by Megan Walker
“Super shitty? Seriously, phenomenally messed up?” I offer.
“Yes! Phenomenally.” Nix chews her lip. “Have you told Shane yet?”
I give her a baleful look, and her eyes widen.
“You’re not going to tell him?” she asks. It’s pretty obvious what a bad idea she thinks this is. And maybe it is. But she hasn’t seen how down he gets on himself. She hasn’t heard the stark sincerity with which he’s told me he’s not good enough for me, that I would be better off without him.
She hasn’t, but I have. And it terrifies me.
The thought of losing my investors is terrible. But the thought of losing him is worse.
“I’m going to tell him,” I hedge, picking a stray piece of feather off my skirt. “But not now. I’ve got to figure out what I’m going to do about the situation first.”
“Allison—”
“I will figure it out,” I say tightly. “I’ve gotten the money before. I can do it again.” This has to be true; it has to.
She gives me a look, and I know that’s not what she’s trying to say. But I don’t want to hear that, not now. Not when so much of me wants to call Shane, wants to hear from him that everything’s going to be okay.
I can’t handle that risk, not right now.
“Mr. Meagle said he’s talked to the other investors, the ones he brought on board,” I say, diverting the conversation back to the immediate problem.
Nix’s jaw drops even more. “That ass-face! That huge—That big, giant—”
“Definitely an ass-face,” I agree, cutting off her next bout of sputtering. I look back to the practice room, where costumes need to be fixed and talents need to be rehearsed and girls need to be kept from tearing their hair out from pre-pageant jitters. “Look,” I say. “I need to focus on the pageant right now, and I don’t have time to talk to the investors until later this afternoon. I imagine I’ll be getting calls, though, and soon. Could you handle those for me? Just tell them I’m aware of their concerns and will be contacting them later today to address those.”
Nix’s brow furrows. “Sure,” she says, though she looks worried.
“You can do this.” I press my phone into her hand. “Just be brief and succinct, and don’t let yourself get mad at them.”
Her lips quirk up a little. “I’ll do my best.” Then she gives me a hug, which I let myself melt into. She’s a great sister, and I love her to death.
But I still wish it was Shane’s arms around me right now.
It will be, I tell myself, as I thank her and head back into the pageant fray, my gut twisting. I’ll figure this out, and we’ll talk through it all when it’s not so immediate and fresh.
Then everything will be fine.
Twenty-two
Shane
Allison left early for the pageant this morning. She’s got so much to do, she says, and they’re not really things I can help with. I take a shower and check my phone a dozen times and realize the best thing I can do for her today is to get off my ass and actually show up on time.
Late last night—when I wasn’t sleeping, which was most of it—I composed this email in my head to Anna-Marie. I’m slowly working my way through that list of things Allison says I should do, not because I feel obligated, but because I know she wants me to do this stuff because it’s good for me, and I trust her judgment. The words were so clear last night that I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and found Anna-Marie’s email address—or at least her old one—and sent her the damn email around four in the morning.
I apologized for what I did to her—both for yelling at her at the benefit and for telling those lies about our relationship. I said I was sorry for the songs I wrote that implied that she was cheating on me when she and Josh got together, and I told her I was sorry for what a shitty boyfriend I was and an even more shitty friend. I want to say it felt good to say it, but it didn’t. It felt awful to admit that I did those things, that they mattered, that I shouldn’t have done them. It always feels awful to own up to what an asshole I am, not in some off-handed, defensive way, but for real.
Which is probably why I do so little of it.
Anna-Marie hasn’t responded, which is reasonable since it’s been like three hours and it was an old email address and she might not even get it at all. And if she did, why would she respond? She doesn’t owe me anything, and she hasn’t cared about me in years.
Except she did follow me out of that benefit, and she seemed genuinely concerned. At the time that pissed me off, but now I’m wondering if Allison’s right, if she does care and I did hurt her.
I want to say I didn’t mean to, but I did. Everything I did—the song and the albums and the interviews, hell, even the slide show I gave her new boyfriend of the naked pictures she’d sent me when we were together—I did it to hurt her the way she hurt me. That was a dick thing to do, and Ally is right. The right thing to do is apologize.
Even if it turns me into a psycho who has to keep checking his phone, waiting for her terse response about how much she hates me.
It’s what I want to hear, I realize. Because I deserve it.
I worry, though, that I was right about her to begin with. She doesn’t care, and she’s not going to respond at all.
I manage not to get in an accident on the way to practice, even though I check my email an unhealthy number of times for someone behind the wheel. I get the irony there—usually I’m paranoid about driving, but today I’m paranoid about my empty inbox, and I guess one edges out the other.
I show up on time to pageant practice for once, with coffee for both me and Allison. I know she’s stressed—we’re getting down to the actual pageant tomorrow afternoon, with the last-minute practice in the morning. I’ve been distracting her from what’s usually the busiest week of her year, and I feel bad about that. I want to make it up to her, and the least I can do is show up and actually do my job for once.
