by Jen Wilde
“Hello?” Shrupty’s voice comes through the speaker, making me smile.
“Hey!” I say. “It’s me, uh, Bex. Permission to come aboard?”
I hear her laugh; then there’s a loud buzz and the gates start to swing open. My hands shake with nerves, so I tug my shirt down, double-check the zipper of my jeans, then pull them up a little higher, push my glasses farther up my nose, anything to keep myself busy and burn off some of my anxious energy.
Shrupty opens the door as I walk up to the porch, and when I see her I almost trip on the last step. She’s glowing, wearing athletic leggings and a purple sports bra. Her abs glisten with sweat.
“Hey!” she says. “I won’t hug you because I just finished with my trainer, but come in!”
The thing about being gay is that when I’m attracted to a girl it’s sometimes difficult to tell if I want her body or if I … ahem … want her body. Like, am I jealous of her abs, or am I turned on by her abs? Is it both? My abs are hidden under softness, a belly that I will probably always have because I loathe working out. I’m cool with that. So in this instance, it’s not jealousy I’m feeling but attraction. Intense, overwhelming, burning attraction that clouds my mind … and obviously takes my breath away because suddenly I realize I haven’t said a word since I arrived on her doorstep.
“Hi!” I blurt out, much too late. She giggles, then turns and walks down the hall. I try to look literally anywhere else but at her butt, and that’s when I notice the inside of her castle … er, I mean, home.
I’m standing in an open foyer, with clean white floors and a staircase on each side leading to the second floor. A glass table sits proudly in the center, adorned with white roses in a crystal vase. A chandelier hangs above it from the high ceiling, sparkling in the sunlight coming through the upstairs windows.
Shrupty glances down at my shoes. “Um, do you mind taking your shoes off? My parents have a thing about shoes in the house.”
“Oh, sure,” I say. My pulse quickens. She’s going to see my old socks with holes in the soles. I quickly slip my shoes off and leave them beside the door, my anxiety rising.
“The front door is ajar,” a feminine robot voice says, making me squeal in fright.
“What the fuck was that?” I ask, looking above me. “Did your house just talk to me?”
Shrupty laughs at me from the end of the hall. “Yeah. Just nudge the door and it will close by itself.”
I turn to the door, poke it with my index finger just enough for it to move, and it swings closed just like she said it would. “Jesus,” I whisper to myself. “This is rich.”
“You can come inside, you know,” Shrupty calls, waving me over.
I thought I was inside. How big is this place? I hurry down the hall to catch up with her, thinking of my mom and how she would die if she were here. Shrupty leads me into a spacious kitchen and living area, with floor-to-ceiling windows that flood the room with light. She opens the fridge and takes out a bottle of water.
“Can I get you anything?” she asks.
I shake my head, still taking everything in. “I’m good.”
A kid with long, gangly arms, shaggy black hair, and what looks like his first attempt to grow a mustache sits at the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of Froot Loops. He glances up at me before returning his attention to his phone.
“Who’s the white girl?” he asks, like he’s bored with me already.
Shrupty takes a sip of water, then gestures to me. “Ajay, this is Bex. Bex, this is my brother, Ajay.”
I smile and give him a quick wave. He doesn’t react. A woman’s voice calls Shrupty’s name from somewhere else in the house.
“I’m busy, Mom!” Shrupty calls back. That seems to displease her mom, because the next thing I hear is her yelling something in another language. Shrupty yells back, then sighs and turns to me. “Be right back.”
Suddenly I’m standing alone in the kitchen with Shrupty’s little brother, who won’t stop staring at me.
“You’re allowed to sit down, you know,” he says.
I don’t know where Shrupty wants to rehearse, so I decide to wait. “I’m good, thanks. I’ll just wait for Shrupty.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Are you her new girlfriend?”
“What?” I ask. “No.” My cheeks burn. My gaze drops to the spotless white floor.
“Then why are you blushing?” he asks with a smirk. “I know she has a girlfriend. You don’t have to lie. It’s not a big deal.”
