The Girlfriend Stage

by Janci Patterson

  “Okay,” he says. “So you remember when we went on that date to Le Papillon and we were watching those lobsters? And you asked me what I thought they could say if they could talk.”

  I sit up straighter. “I do remember that! And I also remember you got the weirdest look on your face. And I just thought, ‘Okay, so he doesn’t like pretending sea creatures can talk. Or maybe just the ones we’re about to eat. Either way, noted.’”

  Josh groans and smacks his head back against the headboard—not hard enough it would hurt, but the brass makes a ringing sound. “You want to hear what I was thinking?”

  “Absolutely.” I’m not sure I can get enough of that. Not now when I’m realizing how much of it he held back before.

  Not that I was sharing enough of my own thinking either.

  “So what I wanted to tell you was that lobsters are all French. You knew that about lobsters, right?” He’s saying this seriously, but he’s got a twitch to lips hinting at a smile.

  “French, huh? I did not.”

  “And they all climb over each other to get to the top, right?”

  “Right.”

  “All so that the one at the top, so that he can say—” and here Josh gets a snooty look on his face, and removes his hands from my waist to wave his fingers in front of his mouth like alarming little whiskers—”’I am ze king of ze tank!’” he says, in the most tragic French accent I have ever heard. He shifts slightly, as if he’s hopping from one lobster’s head to another. “No! It is I! I am ze king! All who challenge ze king shall suffer and despaaaaair.”

  It’s like the Muce joke all over again. It’s not even that funny, but the random hilarity of Josh Rios impersonating a lobster in my childhood bed induces another of my snort-giggles—one of the loudest, most obnoxious ones I’ve ever made, and I bury my head in his shoulder, both laughing uncontrollably again and also dying of humiliation.

  “Ahhhhh!” I say into his shirt. “Why do I keep doing that in front of you? Can you please please please just forget you have ever heard me make that sound?”

  But he’s laughing too, and rolls over on top of me, propped up on his elbows on either side. “Never. I’m never going to forget that. Because that is my new favorite sound. And I’ve heard you make a lot of really great sounds.”

  I thought just a few minutes ago that he looked the happiest I’d ever seen him. But no, this is the happiest, and I wonder if I look the same way, because I sure as hell feel it.

  And then he’s kissing me, and my legs are wrapped tight around his waist and, well, now I sure want more than just talking. His hands are finding their way under my spandex and I’m working at the buttons on his shirt when there’s a sharp knocking at my door that makes us both jump.

  “Anna-Marie, are you decent?” calls my Aunt Patrice. “I’m coming in.”

  Josh rolls back off me just as the door opens and Patrice walks in, but his shirt is mostly unbuttoned and his hair sticking up in about a dozen different ways and it couldn’t be more obvious what was going on.

  Then I remember last night with Shane. That was more obvious.

  What would Josh say if he knew? Or worse yet, saw those pictures the Boy Scouts may have taken?

  Patrice looks at us both, and sighs. Then she puts on a forced smile. “Joe’s Way,” she says, as sweet as pie, “I assume you’re staying with us for the night?”

  Josh struggles to keep from laughing, and mostly succeeds. “Um. Yes, I was hoping to. Yes.”

  “Wonderful! I’ve made up a bed for you in the storage room.”

  Oh god. I know exactly what she’s done, because this was the set-up my dad used when the basement wasn’t finished and his bedroom was being re-painted. A sad little twin-sized mattress lying on top of a large pallet of canned food storage we’ve had for longer than I’ve been alive.

  I sit up. “No, Aunt Patrice, he can sleep with me, it’s—”

  “I think,” Patrice says in a voice which indicates that her thoughts and commandments from deity are one and the same, “that we’d all be much more comfortable if Joe’s Way slept in his own bed while he’s here. There are children here, after all.”

  Those same children know very well that their mom and my dad are sleeping in the same bed, so I’m tempted to argue with her. But then I remember that at least one of those children has already seen me naked with a guy in the last twenty-four hours.

