The Girlfriend Stage

by Janci Patterson

  I laugh. “Only if we do it in Canada.”

  Her face grows serious. “Is that what you meant when you said we could skip a step? Move in together?”

  I pause. “I was thinking more along the lines of the ring.”

  I expect this to terrify her—this conversation has clearly gotten away from me, and I should put a stop to it before I say something that puts her off for good. But instead she sighs. “We can’t get married. We’d be one of those horrible celebrity couples who names their kids after places they’ve had sex.”

  I laugh again. “We would! What brand is your dad’s bathroom sink? Grohe? Moen?” I’m pretty sure I’m mispronouncing these words—the latter of which sounds like “moan.”

  Anna-Marie giggles. “It’s not too late to add Shane’s lawn to the list of possibilities.”

  “Ha!” I say. “Yes, please. Let’s name a child after him.”

  “Not him,” Anna-Marie says, jabbing a finger in the air. “His desecrated foliage.”

  I stare at her, awed that I’m dating a girl who downs three beers in minutes and then uses words like “desecrated” and “foliage.”

  “Moen Rios,” she says. “Actually, I think my dad’s sink is a Kohler.”

  “Huh. It might be the influence of the alcohol, but I actually like that one.”

  “Kohler Rios,” she says. “See, I told you we were those kind of people.”

  I shrug. “I can live with that.”

  Anna-Marie looks down at her hands, which are resting just above my knees. “Anna-Marie Rios,” she says, like she’s trying it out, and my head spins in a way that has nothing to do with the beer.

  Anna-Marie Rios. God, I love the sound of that.

  Anna-Marie shakes her head, like she’s suddenly self­-conscious. “I probably shouldn’t change my name, though, right? I mean, professionally.”

  I’m afraid to move or breathe or speak, like we’ve fallen under some kind of spell, and the slightest thing could break it. “You could. If you wanted to.”

  She’s actually considering this, and my whole body feels like it’s floating. “I think I’d want to. If that was okay with you.”

  It’s all I can do not to get down on my knees and beg her right now. “Tell me you’ll marry me,” I say. “Even if it’s just pretend. I just want to hear you say it.”

  She looks at me, and I swear on her face I see both longing and trepidation. “I can’t do that. Can I?”

  I’m surprised at how much I want it—the future, yes, but also to hear her say the words. To be able to imagine this possibility after a week full of stress and disaster. “No consequences,” I say. “I swear. In the morning, nothing’s changed. Just for today, let’s talk like we’re ready for this.”

  I’m afraid that this request—which, let’s face it, is as crazy and desperate as I am—is going to be the thing that tips her over the edge into panic, but instead she smiles. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s get married, and have babies.”

  “Named Kohler. A girl?”

  She nods. “A girl named Kohler. And a few more as well. None of them named Shane’s Lawn.”

  “Definitely not. And we’ll live in LA, and you’ll be famous, and I’ll work my ass off to keep the roles coming.”

  “And we’ll be one of those adorable couples everyone is afraid will break up, but we won’t.”

  “No,” I say. “We won’t.”

  We look at each other, and while hours ago Anna-Marie said we were in hell, this feels like exactly the opposite.

  “And somehow,” I say, “we’ll find time from our busy lives being rich and famous to still drive our children to soccer practice.”

  Anna-Marie giggles. “That one’s on you. I don’t drive in LA.”

  I blink at her. “What?”

  Her giggle grows louder. “I never told you, because I don’t tell anyone. I’m terrified of driving in LA.”

  “You drove all the way out here—”

  “No,” she says, stabbing a finger in the air. “I took an Uber out of town, and then rented a car and drove to Wyoming.”

  “You don’t have a car? I thought the driving you to work thing was because you wanted to stay over at my place.”

  “It is,” Anna-Marie says. “But your car was a perk. And not because it’s a nice one. Just because it runs.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “All right. So we’ll have a nanny who drives. I don’t think I can handle all the carpooling alone.”

