The Girlfriend Stage

by Janci Patterson

  God, I’ve gotten clingy. Me. Clingy.

  It’s a good thing Josh doesn’t seem to mind. Because with him, well—neither do I. Not anymore.

  Josh strides over to this gorgeous mahogany screen behind his sofa, carved with intricate patterns. He reaches behind it and pulls a key from inside one of the carved whorls.

  “Nice,” I say, admiring the hiding spot. No one is ever going to explore every nook and cranny of that screen, and even an aggressive dusting by the cleaning service would probably miss it. I follow Josh to a door toward the end of his short hallway that I always assumed was some sort of utility closet.

  He turns the key and opens the door, flipping on the light over a set of carpeted stairs. “After you,” he says, and I head down, my excitement building with each step. As I reach the bottom step, I turn into the room, and—

  And it’s a big bookcase, crammed with books. And a ratty­looking La-Z-Boy that could have been lifted from my dad’s basement.

  Definitely not the geek mecca I was expecting.

  “Um . . .” I start, not sure what to say. “That’s a lot of books.”

  “You sound disappointed.” There’s a teasing note to his voice.

  “Confused, mostly. I mean, you’re clearly a big fan of the Star Wars expanded universe” —one whole shelf is packed with trade paperbacks from that line— “but I don’t think this makes you the geekiest person alive.”

  “Well, I was thinking about getting a TV and Xbox down here, and maybe the entire collection of Death Arsenal games . . .”

  My eyes widen. “Seriously? Because that would be—” I cut off, noticing another door to the side of the bookshelf. “Wait, is there another room?”

  “There may be, yeah. And another hidden key.” He pulls out a hardcover copy of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, and removes a key paper-clipped to the cover flap.

  “Wow. I’m surprised there’s no retinal scan.” I squint as I notice something on the armrest of the recliner. It has splotches of something translucent that glistens and makes the fabric crusty. I poke at it. “Is that . . . dried glue?”

  “It is. I do most of my work out here, in the chair.” He’s back to looking nervous again, and swings the other door open. “For this.”

  I straighten and walk toward the door, and now I can barely speak at all.

  Almost the whole second room is taken up with a table upon which rests the entire Harry Potter world in miniature. Incredibly detailed miniature, everything rendered in the most loving perfection, from the dusting of snow along the gabled roofs and cobblestones of that little town where Harry drinks butterbeer (I can’t remember the name, sadly) to the goalposts of a Quidditch field to the tall spires of Hogwarts Castle itself.

  And around it all chugs a small train that starts moving when he flips a switch under the table. It’s the Hogwarts Express, and I can almost imagine the little kids inside, eating chocolate frogs and waiting to start school again for another year.

  I’m barely breathing as I’m taking it all in, as if the faintest breath will knock over the tiny figures in their robes shopping for wands at Diagon Alley, or blow down the spiders dangling from the trees in the forest outside of Hogwarts. And maybe it will—I don’t know how delicate all of this is.

  But I do know one thing.

  “This is amazing,” I say, my voice a reverent whisper.

  “Really? You really think so? Because you don’t have to—”

  He cuts off when I look up at him. “Did you really do all this? Yourself?”

  A shy smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah. I mean, it’s a lot of work, but it’s not that difficult once you get the hang of the techniques.”

  “Could you teach me?”

  He looks stunned, his mouth gaping open. “You’d—you’d want to do this with me?”

  I worry I’ve crossed a line, assumed too much. This is his thing, and showing it to me is one thing, but letting me make my own tiny wizard figurines—something I never thought I’d have a desire to do, but well, here it is—might be more than he wants to share. I’m about to deflect.

  But then I remember something we talked about in the car ride back—one thing among hours of talking about everything and nothing. Talking about my dad’s revelation, and Shane’s well-deserved shoving. About how we could have handled that fight better, and how we wanted to handle things like that better in the future. About the fact that we really could both use some therapy to figure out how to do this better. About how we’re going to mess up, probably a lot. But we’re going to work it out, and we’re going to do so together.

  And as part of that, we talked about how we need to be open with each other. We need to be willing to tell each other what we want. We need to be willing to admit to ourselves what we want (this one is, admittedly, more for me).

  “Yeah,” I say. “I would. If that’s okay with you.”

  “Um, yeah,” he says, with a surprised laugh. “Yes. That’s more than okay. I’d love that. I just hoped you’d not hate it, but the thought that you’d actually want to be part of this with me—” he shakes his head.

  “Well,” I say with a smile. “I think we already established that I’m the perfect woman. At least, most of Wyoming heard you yell that.”

  “And all of LA will too, once we get on that talk show I booked,” he says, stepping close to me and folding me back in his arms. “Though I will keep myself from actually yelling. Or jumping on couches. But I think we can get our story out there, told the way we want to tell it. And look damn good doing so.”

  “There are definite advantages to dating your agent. Especially if that agent is you.”

  “I tried to tell you that, Halsey.” He presses his forehead to mine.

