“This one,” she says in a rapturous tone.
Of course that one.
When I’m in my outfit and with my huge helmet of teased hair and my shockingly bright makeup, I look like some combination of an off-Vegas showgirl and one of those Ladies of WWE Wrestling from the eighties.
But I can’t help smiling; despite how awful yesterday was, I’ve actually had fun this afternoon. Maybe this reunion won’t all be awkward family interactions and animal attacks and accidental nudity.
Cherstie and Ginnie gather everyone in the basement and announce that I’m going to be showing off the “latest in Hollywood superstar fashion.” When everyone is settled (and I’m waiting at the top of the stairs for my cue), I hear Ginnie say, “Wait! We need music!”
“Maybe we can sing something,” Cherstie says.
“Fat-Bottomed Girls?” Lily suggests, and I wish a particularly nasty herpes outbreak upon her.
“I’ve got a song,” Grandpa says. “Anna-Marie always liked this one. Does anyone have spoons?”
And thus it is that I walk down the stairs and along the makeshift runway—a long line of towels laid out in a path between the pushed-back ratty couches—to the sound of my eighty-two-year-old grandfather singing “You Are My Sunshine” and playing a set of spoons on his knee.
The Milan Fashion Show, this is not.
But I’m playing it up, striking dramatic modeling poses because each time I do Ginnie cheers, and most everyone is laughing and having a good time. Grandpa is on the second verse of the song when the doorbell rings. Buckley, who is parked firmly across both my dad’s and Tanya’s laps, raises his head and utters one lonesome “wooooof” before deciding he’d rather go back to sleep.
“I bet it’s finally that lazy UPS driver,” Aunt Patrice says. “Keep the show going. I’ll be right back.”
I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to do—this is a fashion show consisting of one model and one outfit, after all. I ask Ginnie to join me in my next trip down the catwalk, and she eagerly does so, even though she’s far more reasonably dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and my homecoming queen tiara.
Grandpa circles back around to the first verse of “You Are My Sunshine,” the spoons clattering away on his knee, and Ginnie follows behind me as I make another trip on the runway, copying my poses, which I do my best to make increasingly ridiculous. I barely hear Patrice’s footsteps on the stairs as she comes back down, so caught up am I in my dramatic rendition of John Travolta’s Saturday Night Fever dance. Ginnie is giggling so hard behind me that I think she’s going to choke, and I whirl around with my finger thrust in the air and my hip thrust to the side, and then I freeze.
Because standing there at the bottom of the steps, just behind Aunt Patrice, is—
“Josh!” I blurt out, so stunned I forget for a long second to drop my pose.
Josh Rios.
Here, in a short-sleeve button down shirt and cargo shorts and flip-flops, dressed way more casually than I usually see him, and yet looking no less hot.
Watching me do this.
For what it’s worth, he looks almost as surprised as I am, though his wide-eyed, slightly gaping shock is rapidly turning into one of those gorgeous grins of delight that never fail to make my heart beat faster. “Hey,” he says, his dark eyes gleaming.
Grandpa trails off on his song when he realizes I’m no longer walking the runway.
“Anna-Marie, you have a visitor,” my Aunt Patrice announces, super helpfully. She turns to Josh. “You didn’t happen to see a UPS truck on the way in, did you?”
Josh blinks. “Um. No, sorry. Lots of cows, though.”
I want to laugh, but I think I’ve lost the ability to even breathe. Because I have just remembered what I currently look like.
Patrice sighs, and it’s unclear whether it’s in disappointment about the lack of reunion shirts or at Josh’s joke. “Well, why don’t you introduce us, Anna-Marie?”
I stand there stupidly, because all I can think is “Why on earth is Josh here?” and I remember us joking about hot dogs and him saying “Maybe I will” and me missing him even though I know how ridiculous that is and now he’s actually here in Everett and—
“Right,” I say, blinking back into the present. I take the couple steps to go stand by Josh. He smells like his usual deliciously spicy cologne and . . . Doritos? “Hey everyone, this is my . . .”