When I get to practice, things are worse than I thought. Allison is helping one of the girls adjust the straps on her gown to fit with her enormous breast enhancements in place. Carlyle is yelling about how all the wardrobe issues should have been worked out before practice began, and Allison looks like she’s about to cry.
She glances my way, but I don’t even get a chance to say hi before a girl with long black hair and wide brown eyes runs over to her, almost tripping over the hem of her long glittery gown and carrying one of those damn poodles.
“Allison,” she squeals, looking stricken. “It’s happened! The vision came true! Catherine Zeta-Bones got into my pageant coach’s curly fries and she just threw up!”
“Catherine Zeta—” Allison starts, confused, and then her gaze drops down to the dog.
Of course, I can almost hear her thinking. Or maybe that’s just what I’m thinking.
“And female dogs are called ‘bitches’!” the girl continues, which makes several of the girls gasp. The one Allison is helping with her straps puts a hand over her nose like she’s trying to prematurely prevent onstage breakage.
Allison lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Just because your dog horked up some curly fries, it doesn’t mean—”
“Oh my god,” another girl cries. She hikes up her long evening gown to run back to toward the dressing room. “Maxwell!” she screams to someone I assume is her pageant coach, and who I also assume is in the dressing room. “You need to get me a plastic surgeon on stand-by for right after the pageant! That way if I’m the one who breaks her nose—” Her words are muted as the door closes behind her.
The other girls look at each other, as if sussing out the odds the nose-break will be them, and then they scatter, calling out for their pageant coaches, too.
Allison rubs at her forehead wearily.
I come up behind her and wrap an arm around her waist, handing her the coffee with my other hand. She takes it and leans i
nto me like she’s going to collapse. “Hey,” she says. “You’re on time.”
“So I am,” I say. “I kind of feel like I already know the answer, but how are you doing?”
“I’ve had better days.”
“Just the pageant?”
Allison twists out of my arms and takes a long drag of her coffee. “Yes.”
As if there needed to be anything else. “How can I help?”
“Learn your lines,” Allison says. “And actually say them right today.”
I smile and kiss her cheek. “For you, even that.” I grab my script and head back toward the green room. At the end of the hall, the door to the outside has been left ajar, and I see Nix pace by, cell phone in hand.
I didn’t realize she was going to be here today. I only mean to catch her eye and wave hello as she paces by again, but I hear the words she’s saying, and I freeze.
“No,” Nix says. “Ms. Mendez wants to assure you that her relationship with Mr. Beckstrom will have no effect on the line moving forward. I know Mr. Meagle had concerns—yes, I know he was the one who recommended the project to you, but—yes, of course. Yes, Ms. Mendez will call you this afternoon. Of course. I appreciate you taking the time. Of course. Thank you. Bye.”
Nix hangs up the phone just out of sight of the door and stomps her foot, letting out a frustrated yell. I want to do the same, but I’m too stunned to move.
Her relationship with Mr. Beckstrom won’t have an effect on her line moving forward? Why the hell would it?
Nix steps into the doorway to come in and spots me standing in the hall. Her eyes widen, and she looks caught. “Oh hey, Shane!” she says. She’s not a great actress, and she’s clearly not happy to see me. It’s obvious why.
“What the hell was that?” I ask.
Nix shrinks back a little. “What was what?”
“Who the fuck is Mr. Meagle? And what do I have to do with Allison’s line?”
Nix looks up at the ceiling, squirming like she did when Allison tried to set her up with me. “Maybe you should ask Allison.”
“I just talked to her. She didn’t say anything about her line.”
Nix cringes. “Look, Shane, I think you should talk to her about it, because—”
“Nix,” I say. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
She bounces her toe on the ground behind her. “One of Allison’s investors pulled out because of that article about the two of you. And now he’s got the others all riled up, and Allison has to do the pageant, so I offered to field the phone calls for her so she doesn’t lose any more.”
My mouth falls open. “She lost an investor because of me?”
“Because of the press,” Nix says. “Which is stupid, because she’s worked her ass off and made all her deadlines—”
“But being with me makes her look irresponsible.” I should have thought of that. I should have thought that the article might have an impact on her life, but instead all I thought about was myself. “Was she—was she not going to tell me?”
Nix looks up at the ceiling again. I ball my fists, wanting to punch one right through the wall.
Allison’s line is in jeopardy because of me, and she didn’t think that was something I needed to know. Worse, she didn’t want to talk to me about it.
“How long has she known?” I ask.
“Just since this morning,” Nix says.
“Is she going to be able to move forward with her line? Without that investor, I mean?”
“She will,” Nix says. “She’s going to have to find more money somewhere, but it’s Allison. She’ll find a way.” She hesitates. “I’m sure she was going to tell you.”
She’s a terrible liar. “Sure she was,” I say. And I turn around and stalk back to the green room before Nix sees how upset I am.
I feel responsible for Allison losing her investor. Of course I do. But what hurts is that she didn’t tell me about it. Yeah, I just got here, but she could have called when she heard. She’s been fielding enough of my crap, listening to me whine about the accident and Anna-Marie and my dad and all sorts of shit. But when something happens to her that has to hurt and panic her and cause all kinds of stress, she calls Nix.