  Honestly, I’m less worried about all of it now that Josh has worked out a plan and gotten us all sorts of PR opportunities to set things right. We’ll tell the world our side of things, and I’m actually pretty confident we can work all this to our favor, professionally speaking.

  And personally speaking, well, I feel like things are already in our favor.

  “So, speaking of that Xbox and collection of Death Arsenal games . . .” I pull him back into the other room. “Maybe you don’t need to buy all that stuff. Maybe I could just bring over mine.”

  Josh nods, as if thoughtfully, then sits in the recliner and pulls me down onto his lap. “You could. In fact, while you’re at it, you could just bring over all your stuff. If you want.”

  There’s that fluttery feeling again. I hope it never goes away.

  “Says the guy who hasn’t seen my massive shoe collection,” I tease, leaning in so close I can feel his breath on my lips.

  “Says the guy who will find room for it all,” he murmurs, his hand stroking down along my thigh. “Because he is crazy in love with this amazing girl, and wants to share his whole life with her.”

  His whole life. Our whole life, the way we love it. Having a blast and looking glamorous at clubs and parties and premieres, then coming home—to our home—and unwinding down in this basement. Playing video games like I’ve imagined before, and now I can also see us painting miniatures and laughing at spilled glue splotches on the shaggy carpet. Going to work at jobs we love, and coming home to each other, who we love even more.

  And that’s just the beginning.

  But before I can picture even more—like damn I’m going to look good with a nice fat halo-set oval cut on my finger—our lips meet, and our hands are roaming each other’s bodies with increasing urgency. I’m straddling him, my knees brushing against crusty glue patches and chip crumbs and I don’t even care—even though I know very well there’s a divine set of sheets on a very comfortable bed upstairs.

  All I need, for now and for always, is Josh. And he’s right here with me, and I believe him when he says he always will be.

  And besides,
this La-Z-Boy does recline.

  Acknowledgments

  There are so many people we’d like to thank for helping make this book a reality. First, our families, especially our incredibly supportive husbands Glen and Drew, and our amazing kids. Thanks also to our writing group, Accidental Erotica, for all the feedback, and particularly to Heather, our first genuine superfan.

  Thanks to Michelle of Melissa Williams Design for the fabulous cover, and to our agent extraordinaire, Hannah Ekren, for her love and enthusiasm for these books. Thanks to Dantzel Cherry and Amy Carlin for being proofreading goddesses, and thanks to everyone who read and gave us notes throughout the many drafts of this project—your feedback was invaluable and greatly appreciated.

  And a special thanks to you, our readers. We hope you love these characters as much as we do.

  Janci Patterson got her start writing contemporary and science fiction young adult novels, and couldn’t be happier to now be writing adult romance. She has an MA in creative writing, and lives in Utah with her husband and two adorable kids. When she’s not writing she can be found surrounded by dolls, games, and her border collie. She has written collaborative novels with several partners, and is honored to be working on this series with Megan.

  Megan Walker lives in Utah with her husband, two kids, and two dogs–all of whom are incredibly supportive of the time she spends writing about romance and crazy Hollywood hijinks. She loves making Barbie dioramas and reading trashy gossip magazines (and, okay, lots of other books and magazines, as well.) She’s so excited to be collaborating on this series with Janci. Megan has also written several published fantasy and science-fiction stories under the name Megan Grey.

  Find Megan and Janci at www.extraseriesbooks.com

  Other Books in the Extra Series

  The Extra

  The Girlfriend Stage

  Everything We Are

  The Jenna Rollins Real Love Tour

  Starving with the Stars

  My Faire Lady

  You are the Story

  Beauty and the Bassist

  Su-Lin’s Super-Awesome Casual Dating Plan

  Exes, Lies, and Videotape

  One

  Felix

  I’m sitting on Hollywood Boulevard, a few feet from Johnny Cash’s star on the Walk of Fame, playing my cello rendition of “Ghost Riders in the Sky,” when I spot the drug deal going down across the street. My bow hand starts to shake, resulting in some skating on the strings. I’m probably the only one who can hear it, but it still makes me grit my teeth. I’ve always prided myself on my steady hands.

  But I guess six weeks of heroin detox will do that to you.

  A kid wearing skinny jeans and a fedora skates by and drops a condom into my cello case. There are six others in there—the peril, I suppose, of busking two blocks down from a Planned Parenthood.

  I look down at my strings, even though I don’t need to. This song isn’t exactly a Haydn Concerto, but I need somewhere to look besides at the two guys leaning against the wall of The Vine, exchanging something from hand to hand without looking.

  I pick up the pace of the song to cover for the shaking, gradually, so no one else will notice the shift in time. Honestly, my audience right now consists of a lesbian couple making out with their hands in each other’s hair and the homeless guy camped out by Humphrey Bogart’s star with a wrinkled cardboard sign that reads “My wife had a better lawyer,” so I’m pretty sure I could switch keys mid-song and no one would bat an eye.

  When I look up at the front of the theater again, one of the men is gone, walking casually down the street, a hand in his pocket, no doubt comforting himself that his newly-acquired gear is still there.