  She nods. “Exactly. Or I’ll pay more for Uber. Either way.”

  “Or,” I say, “as you get more visibility you can stop taking cars with random people who might stalk you, and instead learn to drive in LA.”

  Anna-Marie looks horrified. “Josh,” she says, “don’t you care for the safety of our children?”

  We both laugh, and I wonder how many more things about Anna-Marie I’ll be able to discover over the years.

  Which reminds me. “I never told you what my main fandom is. It may have something to do with what’s in the basement.”

  “Game of Thrones,” Anna-Marie says. “Lord of the Rings. No, Star Wars.”

  I shake my head. “Actually, it’s Harry Potter.”

  Anna-Marie looks surprised. “Really?”

  “Yeah. But I’m not answering any more questions about the basement or else you’ll get it out of me.”

  “Can I ask just one question?”

  I narrow my eyes at her, but I already know she can ask as many questions as she wants. “One.”

  “Why do you keep it a secret?”

  I arch an eyebrow at her. “I don’t know. Why didn’t you invite me to fight zombies with you?”

  She tilts her head, her face growing serious. “Okay, but I didn’t have any vows about a man having to put a ring on my finger before I showed him my Xbox. How many people have seen your basement?”

  I’m quiet for a moment. “Just Ben and Wyatt.”

  “Exactly. I keep the two halves of my life separate, but I date an equal number of guys who I might bring home and play Death Arsenal with, if the mood strikes. But you, you keep everyone out of your geek life. Why?”

  My heart squeezes at the idea that there have been men she’s dated who got to come home to her apartment and relax and play video games with her. Not that I haven’t loved our lifestyle together, but something about that feels so intimate.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I guess it just . . . feels so juvenile. Like I don’t want to admit that I never grew up.”

  Anna-Marie looks confused. “But you’re a successful business person. You have a good job and a nice place and a really nice car. Lots of adults like to read Harry Potter.”

  Lots of adults do not have scale models of the Harry Potter universe with a working Hogwarts Express. “What’s in my basement is really geeky.”

  “Okay,” she says. “But that’s not the only thing you hide, is it? All the books are in the basement too, right? And you’re so concerned someone might find one that you sweep the house before you leave.”

  Honestly, I rarely bring the books upstairs at all. “That’s true.”

  She’s quiet, waiting for me to explain, but I guess it’s hard for even me to understand. I make excuses about my job, and maybe that’s a reason not to have a bookshelf in my living room where I entertain clients. But if someone happened to see a book lying around, it shouldn’t be a big deal.

  But it is.

  “I think it’s partly because of my family,” I say. “I wasn’t kidding when I said they call me the college dropout. I mean, they’re kidding. Sort of. But my dad is a brain surgeon, and my older brother Ray, he followed right in his footsteps. What they do is serious. It saves people’s lives. And my mom is a professor, and Adrian is in financial advising. Did you know I started out majoring pre-med? I real
ly thought I’d be a doctor like my dad.”

  Anna-Marie’s eyebrows go up. “Really. Was your dad disappointed when you didn’t?”

  I shake my head. “No, he knew I didn’t have what it takes. He never said it outright, but whenever I’d come home, he’d ask me if I was still pre-med. I started to get a complex about it, like he didn’t think I could do it.”

  Anna-Marie looks so sad, and I know I’m misrepresenting my dad. “Not that he meant it that way,” I say. “I think he just honestly thought I’d be happier doing something else. And he was right. But it hurt at the time, especially because Ray was doing so well in his residency. He actually got to learn with my dad, which sounded awesome.”

  Her concern hasn’t eased. She rubs the ball of her foot against my hip. “Are you and your dad close?”

  “Yeah. I mean, we all get along, except Adrian, who doesn’t get along with anyone, and doesn’t come around much because he knows none of us think it was a spectacular life decision for him to abandon his wife and daughter. Before Adrian, I was the one with the fast lifestyle. My parents were always worried about it.”

