All About the D

by Lex Martin

  Nodding like he approves of this plan, he finally takes a look at me as I wipe away my tears.

  “Come here, doodlebug,” he whispers as he wraps me in a hug. “How about we never speak of this again? It shall forever be known as The Incident in the annals of Mills family lore.”

  I laugh, and it’s snotty and gross. “Sounds good, Pops.”

  “This shit will blow over,” he says. “Don’t let these assholes get you down, okay?” I nod against his chest and wipe my eyes. “Love you, Evie.”

  “Love you too, Dad.”

  He sighs and leans back. “All right. Lay it on me. Tell me about this Josh fella and why I don’t need to kick his sorry ass to Mount Hood and back.”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “Only if you pinky-swear you won’t get riled up again.”

  Waving my finger at him, I wait for him to roll his eyes, but he eventually gives in. Then I tell him why I fell in love with Josh, and how it started the day he gave my dog a bath.

  35

  Josh

  At some point last night, I’m pretty sure the room stopped spinning and I fell asleep. I only know this because I’m waking up now to the sound of construction outside, so logic dictates that I must have gone to sleep.

  It takes a second to remember drinking myself into oblivion with Drew last night as we debated who might’ve ratted me out. I think it’s Kendall. He thinks it may be someone at Evie’s firm.

  I look down. I’m in my bed, wearing my sweats and a black T-shirt, but I feel beaten up, like I went through the washer and dryer while wearing them. My body aches. It hurts to move—even to do something passive, like hear. I have no idea what they’re chainsawing outside, but it’s horrid.

  The sunlight streams in the loft. It’s a clear summer day, although I can see clouds gathering off to the side. I blink, like I’m opening double-hung windows that have been painted shut. The jackhammer in my head starts, and sickness washes up into my throat. I sit bolt upright and run to the bathroom, focused only on making it there safely, without making a mess on the way.

  When I return, not feeling better at all, I realize there’s no construction noise. It’s Drew snoring, passed out on my couch, with a blanket thrown over him, snuggled up to a bottle of Jaegermeister under his arm.

  I never want to see either of those two again in my entire life. Scratching my stomach, I shuffle into the kitchen, down a whole Gatorade, two glasses of water, and four Advil, make a pot of coffee, then go sit on the couch near his feet. There’s enough room for me with him curled up, and I rest my legs on the coffee table, lean back, and rub my temples. I grab my glasses on the side table and put them on.

  When Drew’s sleeping, his sandy hair flops into his eyes and he looks about twelve years old. If I felt better, I’d fuck with him. It’s the perfect opportunity to stick his hand in warm water like I used to do to Henry, or shave his eyebrows or draw a mustache on with a Sharpie. He’d do it to me.

  But I can’t muster the energy.

  With a snort and a gulp, the sawing noise stops, and he opens his eyes. “Hey, asshole,” he mumbles.

  “Morning.”

  “I think I’m still drunk.” He groans, sitting up and looking around. He fell asleep in his jeans with his shoes on.

  “Me too.”

  Holding out the bottle of Jaeger to me, he asks, “Hair of the dog?”

  My stomach roils at the idea. “You have to be kidding.”

  Raising an eyebrow, he opens it, takes a swig, and grimaces. “This stuff is shit.” He sets the bottle on the floor.

  “When the room stops spinning again, I’ll see if I can pour coffee.”

  “You do that.” With a yawn, he puts his head back down and rearranges the blanket. “Do we have to get up right now?” I shake my head. “Then wake me when I’ve been restored to being a human.”

  He’s got the right idea. I email my secretary that I’m not coming in, crawl back in bed to the smell of fresh-brewed coffee, and sleep until noon.

  When I wake up the second time, I feel marginally better. Not so woozy. Drew is sitting up, scrolling through his phone with an odd expression on his face. After I go to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and reheat the coffee, I hand him a cup, which he takes in his other hand and sips absentmindedly. I sit down across from him. “What’s up?”

  “Holy fuck,” he whispers.

  “Is the coffee that good?”

