by Megan Walker
Anna-Marie sighs. “We were both dicks,” she says. “And I’m sorry for my part in it and for being a shitty friend, too. But obviously you matter to me. If you didn’t, what you did wouldn’t have hurt so bad.”
“I’m sorry, too,” I say. “For everything.”
“It’s okay,” Anna-Marie says. “I think part of what made me sad over the last few years is that I had all these realizations about what happened, but I couldn’t call you to talk about it. I wasn’t sure how you would react.”
“Probably like I did the other night,” I say. “So you made the right call.”
“I was so worried about you after the accident,” she says. “You said I didn’t care, but I cried for days about what happened to JT. I thought for a long time about whether I should come to the funeral, but I just didn’t think seeing you would be good for either of us.” She frowns down at the table. “Now I think probably that was a mistake.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve been really messed up.”
“Yeah,” Anna-Marie says. “I read the article. And since they got everything else right . . .”
She’s quiet, waiting for me to confirm that it’s true what they said about me hallucinating JT.
“Yeah,” I say. “That was all true.”
“I’m so sorry, Shane,” Anna-Marie says. “I’m sorry about JT, and about Kevin, and the band.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me, too.” I don’t know what else to say about that, so I’m quiet for a moment, and Anna-Marie swears under her breath.
“Who do I have to kill to get a sandwich around here?” she asks. “Can’t they see how pregnant I am?”
I laugh, and the waitress must decide that it’s okay for her to come over at that moment, because she joins us and takes our orders. She doesn’t quite look at me, and I’m not sure if it’s because she recognizes me, or because I’m a maniac crying in her restaurant. Either way, I’m no more keen for eye contact than she is.
When the waitress leaves again with our orders, Anna-Marie takes a sip of her water. “Josh has a best friend named Ben. They’ve been friends—more like brothers—since they were kids, and it’s like they have this bond that’s irreplaceable because they have all this history. And I don’t know that you and I could ever be that close, but I think you’re that person for me, you know?” She considers. “Only with way more baggage.”
I laugh, despite myself. “Yeah, that about sums it up.”
She hesitates. “So do you think we could be friends? Like, we don’t have to hang out all the time. But we could get together for lunch every once in a while, to chat and catch up. I’d like to meet Allison, more officially, if you want, and I think you and Josh would actually get along now that neither of you has a reason to feel threatened.”
I think about what she’s asking. I want to say yes, because being friends like that sounds nice. But it also sounds superficial. It seems like something I might have been capable of before, if I could have gotten past my anger, and something I might someday be capable of again.
But now, with everything so raw, with my life so thoroughly demolished—
“Would Josh be okay with that?” I ask. I’m looking for the easy out, and I know it. I want to deem it impossible so I don’t have to say no. I can’t have a surface friendship right now. Holding my life together is taking everything I can muster, and I don’t know how to be okay, to chat lightly over lunch. I think I have two modes right now, open and closed, and I’m sure she doesn’t want to deal with the things I’ll say if I’m open, and she knows what an asshole I am when I’m closed off.
I don’t want to do that to her anymore. I don’t want to do it to Allison, either, and I have been anyway.
“Josh is still pissed at you,” Anna-Marie says. “But really, he just doesn’t want me to get hurt anymore. If we can be friends, he’ll be fine with it. As long as you don’t write any more songs about me.”
So it’s just me, then, who can’t do this. “I’d like to be friends,” I say, “but I can’t right now.”
She looks a little sad, but she nods. “Is it Allison? Because I understand if she doesn’t feel secure about it. We’ve got a lot of history that’s hard for people to understand.”
I want to blame Allison, because that would be easier, but this is my fault, not hers. “It’s not that. It’s just—I don’t think I’m capable of that kind of friendship.”
Anna-Marie looks confused. “What kind of friendship do you want?”
“I want to be able to do what you’re saying,” I say. “To get together and chat and catch up. But right now . . . my life is a mess, and I don’t know how to be normal. I’m a little short on people to talk to about how messed up I am. Not that I can’t talk to Allison, but it’s a lot to put on her, and—”
I need support, is what I’m saying, but I feel stupid putting it that way.
“I can call you when I’m stable again,” I say. “When I’m ready for surface friendships. When I can get through a fucking conversation without bursting into tears.”
“It doesn’t have to be just surface stuff,” she says cautiously. Maybe even hopefully. “If you wanted, I’d really like to hear about what’s going on in your life. If you trust me with that.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
“Yeah, of course. I thought that was probably too much to ask for, but if you want, I’d like to know how you really are.”
I feel like I’m going to start crying again, but instead I start talking. I tell her about JT, about seeing him following me around, only it’s not JT, really, more like my own id. And about getting the medication and being afraid to take it and never see him again. Anna-Marie tells me about the things she’s learned in therapy and how she’s gotten closer to her dad and stopped talking to her mom altogether. She tells me about the work she and Josh have done as a couple, and I break down and tell her all about my fight with Allison and about how deeply in love I am, and how scared.
