Here the memories start to quicken. Eric was going to go the University of Pennsylvania’s prestigious Wharton business school and visited for an orientation welcome weekend. While he was there, he met another guy from L.A. named Matt. When they were back home in L.A., Matt called Eric and asked if he wanted to go out with some friends of his, Dan and Bret, to the Village Idiot. Eric said yes, but then realized he had basically agreed to hang out with a bunch of people he had never met. He thought about canceling but decided against it. Life was an open door. He was up for walking through.
Bret didn’t get the memo that the night was supposed to be a guys night, so he brought his girlfriend, Lolo, who is a childhood friend of my sister, Ashlee. Lolo was like a fairy that evening, flitting about with wide eyes and a great smile. She called Ash, who was at my house. I’d invited a bunch of people over to watch a basketball game, though I don’t even watch basketball. But it was a time when I didn’t want to go out much and liked my friends knowing they could drop by whenever they wanted. It was kind of a Grand Central Station of nice people coming and going, and I liked it that way. It reminded me of my youth group days in Dallas, only with booze and rock music.
Lolo got right to it. “I’m stuck at a boys’ night at the Village Idiot,” she said. Ashlee told me what she said, and we made faces at each other like Tinker Bell was trapped on the pirate ship.
“Tell her to get over here,” I said. But Lolo thought she could hang in, hatching the beginnings of a plan for Eric. Lolo had found one of those rarest of birds, a man in L.A. who was single, cute, and cool. At about midnight, Eric got tired of all the small talk with strangers.
“I’m gonna go,” he said. “It was nice meeting all of you.”
“Wait,” Lolo said, practically jumping up at him. “I have a friend for you. Should I call her?” she asked. “See if she can come out?”
“Maybe . . .” Eric said.
“You’re going to love her,” she said. “Her name’s Turkey.”
No, that’s not my nickname. She was thinking of setting Eric up with our friend Stephenie, who we called Wild Turkey because she was legendary in her pursuit of a good time. I’ve known Turkey since I became her babysitter back in Dallas when I was fourteen. She’s fantastic, and I remain grateful that Turkey was in a songwriting session that night and didn’t want to leave.
Eric went to go, and just as destiny’s door was about to quietly close shut, Lolo asked, “Do you want to go to Jessica Simpson’s house?”
He turned. “Well, that was out of nowhere,” Eric said. “Okay, sure.” He caught a ride with one of the people he barely knew to go to the house of a woman he’d only seen on TV.
When Eric walked through the courtyard of my Hansel and Gretel home, people were scattered both inside and outside. Ashlee sat at the glass table on the porch outside my kitchen, singing show tunes. She was wearing a black circle-brimmed hat and didn’t stop singing as Lolo kissed her cheek hello. Ashlee nodded at Eric, and Lolo spotted me in the kitchen. I was with my friend Jeannia, standing next to a dream interpretation book on the counter.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi, I’m Eric,” he said, looking down at the book. It was dog-eared, with tons of Post-it notes marking pages. “You analyze your dreams,” he said, smiling at me.
Did I say something poetic? Something about how, as an artist I try to harness what my subconscious tells me? No.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Because last night I dreamed I pooped out a pig.”
His eyes got wide, and he started to laugh.
“Wait,” I said. “Then that pig had a pig. And then all of us played together.”
“Okay,” he said. “That’s cool. I like dreams.”
I looked up at Eric, a foot taller than me at six foot three. I was in my Uggs, wearing a big gray sweatshirt and short shorts, my signature look then for gatherings at home.
“Your place is beautiful,” he said.
I offered them a tour of the house, and I could see Eric taking it in. I was proud of my home, the first one that was all mine. It was girly but sophisticated. The Old Hollywood style of Marilyn Monroe and Jean Harlow. Justin Kredible, a comedian who also did magic, had stopped by, and a bunch of people watched him do card tricks. I joined in, and he correctly guessed the card I pulled, a three of spades. People kept asking how he did it, but I was content to just let the mystery be.
It’s sweet now to me that my first conversations with Eric were about dreams and the magic happening around us. I know the pig thing was silly—and maybe a little gross—but I see Sarah’s hand there with her love of pigs.
We migrated back to the kitchen, he and I, making small talk. We then moved to make room for people dancing by and sat down in the little stairwell in the nook of my kitchen. It was one of my favorite parts of the house, a narrow hallway that snuggles you in with steps just wide enough for two people to sit. We talked, shoulder to shoulder, and an hour went by, then another. It was like we were catching each other up on our lives. We got deep real fast, talking about our own spiritual journeys. With other men, I was afraid to talk, but with Eric, there was no fear of judgment. This was completely new.
As it got late, people started to leave. I saw Eric’s new friend Dan saying his goodbyes.
“You’re cute,” I said to Eric, before I even knew what I was saying. “You should stay.”
“Stay?” he said. “Um, okay, I can stay, but you have to mean that because my ride is leaving.”
“No, I want you to stay.”
“All right,” he said, smiling. “I’ll stay.”
We talked another two hours, the house finally emptied of people hugging us goodbye. It was like the end of a wedding. We kissed on those steps, and I led him up to my room.
The next morning, which was not far away, he was going to an all-day Marianne Williamson seminar about learning to apply spiritual principles to your career. He’d committed to going with a friend, who was coming to pick him up. I was dead asleep in bed, so he left a note on a paper towel in the kitchen, next to the three of spades I got from the magician. The note read: “Jessica, I had to leave early. Thanks for having me over last night. Will call/text later. —Eric.”
“This guy just left Jessica Simpson naked in bed to go see Marianne Williamson,” I said aloud.
He waited a day to text me. He told me later he didn’t want to “push it.” I wanted to meet him sober and didn’t want to risk paparazzi. Why ruin someone’s life if things don’t work out? I invited him to come over to watch the American Idol finale with me that Wednesday. He told me he had a yoga teacher training that night and could come over after. When I hung up, I said, “Who is this guy?”
That night he came over with a four-pack of Guinness. I’d already invited my friend Lauren to watch the show, and I was excited that they seemed to click instantly. They were both from out east and had a similar smart sense of humor. We watched the show, talking during breaks about the performances. I am good at critiques of technique and material from all my years working with my vocal coach Linda and then the A&R with Teresa. I felt confident as I talked this way and not afraid that I might be showing off. There was no need to dim my light around this man. As soon as it was over, I got out my laptop to take him down a YouTube rabbit hole of live performances. Things like Mariah Carey’s first-ever appearance on TV singing “Vision of Love” and Queen completely mesmerizing 72,000 people at Wembley during Live Aid. Then I made him watch every episode of The Price of Beauty, which I was so proud of. I realize now that I was unconsciously saying, “Here, these are my heroes. The Price of Beauty is who I really am. Let’s get to the heart of this.” I wasn’t naive. I knew that I had been in the public eye long enough that Eric would have preconceptions of me. I could tell he was seeing past all that.