  And I very much don’t want Patrice bringing that up to support her case.

  I look over at Josh, and he smiles. “It’s okay,” he says. “The bed in the storage room sounds great, thank you.” He gives Patrice one of his gorgeous grins, and her expression softens noticeably and she actually blushes. Then she nods at us and leaves the room.

  She keeps the door open, though.

  “The storage room is not great,” I warn him as soon as she’s out of sight.

  “I’ll survive. And I’m really good at sneaking around in the middle of the night.” His dark eyes gleam mischievously.

  “A skill that will come in handy,” I say. But that pit in my stomach is starting to feel heavier. Do I tell Josh about Shane? Do I not?

  We aren’t committed, and we weren’t last night. But I care about Josh. A lot. Even more, now. I don’t want to lie to him.

  “I’m going to go get my stuff from the car,” Josh says. “And I’ve got some work calls to make that might take a little while. But we’ll continue this later, yeah?”

  “Yes. Very much so, yes.”

  And I find there’s nothing I want more.

  Ten

  Anna-Marie

  While Josh is off making his work calls, I decide to take a shower so the next time he sees me I will be back to looking more like the Anna-Marie that isn’t a crazy person. It’s a longer process than normal—the sheer amount of hairspray Cherstie put in requires several rounds of “lather, rinse, repeat”—but eventually I emerge victorious.

  I have, however, forgotten to bring my pajamas into the bathroom with me. And there’s no way in hell I’m putting the sparkly leotard back on. So using one towel as a makeshift turban for my wet hair, I wrap another around myself and poke my head out into the hallway to make sure no one is there. The towels aren’t super big, and too many people in this house have seen too much of my body.

  Luckily, the path is clear, with the exception of Buckley, who trots down the hallway when he sees me and starts licking my wet feet.

  “Hey, stop that.” I’ve never been a pet person, and being slobbered on doesn’t help. Buckley looks up at me—or at least I think he does; I have yet to actually see eyes beneath that big mop of shaggy fur—and makes a snuffling noise. As I dash down the hallway to my bedroom, he trots along beside me and makes a sad little whining sound when I block him from entering.

  “Prove you can scare away bats and maybe I’ll consider letting you in,” I say, and then close the door.

  I’m just about to drop my towel when I hear a tapping on the window. Too loud to be gummy bears, but I still know exactly who it is.

  Shit. Shane is back.

  The curtains are mostly closed, but I can see movement through the crack of black night that shows between them. Shane is right out there on the closest branch and can probably see me, too, which means there’s no pretending I’m not in my room.

  Naked, of course.

  Not that it’s a good idea to ignore him. He’d just come back later, which with Josh here could be much, much worse. I’ve got to get rid of Shane now and give myself more time to figure out what to do about telling Josh.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  I grab a soft cotton t-shirt from my suitcase and another pair of pajama shorts and hurriedly put them on, and then slide the curtains apart and unlock the window before tugging it open.

  “I don’t think you need the lock to keep bats out,” Shane says with a g
rin.

  “Maybe it’s not bats I’m trying to keep out,” I say pointedly, folding my arms across my chest.

  Shane sighs. “I’m sorry, Anna-Marie. Seriously. I was an ass, and—actually, you mind if I come in to apologize? I’ve been straddling this branch for the last twenty minutes and I’m starting to lose feeling in some sensitive areas here.”

  “The state of your sensitive areas isn’t exactly a concern of mine,” I say. He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “And if you say ‘it was last night,’ I’m going to push you off that branch.”

  He shuts his mouth again and tries to hide a grin.

  “And anyway,” I continue, “now’s not a good time.”

  “I’ll just be a minute.” He gives me that sheepish look I’ve received a hundred times before, and yet somehow always fall for. “Come on, babe. Don’t leave things like that.”

  And the truth is, I don’t want to leave things like that. Shane’s . . . well, I don’t know what he is to me, really, but he’s at the very least a friend. And an important part of my past. A part that I find that I do still care about, one way or another.