“I get it,” Anna-Marie says with a sigh. “I don’t think I can adequately express how much I understand the feeling of being scared to get hurt like that.”
I believe her. She and I hurt each other that way, over and over again.
“Does it ever get better?” I ask. “The fear, I mean.”
“Yes,” she says. “It doesn’t totally go away, but the fear does get quieter. And being in this stable, healthy relationship—I was able to start feeling safe and secure, more and more as time goes on. It helps a ton that Josh is so patient with me, and he never gives me a reason to doubt his love for me or his commitment.” She smiles. “Do you think Allison could be that person for you?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I want her to be. And I want to be that person back for her, but I’m such a fucking mess.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my marriage,” Anna-Marie says, “it’s that being a mess doesn’t make you unable to love someone. In some ways, it makes it more deep and real.”
“I want that to be true,” I say. “More than anything.”
Anna-Marie smiles, and our sandwiches come, and she practically inhales hers. But my mind echoes with the last thing she says before we start to eat.
“Good news, Shane,” she says. “It is.”
On the way back to the pageant, I call Kevin. He doesn’t answer, but I leave him a long message about how it doesn’t matter if he moves to Denver, I’ll do whatever I can to make this festival thing work. I want Kevin to work with me, and if I can’t handle it, I’ll get help, I’ll go to therapy, I’ll do whatever I have to do so that we can build a new partnership. A healthy one.
It’s a big promise, but it’s one I hope to keep.
When I hang up, JT glares at me from the passenger seat. I’m on time, as promised, and all I want is to see Allison and hug her and tell her how much I love her. I know I said it before I left,
but talking to Anna-Marie about all that stuff—
It’s cemented in my mind how much I want this. How much I want to try, even if I suck at it.
JT just keeps glaring.
“What?” I say.
JT shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“Talk to me,” I tell him. “God, it sucks not talking to you. I miss you.”
“Yeah, maybe. But you’re still going to take those pills.”
I grip the steering wheel. “I haven’t yet.”
“I know. But you just promised Kevin you’d get help. And even if you didn’t, she’s going to talk you into it.”
I don’t have to ask to know he’s talking about Allison.
“I want to tell you to break up with her,” JT says. “If you do that, maybe you won’t take them.”
“I’m not breaking up with her,” I tell him. “But you could ask me not to take the pills.”
“Fine. Don’t take them. I don’t want to go away.”
“Okay. I won’t.” I’m not sure that I mean it, but I feel like I need to say it. It still feels like a betrayal of JT, even inside my own head.
“But you will,” JT says. “Because you’re not healthy, and this isn’t good for you, and in the end that’ll be more important to you than I am.”
“Do you care if it’s unhealthy for me?”
“No.” He frowns at the dashboard, then adds, reluctantly, “But JT did. If he was really here, if I was really him, he’d tell you to take the pills. He’d want you to be happy.”
“I’m not happy,” I say. “I’m pissed. I’m mad as hell at you for leaving me. I know you couldn’t help it, but I’m pissed at you anyway. Everyone leaves me. I’m always alone. Everyone has someone and I don’t. You’re supposed to have a family, you know? Everyone is supposed to have a family, people you can go to when everyone else leaves. Kevin has one, and JT, and Anna-Marie has her dad, and Josh. Allison’s really close to her family, and when it ends, they’ll be there for her. And I’ll have no one.”
“Yeah. When it comes to families, you really got screwed.”
“I need her.” The pitch of my voice is climbing and I think I might cry again. “I need her, but she doesn’t need me.”
“Yeah, well,” JT says. “She wants you, and I’d say that’s pretty damn good.”
It is. I know it is.
I just wish I could believe it was enough to make it last.
Twenty-four
Allison
It’s about an hour before the pageant begins, and it feels a little bit like being in the eye of the storm: preternaturally quiet. The frantic energy of yesterday’s practice has died down to a murmur now as the girls practice various calming and breathing exercises or quietly recite interview answers to themselves as their coaches or wardrobe specialists finish last-minute adjustments to hair and makeup. As usual, the main round of interviews was actually conducted earlier this morning, in an offstage portion for the judges to get to know the girls better. And though that earlier interview accounts for a significant amount of their overall score, there will still be another question portion on stage—and I can tell several of the girls are hoping to redeem themselves from their earlier answers.
Right now, the house is open and the voices of the earliestarriving audience members hum in the auditorium. All the girls are wearing the floor-length, figure-hugging red, white, and blue sequined gowns that they’ll dance in for the opening group number—which Nix claims shouldn’t be called a “dance,” but rather “walking in various configurations to music like a marching band who forgot their instruments.”
She’s pretty much right, but I’m not about to say that to the girls. Or Carlyle, who out of all of them looks the most likely to hyperventilate. This isn’t abnormal for him right before a pageant, but even he seems to have let the dog-vomit fulfillment of Collette’s prophecy make him extra anxious.
“I can’t have one of these girls get their nose broken in my pageant,” he said to me earlier, while the girls were in their interviews.
