago is ‘just?’”
“Jenna,” he said. “I’m just gonna close my eyes and get a moment of peace before we go back and my mother shits on my entire existence. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, but she was bursting with curiosity. Who was this girl? What did she look like? Did he kiss her the way…
Don’t even think about it. Never happened, remember?
Still, she had to know.
“Can you at least tell me her name?” she blurted out. “What does she do?”
“Madison,” he said, stiffly. “Ballerina.”
“Why did you break up?”
“No offense, but it’s none of your business.”
“True, but what else are we going to do? We’re stuck in here together, we might as well talk. Plus, I give great relationship advice. Though I never could figure out my own.”
He raised his brows. “You’re in a relationship?”
“No. I’m in that terrible set-up phase between relationships.”
“How’s that going for you?”
“It’s not. Men my age want women your age,” she said. “So, tell me more about Madison.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“’Cause you’re mean to me. And I’d like to keep a healthy emotional distance from you.”
“Please?”
“Omigooodd,” groaned Eric, leaning back against his seat. “Get me outta this cab.”
“Why did you break up?”
“Fine,” he said, exasperated. “She dances with this company in LA, and she’s a sophomore at UCLA, but I’m here. So it would’ve been a weird long-distance thing.”
“Wait. She’s a sophomore in college? How old is she?”
“Almost nineteen.”
Jenna swiped aside the sweat-soaked curls plastered to her forehead and nodded, trying not to broadcast how she felt—which was shock over the realization that Eric was young enough to conceivably date an eighteen-year-old.
“Well,” she started, “sometimes long-distance works. Did you try?”
“I mean, it’s complicated. I met her when I was at USC. When I graduated, she wanted to transfer to NYU so we could be together.” He frowned, remembering. “I told her to stay on the West Coast. That she shouldn’t move across the country for some dude. But then she got mad. Like, very.”
Jenna nodded. “Madison wanted you to want her to move here.”
“She never said that.”
“But that’s how she felt. She wanted your feelings to be so intensely passionate for her, that you couldn’t fathom any other option.”
Eric hit Jenna with a look, like he was engaging a silly little girl. “Intensely passionate? That’s a cinematic affectation.”
“You don’t feel intense passion for Madison?”
“I feel ‘hearty like’ for her,” he said, listlessly. “Seriously, I’m too hot and weak to talk. Let me preserve my energy for editing.”
“Do you want her back?”
“I don’t know. Yeah?”
“That’s so sweet.”
Eric rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Yo, there are so many things I’d rather be doing than sharing this specific moment with you right now.”
“So what do you love about her?”
“I said hearty like.”
“What do you heartily like about her?”
“She’s sweet. Nice.”
“Sweet and nice? You could be describing a maltipoo.”
“What do you want me to say? That’s what I like.”
“Does she feed you?”
“Like, does she cook and shit?”
“No, does she feed your soul. Motivate you. Inspire you.”
“Is a girlfriend required to do that? I motivate myself.” Eric paused. “Look, I don’t get all introspective about my relationships. To me, it’s straightforward. Just make each other happy and, like, don’t not. Complicated situations with complicated women? I’m all the way good on that.”
“What do you consider complicated?”
“My boy, Tim’s girl, for example. Last week she chased him down Mott with a sword she stole off the wall at a Thai restaurant. And he loved it. What’s that about? I like easy-going girls that aren’t always trying to get mouthy.” He shrugged. “Women I know how to make happy. Uncomplicated girls like Madison.”
“Here’s a secret, though,” said Jenna. “Madison is complicated. We all are. She probably senses that you need her to be simple, so that’s what she is.”
“You don’t even know her.”
“Believe me, I do. I was a so-called ‘simple girl.’ I was ornamental for twenty years. My job was to look pretty, smile, and shut up. Those setups are doomed, because no woman can bury her needs forever. And when she shows herself, the men leave. But you know what? Even the men that date feisty spitfires, like your friend, Tim? They end up running for the hills, too. Because those relationships aren’t real either, that’s a drama addiction and it fizzles quick. The only ones that make it are equals, like my friends Billie and Jay, who trade power. Sometimes he’s the top, and sometimes she is. But that’s rare. Maybe you should look into why you feel most comfortable with women that let you get to be you, in all your multi-layered complexity—while their role is to stay un-mouthy.”
Eric looked at her. “That was the most judgmental bullshit indictment ever. I’m a great boyfriend. The men coming in and out of my house when I was a kid were complete garbage; I know how not to be. You think I thought Madison’s role was to shut up and let me shine?”
Jenna hadn’t intended to offend him; she was just offering some perspective. Unsolicited, but she wasn’t trying to cross the line. All she’d wanted to do was satisfy her intense curiosity about Madison while also engaging Eric in some non-confrontational chit-chat. And now she’d brought them right back to where they always ended up.