“I’m not lying,” I say, but something he said makes me curious. “How do you know she has a girlfriend?”
He sticks his tongue out like he’s grossed out. “She’s been walking around the house singing Carly Rae Jepsen like she always does when she starts dating someone. It’s annoying.”
Just then, Shrupty returns. “Jay! Stop harassing our guest.”
A mischievous grin spreads across his face, and he launches into the chorus of “Call Me Maybe.” I can’t help it, I giggle.
Shrupty gives him a smug look, then says something to him in another language. My name comes up, but other than that I have no idea what she’s saying. His eyes widen, and he drops his spoon into his bowl. Then Shrupty takes my hand and pulls me out of the kitchen.
“Were you speaking Hindi?” I ask, and she shakes her head.
“Marathi,” she says.
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “What did you say to him? He looked terrified.”
She grins. “I said that if he’s not nice to you, I’d tell Mom and Dad about the time he borrowed my iPad and forgot to delete his search history.”
I laugh as she leads me up the stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Whoa,” I say as I look around Shrupty’s bedroom. “This is your room?”
“Yep,” she says casually as she steps into her walk-in closet, which is bigger than Parker’s living room. I’m about to follow her, but she starts lifting her sports bra up to take it off, and I spin around and look out her window instead. Just then, my phone buzzes with a notification from Entertainment Now: “Archer Carlton Apologizes for Homophobic Rant.”
I’ve purposefully been avoiding social media this morning, not wanting to relive the hurt and fear I felt in that alleyway. But I guess those amateur paparazzi videos at the party went viral just like they said they would.
“Oh my god,” I say. “Archer released a statement.”
Shrupty scoffs from inside her walk-in. “You mean his PR team released a statement. What does it say?”
I clear my throat and start reading it aloud.
“‘I am deeply embarrassed by my drunken behavior. I meant no offense, and I apologize if my poor attempt at humor was misinterpreted. I do not have a homophobic bone in my body. The words I chose to use in that private moment caught on video are regrettable. My true friends and fans will see that this one brief, drunken moment does not represent the totality of who I am or what I believe.’”
Shrupty walks out, and she and I stare at each other, swapping looks that say “Are you fucking kidding me.”
“And the award for best celebrity non-apology goes to…,” she says.
I laugh, then notice the old T-shirt she’s wearing and gasp.
“Is that a Twilight T-shirt?” I ask, unashamedly enthusiastic.
She looks down at her baggy black shirt with CULLEN BASEBALL TEAM 2008 on it. “Haha, yeah. I was obsessed with it.”
I clutch my heart with my hands. “Oh my god, same! Parker and I went to every midnight screening.”
Shrupty grins. “My friends and I waited outside the Nokia Theatre alllllll damn day for the premiere of Breaking Dawn: Part Two.”
I gasp. “You went to the premiere?”
“Not as, like, VIPs or anything,” she says. “We were in the crowd outside. But I did get to meet Kristen Stewart, so that was awesome.”
I’m going to die of jealousy right here in her room. “Did she talk to you? What was she like? Did she smell good?”<
br />
Shrupty laughs. “She was very sweet. Here.” She pulls one of the photos off her wall and hands it to me. It’s tween Shrupty, wearing a baby blue dress and grinning at the camera. Kristen Stewart is crouching down next to her, wearing a nude strapless gown and giving her trademark half smile.
“I’m so jealous,” I say. “You have no idea.”
Shrupty smiles as she looks at the photo. “Aww, I was such a little Twi-hard.” She sticks the picture back on her wall, and I step closer to see the dozens of others around it. There are photos of her from her high school days with her friends, sitting around the lunch table in their uniforms and making faces. Others show her at different concerts, her face decorated with glitter as bands play in the background. Vacation memories from Rome, Paris, New York, Sydney, and all kinds of tropical islands. I see her with famous faces; Mix Chloe, the gang from the Brightsiders, and Alyssa and Charlie. A Halloween photo from when she was about five or six, dressed as Hermione Granger. It’s a collage of her life, and with every photo I see I feel myself falling for her even more.
