The Girlfriend Stage

by Janci Patterson

  And I’m not going to muck it up by letting my crazy Wyoming brain interfere. I probably shouldn’t call him while I’m here. Or pick up the phone if he calls me. We can talk when I get back.

  And go to that baseball game. Or not. Either way.

  I let out a breath, and leave my phone on my bed while I go and rejoin my family. I smile, and I hug my grandpa and I pet Buckley, the giant dog that looks like a cross between a Shetland pony and a huge mop. I Tune Out Patrice and I ignore jibes from Lily and I make small talk with Tanya that I keep very deliberately small, even though I can tell she’s onto me. I win the first round of Scrabble and pretend to be devastated when I lose the next one to my dad, and the one after that to Lily (okay, that one does sting).

  In short, I am being the Anna-Marie they want me to be, the same girl who left Wyoming years ago. And I am definitely not thinking about missing Josh.

  Hours later, I fall back into bed, and I turn the lights out and I lie there in the dark with some kind of ache in my chest I can’t even begin to identify and don’t want to try.

  Something splats against my window. And again. And a third time.

  I turn on my light, but I already know what it was.

  One bright red gummy bear sticks to the warm glass of the window pane. There’s a smear of yellow from one sliding down the pane, and a green splotch from one that hit and bounced off.

  The ache in my chest doesn’t seem so strong anymore, and I smile as I climb out of bed and open the window to see a familiar sight from years ago.

  Shane Beckstrom, standing on the grass below my window, leaning against the trunk of the poplar tree my dad threatened to cut down many times and never did, even when he knew how often my boyfriend used it as a ladder into my room.

  Shane’s blond hair hangs in his face, and he brushes it back with his hand, the way he always used to. “Hey, Beautiful,” he says. “Mind if I come up and say hi?”

  “Not at all,” I say, and watch him start to climb, as I’ve watched him do a hundred times before.

  Five

  Josh

  Ten minutes after I hang up with Anna-Marie, I’m still sitting in my basement, holding my phone, looking down at her name on my screen.

  Anna-Marie Halsey.

  I stretch out in my La-Z-Boy, and my worn copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire falls off the arm and lands on top of a half-open bag of Doritos. I look down at it and see that the spine has split about an inch right around the part of the book where Harry is announced as one of the contestants in the Tri-Wizard Tournament. That’s been coming for a while, and it’s about time I replaced it.

  Save some of those dogs for me.

  Will do.

  I rub my forehead. I’m not sure what possessed me to tell Anna-Marie Halsey, of all people, of my unreasonable affection for ballpark hot dogs. This mundane obsession, like my love of books, isn’t something I’ve ever shared with a woman I’m dating—not since my girlfriend in college, before I entered the flashiest industry on earth. Anna-Marie’s new in Hollywood, but she’s climbing rapidly. She’s a damn good actress, though she blows me off every time I say anything like that. I’m pretty sure she still thinks I never watch her soap, as if I would pass up on the opportunity to watch her do just about anything. But the point is, she’s the kind of girl you take out for lobster, not hot dogs.

  Still, something about talking to her today felt different, in a nice kind of way.

  I search on my phone to see where exactly Everett is in the state of Wyoming, and frankly how exactly one gets to Wyoming, because at least for this California native, there’s basically the east coast, the west coast, and that big cluster in the middle. Wyoming is above Colorado, and Everett is a bit west of the middle of the state. Google tells me it’s a fifteen hour drive, which means it would have to be broken up into two pieces. Not that I’m planning on driving it.

  But the way she suggested I wasn’t going to sounded like a challenge.

  I shift in my chair, picking what’s probably petrified Cheeto dust out of one of the arms. There was some of that on The Goblet of Fire as well—my mom always complained that for loving books so much, I sure didn’t take very good care of them.