“I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
“You’re making me sound like I dismissed Madison as some inconsequential trophy wife. Like it was all about me.
It was the opposite. I told her to stay in LA because it was best for her. I care about her, I was being thoughtful.”
“I wasn’t criticizing you, I was trying…”
“Damn, Jenna. What happened in your life? You’re mad bitter about men.”
“Bitter?”
Eric was already in a terrible mood from that shoot. He was thrown by the Madison call, and hot. And now Jenna was making damning assumptions about him based on nothing. Yet, her assessment of him struck a nerve. A very small part of him did value that Madison was so agreeable (meek, even) because it made his life easier. But overall, Jenna made him sound self-serving and callous, which hurt him a little—and this was a feeling he loathed. To Eric, hurting a little opened the door to being hurt a lot, which he refused to let happen.
He was pissed at Jenna, but even more irritated with himself letting her opinion matter. So, Eric did what he’d always done when someone punctured his usually impenetrable veneer. He went for the jugular.
“Hell yeah, you’re bitter,” he told her. “You basically said that all men, no matter what kind of woman they’re with, will find a reason to lose interest. See, this is why old dudes date young girls. They’re still open and optimistic. No one wants to chill with a woman just waiting for you to fuck up.”
Jenna glared at him, fuming. She’d accidentally offended Eric, but now he was deliberately insulting her.
“That was so nasty.”
“You dragged me into a conversation I didn’t wanna have, only to suggest that I treat my girl like an inflatable doll.”
“Your girl? Are you together or not?”
“We’re not! And why do you care?”
“I don’t,” snapped Jenna. “You know, what I really wanted to say is that it’s obvious why you like quote-unquote simple women. You grew up with Beowulf. You’re looking for the opposite.”
“Beowulf?” Eric was so taken aback, he burst out laughing.
No one had ever had the balls to say anything like that to his face. “Oh, that’s genius. Please, continue.”
“Darcy’s colored your whole experience with girls. The pathology’s so clear. It’s why you flirt with everything. You flirted with me, you flirt with the girls in the office. You told Jinx she had Lara Croft hair just to make her swoon.”
“I said it to help her self-esteem! That’s not flirtation, that’s chivalry.”
“You even batted your goddamn eyelashes to get us into that interview,” she continued. “You’re on a constant quest for attention and approval from women, and it’s obviously because you didn’t get any at home.”
He stared at her. The light changed, fifteen cars honked and the cab scooted up three inches. Finally, he responded. “So that’s your diagnosis?”
“Pretty much.”
“Wanna hear mine?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“This evil, jaded thing isn’t working for you. Any book parties happening tonight? You should find another twenty-two-year-old to holler at. Fuck all that hurt outta your system.”
The second Eric said it, he was sorry. But he was also too pissed to take it back.
Jenna’s mouth opened, shut, and then opened again. “I dislike you. Intensely.”
“It’s more than mutual, Ms. Jones.”
‘“I can’t stay in here with you.” Jenna snatched her clutch up and leaned up to the partition, yelling, “Sir? Can you let me out here? I’m going to hop out…”
“Nah, fuck that. I’m getting out, you stay,” shouted Eric, knocking on the partition. “Can you open the trunk so I can get my equipment?”
“No! I’m leaving!”
“I don’t care which one-a-y’all stays or goes,” said the driver, “as long as I get paid, yaheardme?”
Then there was an awkward moment when they were both clamoring to get their doors open, but they were locked, and the driver kept pushing the unlock/lock button, but none of them could get the rhythm right, so Jenna and Eric were left pounding on the doors, cursing in a blind, slapsticky rage.
Jenna’s door popped open first. Triumphant, she opened her wallet, whipped out two twenties and threw them at Eric.
The driver watched through the rearview mirror and chuckled, saying, “Aww shit, she makin’ it rain!”
Jenna opened her door, hopping out into the cacophonous, congested intersection. As was her luck, the second after she slammed the door, the traffic started moving. She scurried to the sidewalk and watched as the cab spirited Eric off downtown. With a sigh, she wiped the sweat from her forehead and stomped down Sixth Avenue. Nothing good was behind her, and surely nothing good was awaiting her.
“Is this a fucking joke?” raged Darcy, four hours later. She’d just seen Eric’s edited, two-minute clip. “Tell me it’s a joke.”
Jenna and Eric were seated in their boss’s office, in ice-cold silence, feeling like wayward children in detention. As Darcy raged, Eric shifted in his chair, looking drained and over it, while Jenna sat at attention, trying to take the well-deserved abuse like a professional.
Her formal posture was at odds with her appearance, though. The walk from 29th Street had done her no favors. By the time she reached the StyleZine building, she was limping from blisters, her mascara was smeared, and her hair had exploded into a puffy halo in the humidity.