  It might not be heroin. It could be something else. But somewhere at the back of my brain a shrill pitch like the elusive F6 sharp—the highest note I’ve produced on my cello—vibrates through my bones.

  If the dealer doesn’t have any H, he’ll know where I can get some, and it won’t be far. I close my eyes and repeat the refrain of the song, adding in my mind a mantra. I’m not going to walk over there. I’m not. I’m not. But my brain is already calculating how much change, how many small bills have been discarded into my case this afternoon.

  It’s enough to buy at least a quarter gram, which is lower than what I used to take, but probably enough after six weeks sober.

  I finish the song and look up to see a man walking his border collie pausing in front of my case, throwing in a dollar. I smile at him, but I know it looks weak. I lower my bow, just for a moment.

  And then I lift it again and start playing “Walk the Line.” I play it fast, and with far more vibrato than necessary, because it requires more movement. While I play, I glance up at the dealer, still leaning against the wall of The Vine, no doubt waiting for his next customer.

  It’s not going to be me. It’s not. I look down at Johnny’s star, and try not to remember, as I play his song about sobriety and fidelity, that he relapsed again and again.

  But I close my eyes again. I stay on my stool. My cello’s name is June, and like Johnny, I try to stick with her. I think about the thirty-day chip buried in my pocket. I keep my hands moving. I don’t go across the street to look for drugs.

  When I finish the song, someone claps. I look up and find a kid standing in front of me with sandy blond hair and a sweater-vest—an odd choice for the late-July heat. I look around, but I don’t see an adult with him, even though he can’t be more than six or so. Definitely not old enough to be wandering the slummy neighborhoods of Hollywood alone, looking like some all-boys prep-school escapee.

  “You’re good!” he announces.

  I smile. “Thanks, kid.”

  “My mom’s a musician,” he says. “Her friend Mason plays the cello, but Mason is a douche.”

  My laugh sounds natural. “Is that right?”

  “Yeah. It’s okay if I say that word to you. You aren’t a nana, or the pope.” He squints at me. “Are you?”

  I laugh again, and put down my bow, pulling out a set of wipes and cleaning the sweat off my hands. “Am I the pope?”

  “I don’t think you are,” he says, studying me carefully. “My mom says the pope wears a funny hat, and drives a popemobile, which sounds like a super hero, but he’s not.”

  “No, I’m not the pope.” I look around again, but still no parent. “Where did you come from, kid?”

  “My mom,” he says, like I’m a bit slow on the uptake. “And my biological father. That’s like a dad who isn’t there for you.” He scuffs the tip of his black loafer against the sidewalk.

  I have no idea how to respond to that, so I toss my wipe into the end of my cello case where someone else has donated a used Kleenex, and backtrack. “So what did Mason do to you?”

  “Nothing,” the kid says. “But he did drugs and stole money from my mom.”

  I stare at him for a moment, and out of the corner of my eye, I see the dealer check his watch and then mosey down the block, probably headed to his next appointment.

  “Well,” I say. “That does make him a douche.” I’m hoping a parent is going to show up soon, because I’m fairly certain Planned Parenthood doesn’t provide missing child drop-off services, and I really don’t love the idea of him wandering out here alone.

  God knows I’m hardly fit to be responsible for myself, let alone him.

  Jenna

  I’m standing at the counter of a game store down on Hollywood Boulevard, waiting for the cashier to ring up The Game of Life, which my eight-year-old son has just selected for family game night after much deliberation. Ty has shuffled off behind a rack of board games, which makes me wonder if he’s going to change his mind immediately after the game has been rung up.

  If he does, I suppose I can buy a second one, too. Games go fast on family night, with only the two of us playing. No
t that we don’t have a mountain of other games to choose from at home.

  My phone beeps and I look down at it, just as the cashier takes my credit card. It’s a message from our manager, Phil.

  I sent you another list of potential cellists, it says.

  I sigh. My band is about to go on tour in a month, and last week I discovered, while going over some accounts, that our cellist—not to mention our friend—Mason, had been stealing money from us to support his drug habit.

  Thanks, I text back.

  I can practically hear Phil opening his jar of antacids and chewing them by the handful. Alec and I are super hands-on with band management, and all decisions go through us.

  Sometimes, though, I think Phil would rather we just let him get things done, especially with tour so close. Finding a cellist who’s good enough to play our stuff, has zero prior commitments, can take off on tour with us with only a few weeks’ notice, gels with the band, and is someone I’m comfortable having around my son?

  That’s not something either Alec or I are willing to leave to Phil. Especially after what happened with Mason.

  The cashier at the game store grips my credit card in her hand, and her eyes flick down to my name, then widen. “Jenna Rollins. From Alec and Jenna?”

  “Yep,” I tell her. Getting recognized still feels new to me, even though it’s been happening increasingly often over the last year and a half. I try to take my card before she asks any uncomfortable questions I’ll have to lie to answer.

  She pulls it back, pressing it over her chest like it’s something near and dear to her heart.

  “I’m a huge fan. I mean, your music is so—” She closes her eyes, as if she’s too overcome to finish the sentence. “It’s just so inspiring, your love story. It just, it makes me believe that—”