  She’s right, but the great thing about books is you can always buy another copy, as evidenced by the varying states of repair of the books sprawling across my shelves, spanning everything from A Song of Ice and Fire to my extensive Tolkien collection to everything that’s ever been written in the Star Wars universe. Ben keeps telling me I need to get a video game system down here, but I like it this way, just me and my books. I love movies, but they’re work, and if I try to unwind with them, I inevitably end up falling down the Google rabbit hole of who is represented by whom and how happy they appear to be with their current representation.

  I love the rest of my life, but it’s nice to have a sanctuary that doesn’t ask anything of me.

  I lean forward and gather up the pieces of the white model Ford Anglia I’ve been assembling. My mother would also have a fit if she saw me shaving plastic flash off the bumper of the Weasley family car and assembling it, all while reclining in my chair. She’d have even more of a fit when she noticed the large super-glue stain that has now joined the other hardened bits of glue all over the chair arm.

  Why don’t you take care of your things, Josh? she’d say.

  The truth is, I do. The upstairs of my condo is always immaculate—partly, of course, because my cleaning service keeps it that way. Down here in my basement, on the other hand, I’m allowed to spill super-glue on my chair, and grind chip crumbs into the carpet.

  My mother might not see the importance of a space where one is allowed to relax, but I do. There’s a reason I keep the door to my condo basement locked at all times, and never mention to the women I’m dating—or anyone else, for that matter—that it’s anything other than a utility closet.

  But my inability to keep the place clean is only part of that reason.

  I Google Halseys in Everett and find a William Halsey of about the right age on a White Horse Lane.

  I lift the partially-assembled Ford Anglia, checking to make sure I haven’t ended up with any fuzz from the worn chair upholstery stuck in any of the crevices, and carry it through the door into the basement storage room, which I affectionately named the Chamber of Secrets. I can’t walk in more than about three feet, because the room is owned by an enormous table—two tables, actually, fastened together with a Formica tabletop bolted down on top. I walk past my model of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, along the train track that circles the table, to the miniature Whomping Willow I spent six nights over the last two weeks flocking, gluing, and assembling out of wire, floral tape, and bits of plastic vines I ordered from a hobby shop online.

  I test the size of the car against the branches. It looks reasonably in-scale, so once I’ve finished my assembly it should be ready to affix and position in the branches. I look out over the table, which is covered in an O-scale mish-mash of locations from the Harry Potter novels, all crowded much closer together than they are in the actual books. Between the train station and the Whomping Willow are unconnected twisting renditions of Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley, which in such a small space are backed unfortunately up against the town of Hogsmeade. Beyond that, dominating the table and dwarfing the other pieces, is the four-foot open-backed Hogwarts Castle. There’s enough rooms in the castle to feature the majority of the places mentioned in the books, most of which are finished, though my Room of Requirement is unfortunately empty, as I haven’t yet decided what I need to put in there. It’s gotten large and elaborate over the years—my own way of bringing the stories to life without all the politics and trappings of Hollywood.

  I’d intended to take advantage of Anna-Marie’s absence and spend every night this week finishing the tree, and then possibly working on some centaurs for the Forbidden Forest.
Since my last meeting today got cancelled, I’m home earlier than usual, so I could get a solid start on it tonight. But now all I can think about is hanging out with Anna-Marie in Wyoming, in a setting where we can eat hot dogs and talk about family.

  There’s this voice in the back of my head—not just any voice, but my best friend Ben’s. And right now he’s rolling his eyes at me and reminding me that we could do those things here. My dating life doesn’t have to be all industry parties and movie premieres and five-star restaurants.

  Except it does. I’m an agent in LA. My clients—not to mention the girls I date—expect me to live a certain lifestyle. I suppose if I want to date a girl who could hang out with me in my basement I could start hitting on women in Luna Lovegood cosplay at Comic Con, but Hollywood is my life, and while I can resign myself to settling down with a girl who doesn’t understand my obsession with fictional wizards, being in a longterm relationship with a girl who’s not comfortable with the industry scene would be next to impossible.