“It’s boring, pointless nonsense. Jenna, when I gave you free license to do whatever you wanted, it was because I was secure in the fact that you, a seasoned pro, wouldn’t churn out a sixth grade visual arts project. And Eric, what’s with the disjointed editing? Were you high? And who would pick this dingbat gypsy for your first video? Her accent is unintelligible, and it’s not even a chic one, like French or Italian. German? The most depressing language. Like, I want to kill myself. And the whole time, I’m wondering why she isn’t in the ICU at Mount Sinai. Whose idea was this?”
Eric and Jenna said nothing. She didn’t want to admit her massive mistake, and he wasn’t going to snitch.
“Whose idea was this?”
“Well, I initially…” started Jenna.
“It was mine,” he said, simultaneously.
“Nice try, Eric, but no. You have no idea who Greta Blumen is.”
“I wanted to give StyleZine an exclusive,” said Jenna. “Greta doesn’t talk to anyone.”
“Precisely. Fraulein Blumen doesn’t talk to anyone. Just because she agreed to be on camera didn’t mean she was going to talk. Did she say she was going to?”
Jenna couldn’t bring herself to say that she hadn’t even spoken to her beforehand. When Eric saw her struggling for an answer, he quickly intervened—not because he cared, but because he wanted this to all be over so he could go somewhere and smoke the roach stashed in his wallet.
“Mom…wait, what do I call you at work?”
“Jehovah.”
He snickered. “Noted. Look, we did a poor job. We’re aware. Next time we won’t.”
Darcy looked at her son like the top of her head was going to blow off. “Oh really? The only reason you’re getting a next time is because it took a lot of thought and effort to hire both of you. I know you can do better. But do not make me sorry I brought you here. You both need me more than I need you, so show up. Do the work. Because Eric, even though I grew you inside my platinum-coated womb…”
He recoiled. “Platinum-coated?”
“…I will gleefully toss you out of this building on your ass. And Jenna, may I remind you that you’ve been charged with tripling our numbers in eight months?”
“You don’t need to remind me.”
Jenna looked at her hands, and Eric gazed out of the window—both avoiding looking at each other. Darcy eyed both of them. “What’s going on with you two?”
“I’m sorry?” Jenna crossed her legs.
“I’m picking up on some negative energy. I know everything that happens at all my websites, but especially my cash cow. Someone overheard you two having a strongly-worded conversation in Jenna’s office on Monday. And now, this hack job? You clearly don’t feel comfortable working together. You’re sitting there all stiff and pissed, like you can’t stand the sight of each other. You have no chemistry.”
Eric snorted. “You have no idea.”
“I can only speak for myself,” she said, wanting to smack him with her Rocky 4 purse, “but I feel comfortable! Really, I do.”
“Stop bullshitting. Jenna, you’re working closely with my child.
It probably feels like added pressure. Maybe you feel blocked because you can’t relax around the boss’s son.”
“I don’t think…”
“And E, your face went vomit-green when I told you about me and Jenna’s history. But the bottom line is, if you two can’t handle this project together, tell me now. So I can replace one or both of you.”
“No need,” said Eric. “We’re cool.”
Jenna nodded rapidly. “The coolest.”
“My mistake was thinking that you were capable of churning out a winning clip in two days. That’s on me. Our readership has completely stalled; I got too eager,” said Darcy. “Let’s pivot. I’ll give you a week and a half. In the meantime, overcome this weird awkwardness. Get a rapport going. Build an energy.”
Jenna and Eric shifted in their seats.
“Question,” he said. “Is it mandatory that we be in the same room while we’re building the energy? Or can we just, like, FaceTime?”
“Can the sarcasm,” spat Darcy. “I have a migraine throughout my entire body, and I’m late for my Lunchtime Lipo.”
“Lunchtime was hours ago.”
“It’s a brand name, Eric,” hissed Jenna, icily. The words were “it’s a brand name,” but the tone was, “I hope you die violently, you rude little prick.”
“See that?” She pointed to Jenna, and then Eric. “Whatever you’re doing right now, stop. You’re partners. Act like it. Did you get your invites to Terry’s birthday drinks on Monday night?”
Darcy wasn’t a sentimental person, but she was maniacally obsessed with birthdays and holidays. On these special occasions, she threw voluntary parties for her staff (though the concept of a ‘voluntary party’ was an oxymoron. Like celebrating under duress).
It never occurred to her that the last thing one of her employees would want to do on their birthday night is spend it in the company of their boss. Especially one they nicknamed The Dream Killer.
“I better see you both there, acting civil,” continued Darcy. “Literally, your jobs depend on it. I will see a return on my investment, assholes.”
“You will,” said Jenna, relieved to get another chance. She was stunned that Darcy had taken their failure as well as she did. “Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried. Not in the slightest,” she said, her tone calmly threatening. “Jenna, what happened to your hair? You look like the Cowardly Lion. Whatever, not my problem. Dismissed.”