The Girlfriend Stage

by Janci Patterson

  This time, a surprised laugh bubbles out. Josh doesn’t swear all that much, unlike pretty much everyone else in the industry. So it’s like a lovely little obscene gem whenever he does. “Is that going to be your official statement to the press, Mr. Rios?”

  He smiles. “I may massage the wording a bit.”

  I let out a breath, feeling the tightness in my chest as I do so. I reach for his hand and thread my fingers through his. “I’m worried, too.”

  “About what?”

  “The effect this will have on my career. I mean, I know some actresses have benefited from sex tapes getting out, but those are generally more sexy and involving far fewer pervy Boy Scouts.”

  He squeezes my hand. “This won’t hurt your career. It’s clear you were caught by surprise, and doing something totally legal.”

  “Well, it was on private property,” I say, mostly to be difficult. No one’s going to care about that, least of all Ken Randall, who I’m sure is not the least bit surprised about what goes on in his hot springs.

  Josh makes a dismissive gesture. “Look. We’re going to get lots of inquiries for awhile. And we may get questions about this when I send you out on auditions. But I’ll handle all that. It’s going to be fine. If anything, you’ll probably just get a boost in name recognition.”

  “For this.” I glare at my phone, which is balanced precariously on the edge of the sink above us where I had set it before jumping Josh.

  “For a little while,” he acknowledges, and I appreciate that he doesn’t pretend otherwise. “And then you’ll keep killing it on your soap, and book more and more roles, and show everyone how talented and incredible Anna-Marie Halsey is. This will become nothing more than some internet footnote.”

  His confidence is contagious; even though I’m fully aware that it could—and probably will—take years to get to that point, I believe him that I will. That I am talented and incredible, damn it, and will one day have a whole legion of fans ready to troll the hell out of anyone who won’t let this video disappear into the internet garbage heap where it belongs.

  I also realize that my worry wasn’t solely for my career.

  I can’t look him in the eyes as I say this next part. I pick at a long fiber of the shaggy floor mat. “What about the effect it will have on us?”

  “You and me?” He sounds surprised.

  “I mean, you had to see me and Shane like . . . that, and it couldn’t have been great. And all the extra publicity this’ll bring, and complications, and . . .” And maybe you won’t want to do this anymore, I mentally finish, because the words get lodged somewhere in my throat.

  And I know, though I hate myself for it a little bit, that this was part of why I needed Josh so badly. I needed the reassurance that everything we felt last night under the stars wasn’t some fluke, and it isn’t over.

  “Come here,” he says, pulling me into his arms—at least as much as he’s able, with my legs still tucked up against me. “It’s not easy seeing you with him, I’ll admit it. But this doesn’t change anything for me. I love you.” I find myself relaxing into him—at least until he pauses, and I see a little bit of tension around his eyes. “Does it . . . change anything for you?”

  I shake my head. “No,” I say, then give him a small smile. “I’m so glad you’re here right now.” I mean here in this bathroom, but also here in Wyoming. Here in my life. And I think he gets all those meanings, because he smiles and presses his forehead against mine.

  “Me too.”

  “Also, I’m actually feeling a bit better. I think your little ‘talk about your emotions’ thing helped.”

  He grins. “It’s called labeling, and it’s pretty much the only thing I remember from the one college psychology class I took. You’d be surprised how useful it is in my career.”

  I’m actually not surprised. I can see him talking like this—okay, maybe not like this exactly, but still—with his clients, helping them through whatever professional crises come up, and I know it’s one of the things that makes him an incredible agent. He cares about his clients. They aren’t just dollar signs with flawless skin and excellent bone structure, not to him.

  And I’m so glad he’s mine now.

  Agent, that is.

  “So,” he says, like he’s broaching a topic he’s not too thrilled about. “You aren’t mad at Shane? He was kind of a dick to you in that video.”

  I frown. “I don’t know. I was at the time, but really, it’s just the way he is, you know?”