  Besides, I’ve grown used to dating hot actresses and my standards are embarrassingly high. Anna-Marie blows all those standards out of the water, and while I’m confident from the amount of time she’s willing to spend with me privately that she’s after more than just someone to be seen with, I can’t imagine what she’d say if she knew what was behind the locked door I pretend is a utility closet, if she knew what I did with the nights I’m not with her.

  I lean back, dusting flock from my hands onto my paint-stained basement jeans. I adjust my tiny miniature Ron Weasley, who at this moment is standing on the steps of Hogwarts, looking down at Hermione, who is paying him no attention.

  And I put my finger on what was different about that conversation with Anna-Marie. I love talking to her. I wouldn’t have been out with her so often over the last two months if I didn’t. But that conversation wasn’t all joking and banter. Those elements were there, but underneath it . . . she seemed less guarded, real in a way she didn’t when we went out in LA.

  I rest my hands on the edge of the table and take a deep breath.

  Against my better judgment, I want to get in my car and drive to Everett, Wyoming, and have one of Uncle Joe’s hot dogs with Anna-Marie.

  There’s no shortage of hot actresses to take out in Hollywood, but I never seem to get past the casual stuff—dating, sex, industry parties and clubs, introducing each other around to our mutual contacts. Not that I don’t love all that stuff. It’s necessary, and even if it wasn’t, I like loud music and bright lights and dancing in big crowds with beautiful women.

  My parents think my lifestyle is too “fast,” and maybe they’re right. I can’t ever seem to make the transition from casually dating to a stable, serious relationship. It’s not that I don’t want that—I want to fall in love and get married someday to someone I adore, and serious relationships are pretty much a requirement for that. Maybe it’s just the expectations of the industry, or maybe it’s my inability to be direct about what I want; I don’t know. I can fight all day for my clients, but when it comes to myself, I prefer to let things happen naturally, and I think what naturally happens with me and women is that they naturally overlook the signals I send them until one or the other of us moves on to someone else.

  If I drive to Wyoming, she won’t be able to miss that.

  I know if I think about this too hard, I’m going to talk myself out of it, and I don’t want to. I miss her, and whatever that was on the phone with the hot dogs and the personal stuff—I liked it, and I’d like it to someday be more.

  So I climb the stairs, lock the door to my basement, and go into my bedroom to pack.

  I don’t call Ben until I get to the Travelodge in Parowan, because I don’t want him to talk me out of it. I’m too far away, now. I’m committed, and also far enough away that Ben can’t have me committed, which is a plus. It’s past eleven, so he and his husband Wyatt may be in bed already, but it’s Ben, so I don’t care.

  “Hey,” Ben says. “What’s up?”

  He sounds like it’s totally normal for me to call him at eleven o’clock at night, which to be fair, it is.

  “I’m in Utah,” I say.

  There’s a pause on the other end, during which I collapse back on the double bed.

  “Did you get on a bus while drunk again?” Ben asks.

  “First, that was nine years ago. And second, it was definitely your idea.”

  “Hmm,” Ben says. “That’s not how I remember it.”

  I sigh. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m doing here?”

  “No,” Ben says, “because you’re going to tell me anyway.” There’s a murmuring on the other end. “No, I don’t think he needs a ride. Josh, do you need a ride?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m going to Wyoming to visit Anna-Marie.”

  “Really. I thought you were going to spend all week on that walloping tree.”

  “The Whomping Willow,” I say. “And you know perfectly well what it’s called.” Wyatt and Ben are the only other people who are allowed in my basement. A few others know it exists—my family, and my friend Trevor who used to work for Weta and now does miniatures photography for Game of Thrones—but none of them have seen anything but pictures. My older brother keeps threatening to come see it someday, but he spent most of our childhood teasing me for reading books about dragons and spaceships and dragons on spaceships, and it’s only gotten worse since I failed to grow out of it, so I keep putting him off.

  “So what you’re saying is, your condo is available.”