  “No. I mean, the coffee is fine. But holy fuck, dude. You have to be sitting down for this.”

  I shake my head slightly and give him a look like, Already am. “Go on.”

  “I think I fucked up. Big time.”

  Coffee giving me life-sustaining vim, I motion for him to continue. Feeling well enough to move my arms without nausea now. Progress.

  He looks guilty. Like when we got called into the principal’s office in eighth grade because, yes, he really did arrange for the water balloons to be dropped on the cheerleaders the day they all wore white T-shirts. “You’re gonna hate me.”

  “I’m never gonna hate you. Well, I already do, but that’s nothing new. Spit it out.”

  “I fucked up.”

  “I understand. You do that by living. Setting aside that issue, what happened?” The coffee is a vital force pouring into me, and my mind starts working.

  Slowly. I’m still hungover.

  But I’m wondering what’s going on today. Whether the news cycle has changed. If I can show my face at the office. How Evie is doing.

  He sets down his mug and squares his body towards me. Serious Drew is a rare bird. I should jot him down in an Audubon journal. But he creaks out a story. “When I went out the other night, I hooked up with a girl at a bar. She gave me a blow job in the women’s bathroom—”

  I swallow the hot drink and chuckle. “Not sure I want to hear this—”

  “You do. It was a good one.” I glare at him, and he continues. “Anyway, she said that my dick should be famous.”

  “Oh, no,” I say sarcastically. “Only one famous dick allowed here.”

  “Well, it should be,” he insists, and I laugh at him, then rub my temples because it hurts. “But I digress. I was fucking drunk, Josh. I don’t know how I kept it up—”

  “TMI, dude.”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” His expression morphs into one of utter discomfort, his eyebrows all wonky. He presses his lips together and hollows his cheeks, letting out a breath. Then he steels himself. “I’m pretty sure that she mentioned, in between sucks, that I should be like the guy on All About the D, and I might have told her that I know the guy.”

  Unease vibrates through me, and I shift in my seat. Suddenly I don’t want to know what he’s going to say. I think I know what’s gonna come out of his mouth, and I don’t like it. At all. But like querying a doctor about how long I have to live, I gotta do it. I hold my breath, wince, and ask, “And?”

  “And when she put her number in my phone, she must have seen your messages. Because now she’s texting me going, ‘We should hang out together and get on Josh’s blog.’” He holds up his phone with text after text lit up. “I must have told her about you when I was drunk or she scrolled through our conversations. I’m sure I wouldn’t have said you, Josh, were the D-guy, but I think I said enough that she pieced it together …” He trails off, catching my expression, and sets down the phone like it’s a ticking bomb.

  My heart beats so fast it’s roaring in my ears, and flashes of anger thrum through me, each one growing in intensity. While I have a temper, I normally tamp it down. Behave. Try not to be a dick.

  I do my best to fend it off now, but I’m failing. I clear my throat. “You think you told some random hookup my deepest, darkest secret. While drunk. During a blow job.”

  He nods.

  The veins in my neck pulse sharply, hazing my vision. “And you’re sure of this?”

  “I can’t think of any other reason why she’d be mentioning you by name. I haven’t told anyone, swear. But I mu
st have told her enough.” He pauses to swallow. “She’s a regular in Gary’s column.”

  I can do nothing but stare at him. Unable to talk. Unable to function. Slowly, carefully, I set down the Juliska mug, governed by a little, careful voice telling me not to break my stoneware or do anything I’d regret. Like split Drew’s face with my fucking fist.

  I take a deep breath. Stretch my fingers out. Turn the pewter-colored mug ninety degrees so it looks better on the coffee table. Another breath.

  Drew lets out a strange whinnying noise.

  He reminds me of a bleating goat.

  And with that, my faculties return. The words come out through gritted teeth. “I can’t believe that my stupid fucking friend, the one I’ve spent my entire life trusting, the one I would literally take a bullet for, the one I’ve entrusted with everything—is the one who fucking ratted me out. I can’t even look at you,” I hiss.