  Josh eyes me for a moment, but then he just nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “And it’s not like I’m going to be doing that again with him. Ever.” I shake my head. “I should probably call him, though. See if he’s heard about this yet. I don’t think he’ll be that upset about it, but—” I shrug.

  Josh smiles, but it’s not quite genuine. I hate having to bring Shane into this at all, but there he is in that damn video with me, captured for all of internet eternity. “Yeah, definitely. And I need to make some more calls myself, make sure Brent has sent over those inquiries.”

  He stands, and I want to reach out for him, but he slips out the door and I’m still half-naked, and everyone in the world has already seen enough of me naked.

  “Congratulations on the Golden Weiner,” I say at the door. But Josh is already gone.

  Eighteen

  Anna-Marie

  Josh and I both make phone calls for hours, me shut in my bedroom and him pacing up and down the hallway outside. I call my director (who is supportive) and then Gabby (who sounds like she’s having trouble breathing on my behalf), all the while hearing snippets of his conversations about reach and spin and phenoxyethanol, the latter of which I hope is not about me.

  Josh’s voice is faint at the other end of the hallway when I finally call Shane. I haven’t talked to him since he left through the window the night before last, and I’m realizing now I probably should have at least texted him.

  I don’t have any idea what I would have said. But he’s still my friend, and the least I can do is to give him a heads up that he’s naked on the internet.

  “Anna!” Shane says. “Nice of you to call.” His voice sounds fake-cheerful in that sarcastic way of his that tells me he noticed I haven’t called him.

  “I just wanted to let you know that one of the Boy Scouts got some video the other night. We’re both—”

  Shane laughs. “Yeah, I saw it. I think everyone in our graduating class has emailed me the link over the last few hours. I had no idea you were such a popular search term.”

  My chest tightens and I try to breathe. “Yeah,” I say, my voice sounding strangled. “So there’s that.” I want to sarcastically thank him for calling to let me know about the video, but I’m not sure I have a huge amount of moral high ground there.

  “Aww, Anna, are you upset about it? You know it’s not a big deal, right? It’s not like it’s the first time this has happened.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I wonder if Josh was just being nice by not telling me I was being dramatic. Maybe Shane’s right. This isn’t a big deal. It happens all the time. “But I didn’t want it to happen to me.”

  Shane’s voice grows serious. “Yeah, I know. Look, I’ve been meaning to call you. I’m sorry about how awkward things were with you and your friend the other night.”

  I don’t love Shane calling Josh my friend, but really, what else is he supposed to call him? I’m the one who made such a point of him not being my boyfriend. “Josh,” I say.

  “Yeah, Josh. Why don’t you guys come over tonight and hang out? We’ll play some Death Arsenal, him and me can get to know each other. It’ll be fun, and it’ll get your mind off all the fourteen-year-olds jacking off to your wardrobe malfunction.”

  “I could have lived without the image.” I close my eyes. “But I’ll talk to Josh.”

 
“Sweet. See you tonight.”

  It’s not until after he’s hung up that I realize he acted like I agreed to going over there when in fact I didn’t. I roll my eyes up at the small holes in my ceiling where my poster of Nathan Fillion used to be.

  Shane is still Shane, even when he’s naked on the internet. Hell, it might not even be his first time.

  I open my door and find Josh standing in the hall, leaning against the wall, looking like he hasn’t slept in a week. “How’d it go?” I ask.

  He gives me a weak smile. “I now know more than I ever wanted to know about the volumizing properties of filloxane. But I talked to the people at Southern Heat, and they have a positive attitude about the video.”

  “By which you mean they’re looking forward to my small boost in popularity?”

  “Mmmm,” Josh says. “I can’t keep any secrets from you, can I? This may be problematic for our professional relationship.”

  I join him leaning against the wall. “I talked to my director. He expressed his support and tried to sound sorry, but really. Why should he be? All publicity is good publicity, right?”