  Now she smiles. “Worried about your lifestyle. Really?”

  “Yep. I think they thought I was into the drugs, at least a little, until the time I yelled at Adrian at a club for doing cocaine.”

  Anna-Marie chuckles, and I crack a smile. “I know, right? I mean, don’t get me wrong. I drink too much. But I know I’m genetically lucky I’m not an alcoholic, and I don’t want to get caught up in anything that might be more habit forming.”

  “Mmmm,” Anna-Marie says. “Am I part of this lifestyle they hate? Dating actresses and snorting blow?”

  I laugh. “I think they’re mostly used to it, now. But it’s all of it, you know? My job isn’t serious the way theirs are. My parents read the classics and scholarly articles and I read about orcs and wizards and lightsaber battles. I started keeping it secret when I graduated college and officially became a productive member of society, and I guess no one in my family ever suggested that was a bad thing.”

  “What about Ben?”

  I shrug. “Ben thinks it’s dumb that I hide it, but as long as I still show up for video game night, he’s good.” I smile. “Except since I’ve been dating you, video game night has turned into the night Wyatt and I binge all five daily episodes of Southern Heat on the DVR.”

  Anna-Marie’s eyes widen. “You do not.”

  I laugh, and it sounds a little maniacal, and Anna-Marie leans forward to punch me in the arm. The hammock tips precariously.

  “You’re making this up,” she says.

  I shake my head. “No, I swear. Since the first week we were dating, actually. I mentioned to Wyatt that I was seeing you, and he showed me that he had all the episodes recorded, and we started it up. Ben grouses that we’re never going to finish playing Digital Devil 2, but he hasn’t staged a walk-out, so we just keep doing it.”

  “I thought you didn’t watch my show.”

  “I know. And I wasn’t about to tell you I’m addicted to it and thus ruin my masculine mystique.”

  “That is not a thing,” she says, though she looks happy that I’ve seen it, and not too terribly irked I kept it from her. “You should know that I haven’t actually read the Harry Potter books. But I have seen the movies.”

  I nod. “I can work with that.”

  “So which house were you sorted into?”

  I cringe. “I actually haven’t taken the sorting test.”

  “What?” Anna-Marie puts her hand to her chest as if she’s completely scandalized, and I think she’s only half joking. “How can it be your number one fandom if you’ve never been sorted?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll be sorted into Hufflepuff.”

  “Ouch,” Anna-Marie says. “I could see it.”

  I kick her gently in the ribs, and she lunges for my phone, fishing it out from beneath my arm. “That’s it. We’re settling this here and now. Which house would you want to be in?”

  Now this conversation is getting personal. Ben would mock me mercilessly for admitting it—and with good reason—but discussing how much this stuff matters to me feels like poking around in the dark recesses of my soul.

  “Gryffindor,” I say. “But I can’t look. Trust me, I have agonized over this many times. It’s for the best that I just don’t know.”

  This doesn’t deter Anna-Marie from pulling up the website on my phone. “Oooh! They have a Patronus quiz as well. Do you know what your Patronus is?”

  I laugh. “I don’t. That one I can handle, but you go first.”

  I flip around on the hammock and we cuddle up and answer a vague series of questions and wait an artificial amount of time to get our results.

  “Mine is a dolphin.” She wrinkles her nose.

  I smile. “That sounds like it suits your inner fourteen-year-old.”

  “It does. I accept it. Now it’s your turn.”

  When my results appear on the screen, I groan. “No. No, why is this even an option?”

  Anna-Marie leans toward me. “What?” she asks, and I turn the screen so she can see.

  It’s a pheasant. “This is not possible,” I say. “There is no such thing as an attack pheasant.”

  Anna-Marie laughs. “Suck it, Rios. The internet has spoken.”