Not that I think I should be the one fielding phone calls. I’d tell them they’re assholes for doubting Allison, and that wouldn’t help any. But if I was hit with news like this, I’d want to talk to her. I’d want her to be there for me, to tell me it’s going to be okay.
Except that yesterday, when that article broke, I pretended I didn’t care instead. Is that why she openly lied to me when I asked if it was just the pageant that was bothering her? Does she think I wouldn’t be there for her, or just that I’m not strong enough?
Fuck. I lean back on the couch, the same place Allison and I made out just days ago, before going back to her place for the first time. I want to be there for her now, but I’m pissed as all hell that she doesn’t want me to be. I imagine Nix is off telling Allison right now that I heard her talking. And then Allison is going to be the one insisting she intended to tell me.
I wish I believed that was true, but I see it now. I’m the weak one in the relationship, the needy one. She’s with me because she feels bad for me, and maybe she gets something out of being the one who has it all together.
But a one-sided thing like that—it can’t last. Sooner or later, she’ll get sick of me, and that will be that.
“Shane,” Allison calls from the auditorium.
I set down my script and stand up. I know I’m not handling this well. I know being an ass about it is just going to reinforce that I’m not good enough to handle her problems, that I need to be handled with kid gloves. But damn it, I’m pissed, and I’m hurt, and I’ve never been one to handle that well.
I step out into the hall. The door to the outside is closed now, but I see Nix pacing again through the smoked glass windows.
“We need you on stage,” Allison says.
I stare at her. Nix hasn’t talked to her. She has no idea that I know. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, and for a moment I think she’s going to tell me. “I’m fine,” she says. “But if you don’t get up on stage, Carlyle is going to lose it.”
“Okay, then,” I say, and I follow her into the auditorium and take the stage doors up to my microphone.
I left my script in the green room, I realize. And I didn’t even read it. I remember some of the basics, but I definitely haven’t memorized it. I could go get it, but as the girls start lining up for their evening wear runway walk, I feel my nerves hardening.
Fuck this. They should have fired me yesterday for not showing up. Carlyle probably would have, but Allison talked him out of it. Wouldn’t want to upset me, given how fragile I am.
I know it wouldn’t hurt so bad if it wasn’t true, but it still makes me want to burn the place to the ground.
The first girl—Simone, I think—comes gliding across the stage and walks up to the front. Allison gives me a look, like I’m forgetting something.
Talking. Right. About the girl in the dress. I pick up the microphone and take a look at Simone, who’s wearing a striped wrap-around dress. “First up, ladies and gentlemen,” I say, “please welcome Simone, Princess of Zebras.”
Simone gives me a horrified look over her shoulder, and I can see Carlyle saying something to Allison. “Very funny, Shane,” Allison calls. “Can we get back on script, please?”
But I’m just getting started. Next up is Carmen, who’s wearing a dress that I remember from the script that I’m supposed to say she designed herself. I don’t know if that gets her extra points, or if she’s relying on the strange seaweed-looking streamer things that hang from her belt for that, but either way— “And here is Carmen, Queen of the Lagoon—” I look at the girl who’s just stepped onto the
stage. She’s a redhead in a shimmery gold dress with honest-to-god gold coins glittering from her neckline. I can’t remember her name. Is it Chloe? Regardless— “And next we have Absylonia, mistress of the dragon’s hoard—”
“Shane!” Allison shouts. The other girls giggle, then fall silent. At the front of the stage, Carmen looks down at her dress.
“Do I look like a lagoon?” she says. Absylonia stomps her foot and shuffles backstage.
“What?” I say to Allison.
She’s shaking her head at me, like I know exactly what, and I do. I’m just not sure that she does.
“Take five, everyone,” she says. Then she stalks through the stage door and up the stage-left stairs. I meet her in the wings. No need to have this conversation in front of everyone. I’m pissed as hell that she didn’t tell me about the investors, but by now I’m more pissed at myself for being an asshole instead of just calling her on it. I’m proving her point about me. I’m useless, and I’ll never be able to have an actual, healthy relationship. I’m incapable of it.
“Shane,” Allison says when she reaches me. “What the hell is the matter with you?”
“What?” As if I don’t know exactly what.
“Carmen is in tears, that’s what,” she snaps. “And Amanda’s going to want to change her dress.”
Ah. That’s right. Amanda. Not Chloe. God, which one is Chloe?
“I asked you for one thing today,” she continues with a glare, “and you can’t even stay on script.”
I shrug. “Guess I’m not good for anything, am I? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Allison shakes her head at me. “What the hell, Shane? What’s wrong with you?”
“I’d tell you,” I say, “but I guess we don’t talk about these things, do we?”
In the dim back-stage light, Allison looks like she wants to strangle me, which I deserve. But I also see the exact moment when she realizes that I know. Her shoulders slump, and she looks down at her shoes. “You talked to Nix.”