  A bitter edge has crept into my voice, and Josh wraps his arm around me. “We don’t know how big this is going to get,” he says. “Hopefully it settles in the dark recesses of 4chan and never breaks any bigger.”

  I cringe. Of course it’s on 4chan. And Reddit. And every other corner of the internet.

  “Hey,” he says, “I know this is a little weird, but could I have Gabby’s number for Ben? I think he wants to get together with someone and gossip about us. He’s pretty much dying back home.”

  I would think this is weird, but I’m sure Gabby would have asked for the same thing, if she’d thought of it. “Is he worried I’m playing you?”

  Josh meets my eyes. He looks nervous, and he doesn’t deny it.

  I don’t ask the question that hangs between us. Does Josh think I’m playing him?

  I’m not sure I could blame him if he did. “Of course you can have Gabby’s number,” I say. “I’ll text it to you, and you can forward it to Ben.”

  Josh takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “And how’s Shane?”

  “He’s . . . Shane. He already knew, and is taking it all in stride even though he’s as naked as I was.” I wince. Josh doesn’t need the replay. Especially before I ask him—”He wants us to come over tonight and play Death Arsenal, to get my mind off it, and so you guys can get to know each other.”

  Josh gives me a skeptical look, and I hold up my hands. “I know, I know. Given your first impression, you probably don’t want to get to know him. But it would be nice to do something tonight other than be harassed by my family, and I only got in six solid hours of DA before I had to leave it and my console behind.” I poke him in the side. “Plus, you said you play, right?”

  “Yeah,” Josh says. “So you want to do this?”

  I lean my head against his shoulder. I’ve been so worried about what Josh would think about Shane, but I feel like what he really needs is to see the guy again and realize he’s not actually a threat.

  “I do,” I say. “I think it would be good for both of us.”

  Josh folds his arms. “You could go without me, you know. It’s not like you’re glued to me.”

  He’s back to not meeting my eyes, and my chest aches. “I could,” I say. “But I’m not going to. I want you there with me.”

  He looks at me out of the corner of his eye, and then nods. “Okay. All right. We’ll go.”

  I step away and lean against the opposite wall, our feet side by side at the middle of the hall. I cross my arms and stare at him, but he’s looking studiously down at our shoes. Which, granted, mine are adorable, but I really don’t think he cares deeply about foot fashion.

  “What’s wrong, Josh?”

  He looks up at me in surprise. “What? Nothing. I—”

  “You’re obviously upset. Come on, Rios. Label those feelings for me. If I have to dig through all this emotional crap, I’m dragging you right along with me.”

  Josh smiles briefly, and then his smile drops. “You want to know how I feel about Shane?”

  “Yes,” I say, even though that knot in my chest is tightening, and I’m starting to worry again that he’s realizing no girl is worth this trouble.

  “Jealous,” Josh says. “Like crazy, irrationally jealous. And also angry, like I want to reach right through my phone screen and punch him in the face for laughing at you when you were in that situation.”

  He takes a breath, like he’s getting worked up about this, and he wants to shake it off. I reach across and take his hands in mine. “You wouldn’t have laughed.”

  He glares at the wall next to me. “Hell, no, I wouldn’t have.”

  I squeeze his hands. “You would have protected me.”

  He closes his eyes briefly, and when he looks at me again, there’s pain in his eyes. “You know I would, right? From all of this, if I could.”

  My heart melts. I’ve been so worried about what I’m putting him through, and here he is, wishing he could do more. “I know. It’s not your fault either, you know.”

  He shrugs that off, but I can tell that somehow it’s part of it. And while I get why the whole thing makes him jealous—imagining the situation reversed with Macy or Asia makes me want to sharpen my nails and get back to my high-school cat-fight roots—I want him to know he has no reason to be. “I’m not in love with Shane,” I say.