Shrupty points to some recent Polaroids of her wearing a stunning pink-and-gold sari.
“That was at my cousin’s wedding last year in India,” she says. “It was amazing.”
An older couple stand on either side of her. “Are they your parents?”
Shrupty smiles. “Yeah. They’ve got their serious faces on in that photo, but they’re really just giant goofballs. They were born in Mumbai and came here after they got married, but we go back to visit about once a year.” Then she opens the sliding door onto her balcony. “Alexa, play ‘Shrupty’s Good Vibes Only Playlist.’”
Music fills the room, coming from speakers in the ceiling. I try to hide how impressed I am by her house, because to her this is all totally normal. For me, it’s like stepping into everything I’ve always dreamed about.
“Come outside,” she says as she stretches out on a wide rainbow-striped hammock. I step out onto the balcony, overwhelmed by the luxury of it all. The backyard is lush and green, with a sparkling swimming pool in the center, a pool house to the left, and a cabana lounge on the right.
“Wow,” I say quietly as I take it all in. “You must throw some pretty epic pool parties here.”
Shrupty laughs. “Yeah. But my friend Luke’s parents installed a hot tub our junior year, so we mostly hung out there.” She sits up and crosses her legs. “What about you? Was your house the party house for your friends?”
“Ummm,” I say, stalling. The closest I ever came to going to a house party was going to Gabby’s mom’s surprise fiftieth birthday party. And I was only invited so Gabby didn’t have to spend the whole night listening to her aunties bickering. We stole a bottle of champagne and sat on the roof drinking it and talking about Silver Falls. I smile at the memory, then get hit with something I’ve never felt before. Homesickness.
“Bex?” Shrupty says, still waiting for my answer.
“Nah,” I say quickly. “Should we start going over your lines?” I get my backpack from her bed and take the script out. When I step back outside, she’s watching me closely. I feel her eyes on me as I wriggle in next to her on the hammock.
“Parker said you guys lived together, right?” she asks. “Growing up?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Which scene do you want to start with?”
She’s quiet for a moment. I flip open the script and pretend I’m deeply interested in what I’m reading. In the back of my mind, I can hear Parker’s voice. I’m not embarrassed or ashamed about how we grew up … And you shouldn’t be either.
I’m not ashamed … I’m just protective. People can be judgmental assholes, and I want Shrupty to get to know me for who I am, not for where I’m from.
Ugh. It’s getting harder to convince myself that that’s really why I’ve been avoiding talking about home with her. Especially because Shrupty is probably the least judgmental person I’ve ever met.
She reaches out for me, walking her fingers over my hand and up my arm. I forget everything I was worrying about just a second earlier.
“Will you take a photo of me with the script?” she asks. I nod.
She lays back on the hammock, holding the script open in front of her and pretending she’s reading intently, her brow furrowed in concentration. I snap a couple dozen pics from different angles, then give her phone back, and she starts going through to find the best ones.
“Remember to block out the episode title,” I say. “Don’t wanna give away too many spoilers.”
After running the photo through some filters, she adds a rainbow and the emoji of two girls holding hands to the picture, then blasts it all over her social media. I open all my apps so I can retweet, regram, and reblog it everywhere.
We lay next to each other on the hammock, both scrolling on our phones to read all the reactions flowing in.
“Someone just asked if I’m playing a queer character,” she says with a smile. “Should I say yes?”
I press my lips into a line, thinking. “Hmm. Maybe hint at it? I don’t know how much you’re allowed to reveal.”
She nods, then retweets the fan question with a winking-face emoji next to a pride flag. “The gays are going to love this.”
We laugh, then she lifts her hand to my temple and strokes my hair back.
“I like your freckles,” she says. She starts lightly touching each freckle, connecting them like a dot-to-dot over my cheek, then boops my nose. “You’re really pretty, do you know that?”
I can’t wipe the smile off my face. “Thanks.”