  “I suppose I am.” Ben has a key, and he and Wyatt have a habit of staying at my place while I’m traveling. They claimed it was because of my sheets, but I bought them a set of really nice Egyptian cotton last Christmas, and still somehow this happens. “But if you put Harry in bed with Hermione again, so help me, I will change the locks.”

  “Right,” Ben says. Then, to Wyatt, “No, he’s not drunk. He’s going to Wyoming to visit Anna-Marie. No, a different Anna-Marie. Of course it’s that Anna-Marie.” His voice grows louder again. “Wyatt is squealing.”

  I laugh. Wyatt is a huge Southern Heat fan, and he has an equally-huge crush on Anna-Marie’s co-star—the one who plays Bruce, though I can never remember his real name. “As usual,” I say, “not a word of this on the forums.”

  “He says not to put it on the forums,” Ben says. “No, Wyatt, he trusts you. Wyatt crosses his heart.”

  “I bet he does,” I say. “Because he knows if he doesn’t, he’s not going to hear about my love life anymore.”

  “Please,” Ben says. “It doesn’t matter what Wyatt does. You’re still going to tell me everything and I’m still going to tell him.”

  “This is true, but I don’t appreciate you saying that to Wyatt.”

  “No, Wyatt, he knows you can keep your mouth shut.” Then, to me: “Now you’ve offended him.”

  “Tell Wyatt I’m sorry,” I say. “But could we focus on me please?”

  “Fine. Diva Josh has my attention.”

  I hear another squeal from Wyatt, which I assume means he forgives me. “I’m driving across the country for a woman,” I say. “Tell me I’m crazy.”

  “You’re crazy,” Ben says. “Though I’m not sure Wyoming counts as across the country. You’re not even fully crossing the Rockies.”

  Ben grew up down the street from me in Bel Air, so he has no more reason to know exactly where Wyoming is than I do, but of course he does. “Oh my god, can we just talk about me driving fifteen hours to see a girl?”

  “She invited you?” Ben asks.

  I hesitate. “Technically.”

  “Technically?”

  “Yeah. I mean, it was a joke. She told me her uncle Joe makes the world’s best hot dogs.”

  “Oh, no,” Ben says. “I bet she got an earful about that.”

  “She did. I don’t kno
w why I told her, but I may have invited her to come to a game with me sometime.”

  “Speaking of, Wyatt wants to know when he can get tickets from you again.”

  Wyatt, unlike me, can actually follow baseball. He played as a kid, while the combined sports experience of Ben and me consists of trying to get picked for the same team so we could stand in the outfield and talk about Pokémon.

  “He has dibs on the next set after I take Anna-Marie,” I say. “If I had some for this week, they’d be yours. But could we please—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Ben says. “Back to your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.” I’ve been pretty careful not to monopolize Anna-Marie’s time, even though I easily could have, the needs of my Whomping Willow notwithstanding. Three nights a week is my absolute date-cap, which means we have to spend at least two nights in a row apart. I’d love to have her around even more than that, but I don’t want to crowd her.

  For example, by crashing her family reunion.

  I grab a pillow and hug it with my free arm.

  “Are you sure about that?” Ben asks. “Because you called her your girlfriend at least twice in the last week.”

  “Seriously?” I say. “I hope I didn’t say that to her.”

  “I’m pretty sure if you had, you’d have gotten a reaction.”

  “I would, right?” I’m not sure. It’s all well and good for me to want things to be more serious, but I know better than to just assume they are. For all I know, on the nights she’s not with me, she’s sleeping with her co-stars, guys she picks up at parties, even her director.

  The thought of him pressuring her makes me wish she’d let me represent her. It really pisses me off when industry people treat my clients like prostitutes, and I feel even more protective of Anna-Marie.

  “You’re driving to Wyoming, mostly uninvited. Which story you haven’t finished telling me, by the way. But you don’t want this girl to be your girlfriend.”