  Fuck tamping down my temper. My fury swells and overflows. He’s so repellent, I can’t be near him. I jump up, ready to take off, but I really want to kick his stupid ass. Then it dawns on me that I should.

  I turn and lunge at him.

  With his shirt fisted in one hand, I rear back, ready to end him. But it’s the fear in his eyes, the remorse and something else that almost looks like disappointment that makes me strike the leather sofa cushion next to his head instead of his face.

  “Damn you,” I gasp, staggering away.

  I stand, hands clenched, eyes closed, willing the anger to subside.

  His low voice breaks the silence. “I’m sorry, Josh. I’m so fucking sorry.”

  I turn to glare at him. “You ruined me. My family. My relationship with Evie. My business. Her job. She’s probably going to get fucking disbarred. And you’re sorry?”

  “You’re the only real family I have, dude. You know I’d never do this on purpose,” he says, holding up his hands. “I never meant to for this to happen. I guess it just slipped out.”

  My eyes sting, the rage almost blinding me. “It needed to not ‘just slip out.’ It’s my fucking reputation. I. Trusted. You.”

  “I know,” he says. “I know.”

  Pacing, I can’t even begin to form a plan to deal with this. All I can manage is gut reaction. “Get the fuck out of my house!”

  “Josh,” he says, shaking his head, “if I fucked this up for you, I’m going to fix it. I’ll tell them that it was me, or that I was lying to her, or it’s all a joke. Whatever. I’ll get you out of this.”

  I roll my eyes. “You can’t get me out of this. You don’t have that kind of power, Demerit. This isn’t like when we were in school. This is real. It’s Evie’s livelihood we’re talking about. My livelihood. Our reputations.” I resume pacing, my stomach in revolt. “I shouldn’t have created that dumb blog. I shouldn’t have taken it that far.”

  “Look, I’m gonna help you fix this, but can I be the voice of reason?”

  My mental computer screen freezes.

  “No.”

  “No?” He looks genuinely perplexed why I’m not jumping with glee to allow him to get me into more trouble. So I elucidate.

  “If I let Drew be the voice of reason, we both know I’m totally fucked.”

  Smirking, he stands and approaches me, an intent expression on his face as he puts his hands on my shoulders, then he realizes he shouldn’t touch me and takes them off quickly. If I weren’t so pissed, I’d laugh. Or punch him.

  That said, between the aftereffects of last night and the fact that I’ve yelled at him—something no Cartwright would ever do in public—my anger is toned down. A notch. An eleven on a scale of ten. But he’s brave and he knows me, so he keeps talking. “Look. What if you didn’t do anything wrong? What if you just own it?”

  What the fuck is he talking about?

  “Own it?”

  “Yep. You’re the guy with the colossal dick and proclivity to post it in weird, urban environments.”

  I trudge over to the couch and collapse, defeat and bone-deep weariness weighing me down. “Dude. Really? That’s your answer?”

  “Be the black sheep of the Cartwrights. They need a playboy roué.”

  “You don’t even know what a roué is.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The point is, what if you stop denying it and start building on it? I bet stock in Caligula Toys would soar. Not only are you internet famous, you’re for-real famous. I mean, your brother is running for nationwide office. Any publicity is good publicity, right?”

  He’s so full of shit. He’s doing anything to get out of this. Groaning, I press the palms of my hands into my eyes, wishing I could somehow erase the last twenty-four hours. “No. What I did was wrong.”

  “What you did was not wrong. It’s just your body. What’s wrong about your body?”

  My arms fall to my sides. I stare at him with a slack jaw. The adrenaline washes away as fast as it came because I understand something now. For years, he’s been my best friend, which means that I know he’s stupid and I should’ve expected this. I’m mad at myself. There’s no use getting mad at Drew. It’s like getting mad at a dog for pissing on a fire hydrant. That’s what he does. He fucks up. Standard operating procedure.

  I’ve always known this about him.

  We haven’t gone through hell together without one or the other doing something wrong.

  Normally him.