My brain has a minor stroke. My what?
My boyfriend? Um, no.
My friend? Obviously not.
My super hot guy I have amazing sex with and a relationship of a happily undetermined nature?
Josh is watching me expectantly, his eyebrow raised. He’s clearly not about to bail me out.
. . . Josh,” is all I manage. And then I flush as I realize I’ve just called him “my Josh,” which is a potentially worse answer than any of the ones I mentally discarded. But he just smiles knowingly at me. “Josh Rios,” I clarify to my family, lest they think he’s some diva who insists on only having one name, like Cher or Adele. “Josh, this is . . . well, everybody.” I name them off, one by one, and try not to glare at Lily as I do so, even though she’s eyeing Josh like she’s a starving wolf and he’s a large piece of untended flank steak.
“Nice to meet you all,” he says, and he’s smiling so broadly I actually believe he does find it nice to meet my motley band of family members at a basement fashion show in Everett, Wyoming.
They all stare at him, and I know that every single one of them—with the exception, perhaps, of Ginnie and Buckley—is thinking about Shane last night in my bedroom and wondering how Josh fits into to all of this. Lily sits forward on the couch, practically squirming with bottled vengeance.
Please please please let none of them say anything about last night.
“So what brings you here, Josh?” my dad says, and I give him a warning look, which he ignores. I’m wondering the same thing, but I don’t really want Josh answering that question in front of my entire family, the eldest of which is still jouncing his knee up and down like he’s just waiting to return to the spoons.
“Um,” Josh says. “Anna-Marie invited me to try the best hot dogs in the world, and I couldn’t pass that up.”
If Josh really drove fifteen hours to try hot dogs, he must be even more of a fanatic than he let on. But I don’t think for one minute this is really why he’s here. The warning klaxons are blaring, but under that, there’s a steady, sweet note of something else.
Am I thrilled to see him? Even here, like this? Oh, god. This is—
“She had a hot dog last night,” Lily says, and it is only my mortification that prevents me from vaulting over the coffee table and strangling her. Josh looks at me, concerned, possibly because my face is likely the same color as my dad’s was last night when he was faced with full-frontal Shane. I’m pretty sure I can’t get anymore embarrassed than I am at that moment, and then—
“Rios,” Uncle Joe says slowly. “Is that Mexican?”
Oh no.
“Puerto Rican, actually,” Josh says.
“Do you know Julio?” Uncle Joe asks. “Nice fellow. He works down at the auto shop. The real one, not the grocery store one.”
“Um, no. Is he Puerto Rican?” Josh asks.
“Maybe.” Joe shrugs. “Never asked. Somewhere like that, though, I bet, with a name like Julio.”
I make a little squeak of embarrassment, because I cannot believe this is actually happening and that I’m trapped in an even worse nightmare than last night’s Boy Scout escapade.
But Josh doesn’t seem fazed. His eyes cut over to me, and I see the mischievous turn to his smile. “Sorry, don’t know Julio. Hey, do you any of you know my friend Ryan? He’s from Wyoming, I think. Or maybe Nevada.”
I find myself smiling back at him, my mortification fading at seeing that Josh isn’t alre
ady so offended by my family’s casual racism that he’s going to leave as soon as he arrived.
I see Tanya grinning, and Dad looks cautiously amused.
“No, I don’t think so.” Uncle Joe squints as he searches his memory.
“I know a Ryan,” Lily says, and runs her tongue over her upper lip.
I bet she does.
“Well, Josh and I should—” I start, but Aunt Patrice cuts me off.
“Puerto Rico!” she exclaims. “How fascinating? Isn’t that fascinating, everyone? I’m a bit of a student of cultures,” she tells Josh, with a humble little wave of her hand.
I bite my lip to keep from making a comment about the Muslim family she went on about yesterday that might or might not be Indian, or even Muslim. I see Cherstie rolling her eyes.