  Besides, if Josh is going to be here for the rest of the reunion—something I realize I have no idea of—then I need to make sure Shane knows to stay well away. And it’s just now occurring to me that Josh went out to make work calls, but I have no idea where exactly he intended to do that and if he’s pacing in front of the house, he might see Shane up in the tree.

  I stand back, letting Shane climb in. He looks very much the same as yesterday—a different vintage band t-shirt, worn-in jeans. He’s got a faded multi-colored friendship bracelet on his left wrist that I recognize immediately. I worked as a camp counselor the summer after my junior year, and had to make a million of the stupid things with my group of ten-year-old girls. So I made one for him, ironically, and he wore it for years, also ironically. Except he still has it, so I’m not sure how ironic it was, after all.

  My throat goes dry.

  “Shane, I—” I start, but he steps right up to me, and puts his hands on my waist.

  “I shouldn’t have joked around with Mr. Dart when you were clearly uncomfortable,” he says, leaning down so his forehead is right up against mine. “I shouldn’t have laughed about the Boy Scouts. And I should have been more helpful with getting the bat out. Does that about cover it? Or is there more assery to apologize for? Because I’ll apologize for it all. I’m sorry.”

  He sounds sincere enough, and really, nothing he did was that bad.

  “Whatever, it’s fine,” I say. “I’m not actually all that mad anymore.”

  He brings his hands up to the towel turban on my head and massages it like he’s trying to dry my hair, then takes the turban off. My wet hair tumbles down around my shoulders, a strand of it sticking to my cheek.

  “Good.” He peels the strand off, and raises an eyebrow. “So you want to get out of here again? We can just stay at my house this time. I already checked the house for bats. And Boy Scouts.”

  “I can’t.” But I know it’s more than that. I don’t actually want to. I want to feel Josh’s hands on my waist, want Josh’s fingers brushing back strands of my wet hair.

  I want to talk with him more, find out more about him. Tell him more about me. And that, more than anything else, scares me.

  “Family stuff?” Shane asks. “Can’t you ditch it? It’s not like you guys are doing the Grillmaster Championship right n—”

  “It’s not family stuff. It’s Josh. My—” there’s that word again “—the agent guy I’m dating. He’s here.”

  Shane’s blue eyes widen. “Really? You didn’t tell me he was going to be here.”

  “I didn’t know. It was a surprise.”

  “Huh,” Shane says, and I can tell he’s keeping something in that he wants to say, but I’m not sure I want to hear it anyway.

  “So you really need to go before he—”

  “But he’s not your boyfriend, right?”

  I pause. “No. But—”

  “And I don’t see him here right now.” Shane’s hands go back to my waist, pulling me closer. “We could lock the door, or we could get out of here and be back before—”

  “No,” I say, more forcefully, taking a step back. “Josh is a great guy, and I’m not going to be like that. Not with him.”

  Shane frowns and opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, my bedroom door opens.

  “You should know there’s a big mountain of fur I think is a dog parked right outside your—” Josh says as he walks in, cutting off as he sees me standing there with Shane.

  His gaze flicks back and forth between us, and I have to restrain myself from stepping even further away from Shane, which would make me look even more guilty than I undoubtedly already appear.

  Shane, however, takes his opportunity to sling his arm around my shoulders. He grins at Josh. “Hey, man,” he says.

  Josh smiles back, though I can see the uncertainty in his expression. “Hey. I thought I’d met all the family already downstairs, but I guess not. So which one are you?”

  Oh god. I can see Shane’s grin getting wider and know that I can not let him answer that.

  “He’s not—” I blurt out, already regretting that I have no idea how what to say. “He’s my—Shane.”

