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Under the guise of it being a “work thing,” I said sure.
We ended up making out in his car that night, so I guess the answer was yes.
Dating someone 17 years older than you when you’re broke and homesick in Los Angeles is very different from dating a fellow production assistant who lives in an apartment with four other guys from work.
Yes, the fancy restaurants and nice weekends away were a huge perk.
But it was also nice to spend time with someone whose idea of fun didn’t always involve being drunk at a bar until 3 a.m.
After a year together, I finally told my friends about what, until then, had been a secret relationship.
But I still refused to let anyone at work know, and he didn’t push the issue.
My work and personal lives were oddly intertwined and yet compartmentalized.
Our story began as many clichés do: I moved to Hollywood to get into “the business,” and he was already a big shot in said business. (This was 2005, not 1976.) He’s one of those people whose charisma and sense of humor makes you overlook the fact that he looks like Jon Lovitz. When I met him, I never had any idea I’d fall in love with the guy, but I knew I wanted to be around him and learn from him.
When I interviewed with him at a small but well-known production company, I had no intention of taking the job. He had risen through the ranks of the entertainment industry through hard work, and I had come to Los Angeles to prove myself. The kind of thing where you don’t even realize that that’s what it is unless you squint at it really hard. It was the middle of the work day: “You look stunning in that turtleneck!