  But I’m not going to throw away a two-plus decade friendship because my friend got a blow job. I’m a fan of them myself. And I know he wouldn’t have blabbed if he wasn’t drunk. So maybe that’s the problem we need to work on.

  I look out the window. While darkness is gathering along the Willamette, a sign of Portland’s mercurial weather, the sunlight is still bright. The silhouetted buildings of downtown contrast starkly against the clouds. Despite my world stopping, outside it continues. All the people going in and out, carrying on with their lives. This shit about my identity doesn’t matter to them.

  And a light goes on.

  Maybe he’s right.

  My idiot, wiseass best friend is right.

  I answer his question. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong with my body.”

  “There’s my boy,” says Drew, coming over and clapping me on my back.

  “I’m like a Greek or Roman statute. My naked body is classical.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  I give him a look, and he steps away. “Just so we’re clear, you’re not forgiven. I’m still pissed, and you’re still a dick.”

  “Obviously. I’m proud of your emotional maturity.” I snort-laugh. He shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Pizza tomorrow? Beer. On me?”

  This is his white flag. “You’re buying for the whole year, douche.”

  Nodding, he motions over his shoulder. “Want me to go explain all of this to your fam? I, uh, I deserve to stand at the gallows over what happened.”

  Tempting. But in our fight club, I’ll take the hit for this. It’s my mess. He’ll owe me the next time. Because knowing him, there definitely will be a next time. “Nah. How will I ever get all that pizza if they chain you to the pipes in the basement?”

  He laughs. “And they say bromance is dead.”

  A hand smacks my windshield in front of my face, and I glare at the paparazzo, who’s blocking my parents’ driveway.

  “Come on, Josh! That’s your blog, right? No one believes that press release!” he yells as I creep by him in my Audi.

  I’m tempted to tell him to fuck off, which really wouldn’t help my situation.

  But Drew’s weird little pep talk comes back to me, and instead of ducking in my seat or committing a rather public homicide, I smile at the guy and tell him through the glass, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  He looks more pissed, and my smile widens. Fucker.

  The housekeeper lets me in and tells me everyone is in the back.

  I pause at the threshold of the TV room, not a formal room that is open to the public, but one we live in.
My dad and grandma are watching baseball on ESPN and eating Stilton and water crackers.

  My dad is in a button-down shirt and chinos, talking with his mother, my grandma, whom you’ll never find in pants, even in private.

  My grandmother is easygoing, and now that the shock is gone, I hope she’ll find the humor. It’s my mother who’ll need the sedatives.

  Her Elegance, clad in slim, black satin trousers and a white silk blouse, pauses with a paper in her hand and looks up at me when I step in. She’s probably planning a charity event.

  “Joshua, come in,” Mother says warily, surprised to see me, but hiding it behind her usual regal welcome. I didn’t call. I just drove over here with gritty determination.

  “I need to talk to you and Dad.”

  She raises one eyebrow and sets down her paper, her face echoing the one she used to get when Drew and I got in trouble as kids.

  But I’m not a kid anymore.

  With a click, my father mutes the television. All attention on me.

  With a deep breath, I start talking.

  “Please hear me out before you say anything.” I gather my thoughts and sit in one of the winged-back chairs across from them. “I’ve decided. I’m not going to deny I’m behind the blog. I’m going to issue a press release.”

  My mother gasps, but the Band-Aid is off. “You will do no such thing. Let the lawyers handle it according to plan.”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m gonna come clean about it. I think it’s pretty chicken-shit to hide like a criminal.”

  “What you’ve been doing is no better than a criminal,” she says fiercely. “You’ve ruined your family’s reputation. I don’t know how Spencer is going to recover from this. Joshua, how could you?”

  My mouth doesn’t work for a moment. I open and close it like a fish out of water. Once again, I’m tempted to kowtow to what my family wants. What my mother wants.

  But I’m tired of hiding.

  “Mother, I’ve been so secretive about this because I was worried that I was doing something abhorrent.”

  “You were.”

  “Mitzy,” my father cautions. My grandmother has a smirk on her face.