  Josh bites his lip and nods, but I can tell this doesn’t fix it. Not really. I’m about to ask him again to talk to me about it when he looks right into my eyes. “So how come he gets to be the one you feel safe with?”

  My throat closes. When I’d said that last night, I’d only been trying to explain to him why I was still attracted to Shane at all, not to justify wanting to be with him. But here’s Josh, doing everything he can personally and professionally to support me, to protect me, to help me be okay through this situation that most definitely isn’t.

  After all that, I can see why it hurts him that I used the word “safe” to describe the guy who laughed at me while I was being violated.

  But Shane doesn’t make me promises—at least not ones I’m tempted to believe. He doesn’t ask me for anything, much less an emotional connection.

  “I believe you’d never hurt me,” I say. “And that’s what scares me. Because if you did, it would hurt so damn much more.”

  Josh squeezes my hands, and then runs his up my arms, drawing me toward him. “You really want me to come with you to see Shane?”

  “I do. Shane’s an old friend, nothing more, and I think it would be good for you to actually see that, you know?” Especially after the things he unfortunately had to see on that video—though I’m not going to add that part to my argument. “Plus, it would be nice to de-stress by shooting up a bunch of zombies. But if it makes you too uncomfortable, we don’t have to. Really.”

  Josh doesn’t look thrilled about the idea, but he kisses my forehead and nods. “Okay. We’ll go.”

  And while I hate myself for putting him through all of this, I’m also terrified at how deeply I need him to stay.

  We arrive at Shane’s place—the basement apartment to his dad’s house where he’s been crashing while the band builds up. I’m glad I don’t have to knock on the door to the main part of the house. Shane’s dad is an alcoholic and also a class-A asshole whose favorite hobby is to criticize Shane. Shane got into a lot of trouble when we were younger, mostly, I think, because he could never please his dad anyway, so he did his best to stop giving a shit.

  He hadn’t fully succeeded by the last time we broke up, but I hope for his sake that he has by now.

  Since the last time I stood at the door to the basement, Shane has acquired a door knocker that is an actual pair of brass balls, which I ignore and rap with my knuc
kles instead.

  “Come in!” Shane yells through the door, and Josh gives me a look.

  “That’s Shane,” I say. “The picture of class.”

  I shove open the door and find Shane sitting on an enormous Love Sac, next to which he’s propped a folding chair. The game system is already on, muted, with the DA menu emblazoned across his big screen. There’s a controller sitting on the folding chair, and another on the other half of the Love Sac—not the old white controller I used to play with, but a newer one of the same color.

  Shane grins up at us from the Sac, which he is clearly not vacating for fear that Josh and I will claim it and ruin his carefully arranged seating trap. I force myself not to roll my eyes at him. “Anna!” he calls. “Welcome. And Josh, was it?”

  Josh has his professional face on again, and while I suppose that’s preferable to him punching Shane in the face, it’s still hard to watch.

  Shane’s grin is wide—too wide, in fact. He’s up to something beyond the seating arrangements. Even Shane can’t be this pleased with himself over that. “Have a seat,” he says, waving his phone at me. “I have a surprise for you.”

  Oh, god. Please do not let this be a slide show of all of our couple photos from high school. I move toward the folding chair to sit in it, but Shane waves at the spot next to him. “You don’t mind, do you, Josh?” he says. “Anna-Marie always gets the best seat in the house.”

  Josh doesn’t respond, but he takes the folding chair and sits down on it, his spine uncomfortably straight. He bends down to move something under a bent leg of the chair. It’s a book, and Josh stares at it.

  “Allen Ginsberg,” he says. “Is this poetry?”

  Shane looks over at it skeptically. “Maybe? It’s Kyle’s. I told him if he left that shit here I was going to put it to good use evening out the legs of my chair.”

  “Sounds like a good use for a Beatnik.” Josh’s tone is sarcastic, and I think he may just be trying to emphasize to Shane—and possibly to me—that he knows who Allen Ginsberg is.