“Uh.” He blinks, holding a can of Coke. “Are you allowed to drink that?”
“My sister’s nineteen and she helped herself,” I say, grabbing a glass from the counter. They’re for water, but I don’t care. “So I guess that sort of stuff doesn’t count here. And you can drink at eighteen in France, right?”
“Well, yeah.” I hear him shift behind me. “But I don’t want you to get so drunk that you stop asking questions.”
Right. Questions. The reason we’re here. Why does that make me feel disappointed?
“I’ll be fine,” I say, pouring myself a glass. “Do you want some?”
He’s quiet for so long that I turn to face him. I don’t know why he’s staring at me so hard. All I did was offer him wine. Of course, he might think I’m being childish.
When our eyes meet, I’m the first to look away, barely lasting a few seconds.
“See?” My voice is hoarse. It’s embarrassing. “This definitely counts as an awkward silence.”
“Sorry.” His voice is low. I watch him shove off his jacket, hang it over a chair. “I’d like some, yeah. As long as you feel okay with it.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I pour another glass. “It was my idea.”
“I know.” He stands next to me, shoulder brushing against mine. I try to ignore it. “But I don’t want you to, like, feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”
“No.” I push his glass toward him jerkily. “It’ll make us feel fancy. I always feel like Olivia Pope when I drink, and we can just pretend Olivia is interviewing a talented young actor.”
He blushes, taking the glass. Some of his wine—or maybe mine—has sloshed out. I wipe it up with the sleeve of my shirt. I’m guessing he doesn’t notice. It drives Mom crazy when I do it at home.
I hold the glass to my lips. To my surprise, wine is nice, a million times better than the beer I’ve swiped at family parties. It tastes like strong, bitter juice, cranberry without the sugar. If only we had wineglasses—then I’d really be Olivia.
“So.” Marius gestures between the two of us, at our glasses. “I’m guessing this part is off the record?”
“Oh, yeah.” I glance at the recorder on my nightstand. “Just for right now. I’ll turn on the recorder in a little bit.”
He nods, sipping more from his glass. The wine stains his lips a darker red. I watch him lick the juice off until I realize he’s staring at me. My face burns. I shift my gaze to my feet.
I can’t read him and I hate it. Is he messing with me? When he stops and stares, is it some sort of act? He’s an actor, after all.
“I’ve never been drunk before,” he says, breaking the silence. I must look surprised, because he shrugs. “I’ve been high and everything, but never drunk.”
“How?” I ask. “How do you make it to nineteen without getting drunk at least once?”
I never go anywhere and I’ve been drunk before. It was New Year’s Eve, I was sixteen, and Mom and Dad left the champagne out when we were supposed to go to bed. I was curious and drank all that was left. When Maggie found me, I was stumbling over my feet. I would probably still be grounded right now if she hadn’t covered for me.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Guess I never really got around to it.”
“But you got around to getting high?”
“Well…” He pauses. “I used to drink a little, with my boyfriend, but he didn’t like it too much. His dad was an alcoholic, and it freaked him out. So we just smoked weed instead.”
I’m not sure how to respond, since he’s just told me a million things at once. He used to drink with his boyfriend. He had a boyfriend. Okay. That doesn’t necessarily mean he doesn’t like girls. But that doesn’t tell me if the boyfriend is still around or not. And I don’t know how to ask without fumbling my words.
God, I hate that this is the first thing I think of.
“What?” Something in his face steels at my silence. “Do you have a problem?”
“No, no, of course not.” I grip my glass. “Wow. I, uh, don’t mean to be weird. I had a crush on a girl once, last year. That’s what I was thinking about.”
Crushing on Tasha, the nice girl involved in every school activity, was easy. She was the only one who talked to me. She invited me to sit with her friends and always partnered up with me before I could be left for last. I didn’t realize it was a crush until Alice started making fun of me—“Josie has a crush on Brooke White’s little sister”—but then it didn’t matter, because we were making out in her bedroom and in the locker room and almost anywhere we wouldn’t be spotted by people we knew.
I’m not sure if it’s harder to have crushes on boys or girls. Maybe it depends on the person. All the boys I’ve liked were brutal. They walked away or laughed when I told them I liked them. They pretended I didn’t exist, even after I’d poured my heart out. But Tasha hugged me and gave away soft touches and kisses like it cost her nothing. She called other girls pretty and smart and smelled like perfume and lotion and genuine kindness. Which is easier—someone who is too nice or someone who is too harsh?
I’ve tried not to think about it, but it’s hard. Sometimes I go on Twitter and see nonbinary people and something tugs in my stomach, too. The world is big and wide; there are so many people to choose from. It’s overwhelming.
“I didn’t have a lot of crushes,” Marius says, breaking me out of my thoughts. “Wes and I, we’ve known each other since we were little. He lives in my building—used to, before he went to college upstate.”
“Oh,” I say. “That’s probably good—that you didn’t have a lot of crushes. They never really work out. I think they just suck.”
“Well, I was with him for most of high school and it didn’t work out.” He puts his glass down. “Maybe high school just sucks in general.”
“Now you’re getting the idea.”