“Now, Josh,” Patrice says, placing a hand on his upper arm, and suddenly I wonder if I’m going to have to protect him from both Lily and her mother. “That doesn’t sound like a very Hispanic name.”
“Well, my given name is actually Josué. But I’ve gone by Josh ever since I can remember.”
“In-teresting,” Patrice says. “That sounds like ‘Joe’s Way.’ Isn’t that funny, Joe? Well, you don’t need to worry about the Halseys not respecting your culture. We are happy to call you by your real name.”
“Really, it’s not—” he starts, at the same time that I say “Patrice, that’s not—”
She steamrolls over both of us. “Why doesn’t everyone try saying it together. Joe’s Way. Joe’s Way.”
My family mumbles this with varying degrees of enthusiasm—Ginnie on the upper end, bouncing as she shouts the words. Tanya mouthing something at my dad that is clearly not “Joe’s Way” and shaking her head.
“Oh my god,” I say under my breath. Or maybe not under my breath, because next to me Josh glances at me and lets out a laugh that he quickly smothers when Patrice turns back to him.
“So how about you tell us something interesting about your people?” she asks.
“Patrice, let’s not—” I try again.
“Puerto Ricans, I mean,” she says, and I’m not sure if she thought she had been too subtle in her racism before, like she’d been asking about his “people” being hot guys in their late twenties.
Josh just gives me a quick smile and squeezes my hand. Warmth rushes up my arm, entirely different from the hot flush of pure embarrassment I’ve been feeling since he arrived.
“My people are actually called Bel-Airians,” he says with a completely straight face. “It’s a regional term.”
Tanya snickers, and I find myself liking her even more. My dad is just closing his eyes and rubbing his temple like he has a migraine. The rest of them totally miss the joke, and Patrice nods seriously. “Well, I have never heard that term before. Fascinating.”
“I dropped one of my damn spoons,” Grandpa says, and starts digging around under the seat cushions.
We need to get out of here. “Josh is a fascinating guy,” I say, and squeeze his hand back, not sure if I’m holding in hysterical laughter or hysterical tears, but sure as hell holding back something. “Okay, well, we’re going to—”
“So when did your family immigrate, Joe’s Way?” Patrice asks.
I’m about to inform her that they didn’t immigrate, because Puerto Rico is in fact a part of the United States, but Josh speaks first. “Before I was born,” he says. “My dad was a brain surgeon in San Juan for several years, before he started teaching neurosurgery at UCLA.”
At this, Grandpa stops digging for his lost spoon. “Your dad’s a doctor, you say? I’ve had this growth on my netherregions. It’s like a big grape right there on the end of my—”
“Dad, stop,” my dad tries, finally doing something to spare me from this hell.
“He’s a doctor! He sees netherregions all the damn time, doesn’t he? I just think he could take a look and see what he thinks it is.”
Josh blanches at this. He’s starting to look dazed. He’s probably—and very sanely, I might add—thinking that there is no hot dog in the world worth this. Or girl, for that matter. “Um. I’m an agent, not a doctor. My dad is a brain surgeon.”
“Okay, that’s enough!” I step in front of Josh like I’ve seen managers do in front of A-list clients who are being hassled by the press. “Josh will be able to answer questions later. Maybe. But right now, we’re going to talk. Him and me. Alone.”
And then I pull Josh along after me as I head up the stairs to my bedroom.
Nine
Anna-Marie
I close the door behind us and find myself leaning against it, my hands up in front of my face, partly from embarrassment, and partly because the fact that Josh Rios is here, in my bedroom—seeing me dressed like I’m the second most famous hooker from the eighties after Pretty Woman—makes me want to hyperventilate. “Oh my god, I am so sorry about them. Seriously.”
“Hey, it’s fine,” Josh says, and his touch is gentle as he tugs on my elbow, and suddenly I’m in Josh’s arms and it feels so good and right and—
Panic floods my brain and I pull back. I am in very serious trouble, and if I was back in LA I would force myself to delete Josh’s number from my phone and never talk to him again.