  I cringe the second those words leave my lips—the same words I stupidly said about him—and hate myself when I see Josh’s smile vanish, when I see the flicker of hurt in his eyes. He blinks. Then he’s got an expression on his face I’ve seen before when he’s talking to people he doesn’t particularly like, but has to be polite to. Professional Agent Josh gives a curt smile and nod. “Hey. Nice to meet you.” He looks at me with that same expression and I feel it like a knife in my gut. “I can leave if you—”

  “No,” I say quickly, not sure if he just means leave the room or leave my life and terrified of risking the latter. “No, I just—”

  “It’s okay,” Shane says smoothly. “I can take off.” He tightens his grip around my shoulder just enough to lean in and plant a kiss on my head. Then he extends his hand to Josh. “Nice to meet you, too.” Instead of his usual slouch, Shane has drawn himself up to his full height, which puts him an inch or so taller than Josh, who stands right around six feet.

  Josh shakes his hand, and his smile back is coolly pleasant. Then Shane gives us one last smirk, and a wink to me. “Later, babe,” he says, and climbs back out the window.

  There’s a stretch of heavy silence after Shane slides the window shut behind him.

  Josh leans back against my dresser, his gaze trailing over the various things left there from years ago—old bottles of Clinique Happy perfume and lotion, a framed photo of me as a little kid with my dad, a stack of CDs. It’s like he’s trying to look at anything but me, and that knife in my gut twists deeper. “He climbs in the window, huh?” he finally says. “Too cool for doors?”

  “It’s just—it’s a thing.” I curl and uncurl my bare toes on my carpeting.

  “Yeah,” he says, like he gets it, though I’m not really sure what it is he gets. He looks over at me, and while I’m relieved the Professional Agent Josh veneer is gone, there’s still this distance between us. Physically, because he’s over by the dresser with his arms folded across his chest, and I’m by the end of my bed in a similar pose. But it’s more than that; it’s like there’s this vast gulf between us instead of mere feet. After how connected I’d felt to him the last time he’d been in this room, I feel hollowed out.

  Judging from his expression, I think he feels the same.

  “So is he why you left me hanging before?” Josh asks. “About the girlfriend thing, I mean.”

  I swallow past a lump that has formed in my throat. “Part of it.” I know it’s not in the way he’s thinking, but I’m not sure how to explain that. “Definitely not all of it. I’m
sorry, Josh,” I say, and my voice breaks on his name. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Hey, no,” he says, his expression softening. “You have nothing to apologize for. I knew you weren’t really inviting me out here. I knew you were just joking around. I was the one who intruded on your life, and I can leave, and you can call me when you get back to LA, and . . .” He trails off and studies the carpet. Maybe because he doesn’t know how that sentence should end any more than I do.

  But I do know this.

  “I don’t want you to leave,” I say. “You’re not intruding on anything. I-I missed you.”

  Saying those words out loud makes the blood rush in my ears. But the panic of that admission is drowned out by the even worse panic that I’ve already screwed up this thing Josh and I have, this thing that had just taken on entirely new meaning and depth.

  He looks up from under the locks of dark hair hanging over his eyes. “Yeah?”

  I bite my lips together and nod. “Yeah. And yeah, maybe I was joking around, but I am really happy you came all the way out here. If I’d had any idea you would, then when Shane came over last night, I wouldn’t have—”

  “Last night?” Josh drops his gaze to the carpet again.

  Guilt pools in my veins. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be. We aren’t in a committed relationship,” he says gently. “You have every right to be with whoever you want.”

  He’s right, of course. This is the point of not being serious, isn’t it? So there’s no jealousy and hurt feelings and betrayal.

  Except I’m suddenly not sure I’ve avoided any of these things.

  “You too,” I say, and I immediately picture Macy in that dress cut down to her well-toned belly. Ugh.

  He nods, but his lips twist in a strange way.

  “You’ve been with other people, haven’t you?” I can’t help but ask. “Since we’ve been dating, I mean.”

  He cringes, looking adorably abashed. “No, I actually haven’t. It’s cool, though. Really.”

  I gape at him. Is that possible? This is Josh Rios. Not that he’s known to be a Ryan Lansing-level player, but there’s no way the guy hasn’t had plenty of opportunity to be with other women—incredibly beautiful women—in the two months we’ve been seeing each other.