He smiles, shaking his head. I want to ask if he also likes girls. I think about telling him that I also like guys. It shouldn’t matter. This is about him, not about me. We should be talking on the record. Otherwise, this is a waste of time and money.
Still. I can’t bring myself to just dramatically shift subjects, not after he shared something like that with me. So I do what I’d do with Alice or Maggie—I open my playlists. I hold my breath as I pull my phone out. Marius might think I’m ignoring him or being rude and leave. I force a breath out, looking up.
“Do you like Kendrick Lamar?”
“Yeah.” Marius glances up. “Why?”
There’s a stack of unused paper cups on top of the cabinet. Empty cups always work well as amplifiers, so I plop my phone in. After a second, Kendrick’s voice fills the room. He makes it feel full in a way it wasn’t before. Like his voice is pushing against the walls.
Maybe it’s from my glass of wine. Maybe it’s Kendrick. Whatever it is, I can’t explain it. I just get up and start dancing. With Kendrick ringing in my ears, I shake my head and my arms and the rest of my body the way I would if my sisters were here. Whatever Marius might think of my body is an afterthought. My eyes are shut and I’m basking in the moment. The moment when I don’t have to worry about anything.
Something shifts beside me. I blink my eyes open. Marius is moving in front of me, but it looks more like someone is pulling his body in different directions. I can’t help but double over in laughter. Marius is good at a lot of things, but evidently, dancing is not one of them. He jumps up and down and doesn’t seem to care that he’s falling over, even when I pull him up on the bed.
“I haven’t bounced on a bed since I was little,” he says, struggling to speak over Kendrick (which is almost impossible). “Oh my God, why did I ever stop?”
I giggle, shaking my head. He’s holding both my hands. Part of my brain wants to stop and analyze everything. What does this mean? Is the tender feeling in my chest warranted?
> Whatever. I push the questions aside. Marius tilts his head back and raps all the words. I join him, our bodies going up, down, up, down.
Kendrick isn’t the only artist on this playlist, which is for rocking out—there’s some Frank Ocean, J. Cole, Childish Gambino, SZA. It’s hard not to look at Marius when he’s right here and we’re holding hands. His face blurs in front of me, but eventually, he just bounces a little in place. His cheeks—he doesn’t have real cheeks, like me, but there’s enough there—are dotted with red. I can’t tell if it’s from jumping or because of the drinks.
I can’t stop looking at him. This isn’t how getting rid of crushes works. If anything, this is the hardest I’ve ever fallen.
Fuck.
@JosieTheJournalist: idk i feel like we should stop calling people crazy and just be nicer idk idk
I wake up the next morning without a headache, but with Alice right in my face.
“Did you drink an entire bottle of wine? By yourself?”
Ah, this is the reason why Mom wanted Alice to come with me. My sister is almost—almost—as big a nag as our mother. I groan, running a hand through my hair as I sit up. It’s sticking up all over the place because I went to bed without covering it.
“Come on. It’s not a real bottle,” I say. “Look at it. That’s a tiny little thing. And I shared it with Marius, so even less alcohol than you think.”
Her brows rise so high that it looks like they’ve disappeared.
“You brought him back here? I thought you were interviewing him in the lobby?”
“When did I say that?” I ask. “No, it was always supposed to be in the room. It’s not like you were here, so I don’t know why it’s a big deal.”
“It’s a big deal because you’re supposed to be interviewing him,” she says, shaking her head. “We have one more week on this trip, and instead of working, you’re here drinking with your subject.”
What would she know? Writing is my thing. She can’t take it like she took Spelman.
“I— You can’t just—” I run a hand through my hair. There’s so much I want to say, so much anger and frustration, that my mind goes blank. “You did it first.”
“I didn’t finish an entire bottle,” she snaps. “You did, and now the people at the magazine are gonna see the charge and we’ll have to make some sort of excuse. I thought you were more responsible than this.”
“Don’t lecture me,” I say, already feeling a groan rise in my chest. “I’m not a baby. I understand how things work.”
“Do you?” She leans in. “Interviewing your—whoever he is—alone in your hotel room and sharing a bottle of wine with him isn’t professional. At all. Deep Focus is a gigantic magazine. What would your editor say if she knew?”
God, she’s right. I can only hope that Marius doesn’t tell anyone about what happened yesterday. It doesn’t seem like the type of thing he would share, but still, if Ms. Jacobson heard about it, I’d be toast. This is such an incredible opportunity. I’d be devastated if I ruined it over something as silly as a crush or a bottle of wine. I hate how small she makes me feel, but Alice is right.
“I guess you’re right,” I finally say. It sucks to admit that, but it’s even worse to have to say so out loud.
“You guess?” Alice kisses her teeth. “I don’t know why I even bother.”
She stomps away into the bathroom. A few seconds later, the shower starts. I shake my head and pull out my phone. I answer several texts from Mom and Dad—Yes, I’m having fun, yes, I’ll try to take more pictures, yes, I promise I’ll be safe and call you tonight—before turning to a text from Penny. For some reason, she texts like she’s emailing.
Hi! I know you said you’d think about what we talked about yesterday, and I was just checking to see if you made a decision?
