CHAPTER FIVE
REBECCA
I STARE AT THE LITTLE blue box.
There’s no way the chat is really from Evan Cohen. It’s from an Evan Cohen, not the scorching hot guy who owns LiveLyfe.
I can see the Verified seal with my own eyes, and anyone who pays attention knows Evan’s screen name, which shows below his full name. In Evan’s case, it’s simple: “Evan.” But because every name in the system is unique, most people can’t get their given names as-is. My LiveLyfe screen name is “RebeccaPresley417.” It’s cumbersome, and I keep telling my mom that I’m going to change it to “ILoveCrystalMeth” just to freak her out. Although I’d still probably have to add 417 to the end; you know someone’s already declaring their love of meth through their handle.
Evan’s chat is as straightforward as his screen name: Hi.
I don’t know what to do. He’s given me nothing to work with. It’s not just that I don’t know Evan Cohen; it’s that I don’t have any business knowing him. When you’re one of the world’s most eligible bachelors, you can’t just say hi. You have to have a topic in mind.
Two can play at this game. I type: Hi.
My name is Evan Cohen.
Okay. This is a gag. Now I understand. There’s absolutely no reason for the real Evan to contact me, so this is either his assistant using his account or an elaborate joke. Benji, maybe, hiring a team of hackers to ambush me for making him look like an idiot on repeat.
My name is Rebecca Presley.
Do you go by Rebecca? Or Becky?
You’re an asshole, Benji.
I don’t think. I just type. It’s only after I’ve sent the PM that I realize I shouldn’t. That’s one of my biggest problems: speaking without thinking first.
The chat is silent as if I’ve confused whoever-this-is. Then three shaking dots appear.
Quickly, fingers quivering because now I look like a jerk, I type, Sometimes Becca.
The dots vanish. Now I’ve confused him more.
I mean sometimes I go by Becca. Usually Rebecca. Not Becky. Definitely not Reba. What am I, a country singer?
The dots don’t reappear. And that sucks because I’ve decided I am talking to the real Evan Cohen, against all the odds and for whatever reason.
Dots. No dots. It’s like Evan doesn’t know what to say, even though he started this.
Finally: My executive assistant pointed out your ads performance. I was just looking through your websites.
His assistant pointed out my ads? He’s been looking through my websites? An alarm screams in my brain: I’m in trouble. I knew I shouldn’t have submitted some of those ads. I was surprised they went through, but now I see why. This was a trap. LiveLyfe was testing me, and now Evan Cohen himself is getting in touch to yell at me. I feel like I’ve been called into the principal’s office and maybe earned a mark on my permanent record.
Don’t be ridiculous.
Heart hammering and nerves rising, I type, They’re a joke. I’m just messing around. People seem to think it’s funny. I have a real business, too.
Again, Evan stops typing.
I’ve spent a lot of money on LiveLyfe ads under another account.
But that sounds like I’m being entitled — demanding special treatment because I spent money. What does Evan care? LiveLyfe is an 11-figure company. They don’t care about my thousands of dollars.
It’s only a joke, I say again.
I mean, it’s a penis.
It’s natural.
Shit. I’ve got the chat diarrhea going, and it’s gonna get worse before it gets better. I’m always a spaz under pressure. I wish I could be normal.
I don’t hide his face because he sent me the pictures. I think that means I own them.
And the ones he didn’t send me, he shared on LiveLyfe.
I can take those down if you want.
Then, horribly: The way I see it, the human body is a beautiful thing.
I really, really wish I could take that last one back. Not only is it a total weirdo thing to say, but it’s also a defense of something I invented as I’ve blathered on — something Evan hasn’t so much as mentioned. He’s sent me four lines of chat. I’ve sent him fourteen. This conversation is a train wreck.
I’m impressed with how well your ads have done.
That’s it: back to business. He doesn’t even mention all the crazy shit I just said. Somehow, this embarrasses me even more. Confronting crazy is at least dignified. Apparently, I’ve confused him so much that the only thing he can think is to turn his head and pretend it didn’t happen.
I’ve been looking for someone for a new project.
A project involving dick ads?
I think I’ve said the wrong thing again, but Evan gives me:
lol
Then he adds:
It’s complicated.
I resist the urge to say that dicks aren’t complicated at all.
I guess you know who I am?
Um, yeah. It’s possible I’ve discussed you over margaritas with a few girlfriends, dreaming what you and I might do together with a jar of Nutella.
But I reply: Yes.
I didn’t expect LiveLyfe to become what it became. I have other ideas I’d like to pursue. I think you might be perfect for it.
Because of my penis ads? My penis website?
Because you understand people and technology.
No, I don’t. I can’t get my VCR to stop flashing 12:00.
There’s a pause. I’ve never owned a VCR, and I doubt Evan has either. It’s an old zeitgeist joke that I figure transcends the ages, like Where’s the Beef? or the notion that old people love The Clapper.
I’ve looked through a lot of your old stuff. I’ve never seen anyone write like you.
Embarrassing, I know.
Not at all.
So … I type, unsure of where this is going.
I don’t have time right now to explain the project. I have to run in two minutes.
Lunch meeting? When Evan doesn’t respond right away, my stupid nervous energy gets the best of me, and I add: Because it’s noon in New York.
Oh. No, it’s only ten here.
I don’t know why this matters. I’m such a flustered idiot. I chase the statement anyway, knowing he already said that he’s out of time:
Where are you?
Austin.
Somehow this makes me much more uneasy.
I’m in Austin. I live here. I thought you lived in New York. Fuck. Now I sound like a stalker. Probably because I’ve stalked him a little. Not that I’m a stalker, I add.
But double-fuck; that’s what a stalker would say.
I have a place in Austin.
Long pause.
Then: Maybe this would be easier to discuss over lunch.
That blows the head right off my shoulders. I’m being punked. The idea that Evan is talking to me from my own city made me all jittery, but this question of lunch is entirely too much. I get social anxiety. I’m not always great with people, despite the fan adoration. I can be great with people. It’s how I’ve closed my best deals. The problem is that thirty percent of the time I’m a total mess … and I never know which fraction I will be on any given day.
What do you think?
What do I think? About lunch with Evan Cohen? I honestly don’t know how to answer that, even to myself. On one level, hell yeah, I’m on board, and I hope he brings massage oil. But on a much more real level, I’m scared shitless. This is the worst thing I could be asked right now. If someone inquired about peeling off all of my skin, it’d be an easier yes.
I don’t know what this is about. Or why he contacted me.
And the worst part is that I’m positive that he’s wrong about me, whatever he thinks. Sometimes my fans ask me for the secret to my success, wanting to know how to become as popular as I am. But my popularity is an accident. I show too much. Live off the rails. That made me a lot of money. Then a guy fucked me up, I decided to make fun of him, and the people who already liked me for unknown reasons liked that, too.
If Evan thinks I have a secret ingredient, he’ll be sorely disappointed after learning the truth. If I go to lunch with him, I’m going to stutter my way through the conversation and spill on both of us. Not in the cute rom-com way; I’ll manage to drop hot coffee on his junk or ruin a $500 shirt when spaghetti flies from my fork. In general, I’ll show him what a “do not” looks like compared to the “do’s” of being a lady. Who the hell am I to warrant LiveLyfe’s attention? My specialty is telling dick jokes. Literally.
It’ll be a few weeks at the soonest, though. I have a trip coming up.
After a long time, my fingers unfreeze. Business trip?
Gotta run. One of my assistants will send details.
I start to type my reply, but Evan’s icon goes dim.