  I groan again. “A pheasant. What does that say about me? I’m supposed to be protected by a bird that is literally bred to be hunted and killed?” I shake my head at the phone. “Pottermore, you have betrayed me.”

  “Oh!” Anna-Marie says. “We should name a child Harry!”

  “Harry Rios. The kid would be destined for copious back hair.”

  Anna-Marie dissolves into giggles again, and I stare at her in awe, this woman who I’m so deeply in love with. This woman who has become everything to me.

  “God, marry me,” I say. “Please, please marry me. I want to do this for the rest of my life.”

  A soft smile plays at her lips. “I already said yes. At least today, while there are no consequences.”

  I nod. “Then I think time should just stop right here. We should just be here like this forever.”

  Anna-Marie nods. “Agreed. We’ll never move, and morning will never come.”

  But of course it does.

  Twenty-three

  Anna-Marie

  I wake up with the oddest sensation of being on a boat, and it takes my slow-churning brain a moment to remember I fell asleep on a hammock, which is now swaying as Josh shifts. I’m curled up under his arm, my face on his chest. My mouth is fuzzy and tastes like too much beer, and I’m pretty sure I’ve been drooling onto his shirt, which is something I thankfully only do when I fall asleep drunk.

  As I definitely did last night, though not so drunk I can’t remember a startling number of details about our conversation.

  Marriage. Kids, even.

  And the worst part, the part that is making my slight hangover headache start turning into a pulsing drum of panic, is how amazing it had all felt. How it sounded to say my name with his—Anna-Marie Rios—and the expression of bliss on his face when he heard it. How I could picture it, like one of those cheesy film montages set in warm, soft-edged filters: him standing on a beach in a tux, grinning at me as I walk toward him in a flowy white gown; us playing video games on a couch we bought together for our new house; me bringing him his morning cup of coffee to wake him up and a little dark-haired girl named Kohler jumping up on the bed to “help,” giggling as her daddy groans and starts tickling her.

  I couldn’t just picture it; I wanted it. Desperately. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.

  No consequences, my ass.

  I sit up—carefully, because I don’t want to tip the hammock and dump both Josh and me on the beer bottle graveyard on the ground beneath us. I’m trying not to wake
Josh as I do so—I wish I could say this was from purely unselfish motives, but honestly, the panic is making it difficult to breathe and I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to him again yet. Not sure I can handle the words “ring” or “marriage” or even “Harry Potter” right now.

  Apparently it’s impossible to get out of a hammock without waking the person you’re sprawled across, even if that person is Josh Rios in the dawn hours.

  “I reject the morning,” Josh groans, running his hand along my back. “I thought it wasn’t going to happen this time.” His dark hair is mussed from the hammock and his many, many attempts to balance beer bottles on his forehead throughout the evening, and his eyes are barely slits against the sunlight.

  The sight tugs at my heart. How many mornings have we woken entwined like this, him barely awake, me filled with a warmth I refused to examine too closely because I was afraid of what it might mean?

  And that was even before I went and fell in love with him.

  “Damn rotation of the planet,” I say softly, watching how the light filtering between the leaves above us plays on his face.

  “Mmmm,” he agrees sleepily. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Nowhere, I want to say. Nowhere without you, not ever again.

  My pulse spikes, and I clear my throat, because it has suddenly gone so dry it might be a wildfire risk in there. “Coffee,” I manage, this time having to force the smile. “I’ll see if anyone’s started coffee yet.”

  “I won’t say no to that.” He rubs his forehead, and before I can change my mind and curl up next to him again, I work my way out of the hammock.

  I can hear voices from the house, so apparently at least someone’s up this early, but I don’t really care who. I just need to get away for a minute. To think. To breathe.

  The screen door bangs shut behind me as I enter the kitchen, which is thankfully empty—the voices seem to be coming from upstairs. I open the can of off-brand coffee that is a far cry from the gourmet kind at Josh’s place, but hasn’t killed either of us so far. My hand trembles as I go through the motions of making the coffee.