I blink. Somehow, I’d managed to forget about our conversation. Now I’m slammed back to reality. Roy Lennox, what he did to Penny, what he’s probably already done to other women. That’s not the only thing that comes back—for some reason, the conversation I had with Alice on the plane starts to replay in my mind.
What happened to you is literally the definition of assault. You know that, right?
I let out a heavy sigh and rub my forehead. This isn’t even about me. This is about Penny. Penny, who is completely sure of the truth, otherwise she wouldn’t have told me. Penny, who wants me to help her.
God. I’m not mature enough for this.
I text back: Yeah. Let’s do it.
She responds in less than a second: Oh God, I love you.
Can you meet up tomorrow? We should talk about everything.
Actually.
I already spoke to my friend Julia and she’s interested in talking to you.
Here’s her number.
And there’s a contact attached.
I sit and stare at my phone for almost a full minute. Right now, I feel like the human equivalent of at least five question marks. Maybe an exclamation point is tossed in there, too.
How did she find someone to talk to already? Has she been thinking about this, working on this, since yesterday? My stomach sinks. Was she working on this while I danced to Kendrick Lamar? God, why am I the worst?
There are too many things going on in my head. One comforting fact stands out: if I’m doing this—which I guess I am now—I won’t be doing it alone. Penny is here and she’s going to help. It makes it a little easier to breathe. Just a little.
Because her friend Julia isn’t just a regular Julia. The contact below the text is Julia Morrison. I know the name—and it’s not from her acting.
I’m not sure what she was ever initially famous for—a bunch of movies in the nineties, I think. A quick Google search tells me she’s in her midforties and has been doing made-for-TV films lately, though they fizzled out around 2017.
What she’s infamous for: kissing her brother on the lips like Angelina Jolie (though she never bounced back from that), showing up to a premiere topless, shaving her head, ranting about how the world is out to get her, and getting arrested for possession of marijuana. All part of the celebrity breakdown playbook.
I swallow, instantly feeling guilty. I’ve never thought much about Julia Morrison. She just seemed like a crazy person. But it feels shitty to even call her crazy, especially since I know how scared I get that people will call me the same thing if they see me have a panic attack.
Anyway, she has a reason for acting the way she does. I scroll through her filmography to see that one of her first movies was a Roy Lennox production. Her performance as an orphaned prodigy in Touch of the Heart catapulted her into the public eye. How did she deal with that? Was it a one-time thing, or did she have to keep seeing him, over and over again? What finally made her snap?
Talk to her? I text back. When?
Now, preferably. She’s expecting your call. I’m so sorry to spring this on you. Do you need me to reschedule?
Shit. This is a trap.
On one hand: PENNY, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCKING HELL?
On the other: She’s the one most impacted by this, so I can’t really judge her.
But: WHAT THE HELL?
I rub my hands over my arms, even though I’m not cold. There’s no way I can talk to a famous woman about a powerful man taking advantage of her. God. But I have to, don’t I?
I could try to talk to her another time, but we fly to New York later today for the last leg of the tour, and I really need to start piecing the Marius profile together. I can’t worry about this and write a profile of Marius at the same time. I’ll freak out if I talk to Julia Morrison now, and I’ll freak out if I have to find some way to reschedule later. I’m screwed no matter what.
No. I’ll call her now.
I glance up at the bathroom door. The shower is still running. Alice’s long
showers are a pain in the ass when we’re both at home, but it’s pretty convenient right now. What else do I need? Questions. I pick my messenger bag up off the floor and pull out my notebook and a pen.
I’m not sure what’s too much to ask and what isn’t. I figure I’ll just ask some basic questions and go from there, depending on how responsive she is. This is a topic I have to tread lightly on. I’ve never had to do that before. It might be easier if I just pretend it’s a normal conversation, but we both know it isn’t one.
Thank God I still have the app I downloaded when I first started doing phone interviews a few years ago. It records calls, which I’d rather do than put her on speaker and record, especially talking about something so sensitive.
Now comes the hard part. I stare at the contact number on my phone screen but make no move to touch it and connect the call. Then, before I know it, I’m calling.
“What?”
I startle at the voice on the line.
“Oh,” I say, because that’s a great way to start off a conversation. “Um, hi, my name is Josie Wright. I’m a freelance journalist. Penny gave me your number. I’m working on something about…”
My voice trails off. What can I really say?
“About Lennox.” Her voice is blunt. The words don’t take any more air than they need. “Right, Penny and I were talking about it the other day. You already have a place lined up to publish?”
“Uh, no.” I rub the back of my head. “I thought I’d figure that out after the piece was written.”
“Good luck.” She snorts. “I doubt anyone will pay attention unless you have some pretty big names—God bless Penny, but she doesn’t count. They’ll just laugh at the two of us. I might be able to give you some more names. Maybe Penny will, too. But it’ll be hard to get them to talk to you. No one wants to talk about this shit.”
“Yeah.” My voice is a sigh. I fold my arms. “I get it. I don’t want to force anyone to bring up bad memories, but I figured they were already coming back up because of the documentary. I just don’t think he should be getting awards after—you know.”
Off the Record Page 12