But I can’t. Because he’s here.
“My Uncle Joe pestering you about immigrating was not fine,” I say. “My Aunt Patrice talking about your ‘people’ was not fine. Grandpa practically whipping out his dick at you—” I shudder, and Josh laughs.
“Yeah, okay, it was a little overwhelming. And I’m kind of worried about your grandpa; I think someone needs to take him to an actual doctor. But none of that is your fault.” He ducks his head down to meet my eyes, smiling.
“You must be regretting your decision to come here,” I say. “Into the den of crazy people who apparently don’t know that Puerto Ricans are American.”
“Hey, but you do. You’d be surprised how many people don’t, at least not until it was wiped out by that hurricane and suddenly started impacting their tax dollars.”
I cringe and step around him to sit, rather ungracefully and forcefully, onto my bed. “Don’t be too impressed. I may have Googled Puerto Rico after our first date, when I realized I knew absolutely nothing about it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” I say, wanting to bury my head in my hands again. Instead I just look sheepishly up at him. “Pretty sad, huh? I blame the Wyoming educational system.”
He sits next to me and I’m struck by the fact that Josh Rios is sitting on my childhood bed. Not that my teenage self would have had any idea who he was back then—since he was only a college student who did some modeling on the side—but she damn well would have been impressed at just the sight of him there.
I feel a little less like running away.
“I think it’s kind of sweet, actually,” he says. “That you cared enough to do that.”
I smile at him, feeling a flush spreading through me that may still be residual embarrassment, but probably has much more to do with the whole aforementioned Josh being on my bed thing and my body trying to figure out why in the hell we’re both still clothed.
God, even back in LA I would have had a hard time deleting his number. “Well, it was a pretty great date.”
“It was,” he agrees, his brown eyes gleaming. “And if it makes you feel better, I had to Google Wyoming to get here. And I don’t just mean your address. I mean Wyoming. So there’s that.”
“Yeah, there’s that.” In what is a rare moment in all my time with Josh, I’m at a serious loss for what to say. “So you’re here,” I finally manage.
And with that insightful statement, I have officially lost the right to ever again complain about the terrible dialogue on Southern Heat.
Josh rakes a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I’m here.” He studies my worn carpe
t for a bit before looking back up at me, and I’m surprised to see he looks . . . nervous. “Is that okay? I probably should have called you from the road but—”
“You drove all the way out here?”
He bites his lower lip. “A little bit, yeah.”
I’m still not entirely sure why he’s here at all, let alone why he would have driven fifteen hours to do so—certainly not for the hot dogs.
But the fact that he did so, the fact that he’s here, makes my heart swell and my palms feel sweaty and I’m afraid to examine too closely why, mostly because some traitorous part of me is glad this didn’t happen in LA, where I had the option to delete his number.
“Wow,” I say. “I mean, that’s a long drive. I know, because I just drove it.”
Score another revenge victory for soap opera writers everywhere. My god, where have my powers of reasonably intelligent speech gone?
He blinks, and swallows. “I can go, you know. If this is too weird, I can just—”
“No,” I say, too quickly. But the thought of him leaving hits me like a punch to the gut. “No, I don’t want you to go. Really. I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
He looks cautiously hopeful. “Yeah? Good surprised?”
And partly because he looks so unaccountably vulnerable, but mostly because I’ve been wanting to do this ever since I saw him in my family’s basement, I lean into him and kiss him. Soft at first, and then deeply, until I’ve pretty much crawled onto his lap and we’re making out like we’ve been apart for months instead of days and my whole body is on fire, just alight with Josh, and his hands are in my hair and—
“Ow,” I say, and I realize after another scalp tug that his hand is stuck in my hair.
Which, I had forgotten, is sprayed up with a lifetime supply of Aquanet.
“Sorry,” he says, grimacing as he carefully extricates his hand from the bird’s nest that is my hair.
The Girlfriend Stage Page 9