She tilts her head to the side and puts on a high-pitched voice. “So you agree? You think you’re really pretty.” Then she starts laughing at her own joke, and I’m smitten. “Mean Girls is one of my favorite movies, FYI.”
“My birthday is October third,” I say, smiling proudly. Being born on Mean Girls day is one fact about myself that I’m always ready to whip out whenever someone brings up the movie. Or the musical. Or Lindsay Lohan.
Shrupty’s mouth falls open. “Get out! Seriously?”
“Yep! It’s pretty much the only cool thing about me. I’m very proud of it.”
She laughs. “You should be. But I wouldn’t say it’s the only cool thing about you. I can think of at least ten other things right now. You’re kind of wonderful, Bex Phillips.”
Her fingers reach my shoulder, sending a shiver down my spine. My gaze falls to her lips, the same lips I kissed on the ice twelve hours earlier. The lips I dreamed about all night long.
As though sensing my thoughts, she bites her bottom lip. It drives me wild. I swallow hard, then lean in and crush my mouth to hers. She kisses me back like she’s been waiting for me to do that ever since I walked through her front door.
The script falls from my lap and onto the floor, but I hardly notice. I feel her leaning back, relaxing into the hammock. She clutches the neckline of my shirt in her hand, pulling me down with her until I’m on top of her. My hands run down her sides, stopping at her hips. Our tongues meld together, and she wraps her arms around my neck, pinning me to her. I feel like the whole world is shifting on its axis, but it’s just the hammock swinging as we move together.
Shrupty moans as we kiss, and my temperature rises tenfold at the sound. I need to pause for air, but if I had to choose between breathing and kissing her, I’d choose this kiss every single time. I’m lost in her.
“Shruptyyy!” a voice calls from inside the house. I reluctantly pull myself away from her.
“Did you hear that?” I ask.
She pouts, like she’s sad that I stopped kissing her. “Hear what?”
“Shrupty!” her mom calls again; this time she sounds closer.
Shrupty gasps. “My mom’s coming.”
We scramble to climb off the hammock, but it keeps swinging wildly every time we move. I manage to crawl off her, and she slides off the side. But the kickback from her getting off the hammock is stronger than I expected, and next thing I know I�
�ve rolled off and hit the floor with a thud.
“Shit,” Shrupty says. “Are you okay?”
I’m lying under the hammock, arching my sore back. “Fine,” I croak. I lift my hand in the air to give her a thumbs-up.
Just then, I hear her bedroom door open.
“There you are,” her mom says. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
Shrupty stands in the doorway to her balcony, tugging her shirt down. “Sorry, Ma.” She waves for me to come over, so I climb to my feet.
“This is my new friend,” Shrupty says as I stand next to her. “Bex.”
Her mom smiles. Shrupty looks just like her. Her dark brown hair is streaked with silver at the front, and she’s wearing a sky blue caftan with yellow trim and matching pants.
“Oh, hello, Bex. Good to meet you,” she says.
“You too,” I say as I rub the back of my neck self-consciously.
They start talking in Marathi, then her mom leaves and Shrupty turns to me. “I just need to help my mom for a sec. She wants me to help her post some pics to Facebook for my aunties before she goes to work.”
“Where does she work?” I ask.
“She’s an ob-gyn at Cedars Sinai.” She smiles proudly. “She delivers all the celebrity babies.”
“Wow, that’s so cool,” I say. After she leaves, I go back out onto the hammock and lie down, replaying our kiss over and over again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I arrive to work the next day to find out the writers’ room has been canceled.
“Who knows,” Jane says when I ask why. “Angela is down at the reception desk, so he’s not with her.” She scoops up her folder from her desk and I carry her bag and her coffee as we walk down the hall. “I am really running out of patience with that man.”
Jane seems more openly frustrated with him every day. It’s understandable; she’s been working with him since he was hired three years ago. To be honest, I’m surprised it took this long for the cracks to start showing. There’s a sinking feeling in my gut, telling me that it’s only a matter of time before this blows up.