“It’s not going to happen, Carlyle,” I said back with a sigh. The same words—with name interchanged—that I’d said to pretty much every pageant contestant and coach for the last twenty-four hours. “Collette had a dream, and a dog threw up curly fries and then was fine. These two things are not connected.”
He kept wringing his hands anyway. “Well, I suppose Cher is probably too busy to give much thought to our little pageant, let alone give dream predictions about it.” He gave me a hopeful look, like I might contradict him on this, and assure him that Cher is undoubtedly a fan and might even be in the audience tonight.
I didn’t.
Now, though, he’s back to full-fledged anxiety, flitting from station to station, checking on sound and props and the girls and back again. Even though he’s not going to be on stage, he’s wearing his “lucky” purple velvet suit, and the wave in his hair is extra tall. Shane told me about how he envisioned a little surfer riding that wave the first time he saw Carlyle, and now I can’t picture anything else when I see him.
I catch myself snickering, and Shane’s voice calls from behind me. “And you haven’t even seen me in this yet.”
I turn around, smiling, and my eyes widen when I see him. Not because he’s wearing some crazy-ass rainbow shirt, but because he’s wearing a dark blue, slim-fitted suit, with a royal blue shirt underneath. It’s not his usual rock star style, which I love, but damn.
It’s pretty much the same suit that Carlyle has insisted every host wear at this pageant for the last ten years—with slight variations in color and fit—but none of them has ever looked so gorgeous.
He wrinkles his nose, but he’s clearly hiding a smile at my reaction. “I know, right? I look . . . respectable or something.”
“You look hot.” I lean up for a kiss, which he returns. “And also like you’re about to run a Fortune 500 business meeting.”
“So that’s what does it for you . . .” he says with a smile, his arms still around me.
“I’m pretty sure you wearing anything does it for me,” I return. “And maybe especially nothing.”
“Yeah, well, I pitched that idea to Carlyle, but apparently the naked emcee thing is a no-go. Even though I made a compelling argument for increased ratings.”
I laugh, and he grins, and it feels so good. Things have still been a little tense between us since yesterday. He slept over at my place last night, and we made love and held each other, and he told me about his lunch with Anna-Marie, which sounds like it went even better than either of us—and probably also she—could have expected. But we were both still skirting the real issues between us. I know we still need to talk, really talk, about what happened with the investors and me not telling him. But honestly, the whole situation is so stressful I can barely bring myself to think about it, at least while I’m still dealing with the pageant.
What the hell am I going to do?
“Hey,” Shane says, his eyes lowering, his voice cautious. And I’m suddenly pretty sure the same thing’s on his mind as is on mine. “Did any of the other investors end up pulling out?”
My nerves heighten, along with my guilt for not talking about this openly with him in the first place. For still having trouble doing so, somehow, even though I desperately want to. “No, thank god.” A scared part of me wants to leave it there, but I force myself to continue. “But I still have to replace that money. Once this pageant is over, I’ll start networking again, update my pitch presentations, all that.”
He nods. “You need it soon, though, yeah? Like, you’re already on the hook for money you don’t have.”
I haven’t told him this, and I doubt Nix went into that much detail—especially considering Nix doesn’t usually know that many details about the day-to-day aspect of my business—but he’s been essentially living with me much of the last w
eek, and he’s a smart guy. He’s heard me on the phone with manufacturers, and he’s figured out that I owe a lot of people for work they’ve already done.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Not all of Mr. Meagle’s investment was already spent, but—”
“How much money was it?” He asks. “Not just the amount spent, but the amount he pulled?”
There’s something about the way he asks this, and I suddenly have a feeling where he’s going with this, and it’s not just so he can know the details of my business transactions. My heart pounds.
This is a big deal, and I don’t want him to feel obligated in that way, to feel like I expect this just because we’re together or—
“Allison,” he says, squeezing my hands.
“It’s a lot,” I say. And, god, it really is. That panicky feeling is building again.
“Yeah, okay.” He gives me a knowing look, a little half-smile. “How much is a lot? In actual numbers.”
I swallow past a lump in my throat. “One hundred thousand dollars.”
He nods again, like that’s not so unexpected. Or not one hundred thousand dollars.
“Can I invest?” he asks, and even though I was guessing this is where he was going, my heart stutters.
I’m overwhelmed by emotions I’m not sure I can sort out, but love for this man is definitely at the top. “Shane, you don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to. And, yeah, you’re my girlfriend and I want to support your dream, but honestly, I know what a damn good investment this is.” His blue eyes are bright, even more so than usual in that royal blue shirt. “Your line is going to be amazing, and I want in. If you’ll let me.”
He wants to invest in me. In my talent. My business, my dream, which has teetered on the edge of a cliff since yesterday.
I can feel tears starting, sheer relief and gratitude and so much love. But also fear and guilt over how I handled all of this. And over how much I don’t want to take away from his new dreams.
“What about your festival?” I ask. “Would you still be able to afford to do that? I mean, I know we’d get investors on board, but you’d need capital to start with for something like that.”
