We can skip that step, he’d said last night.
I’d brushed it aside, hadn’t let myself think overmuch about it. But did he mean living together? Engagement? Marriage?
I’m afraid to ask, because if I can’t even give him—who I’m crazy in love with, I know that much—the commitment level of girlfriend, I think my head might explode to consider the steps after.
“You know why,” Maeve says, glaring at him. “You’re sleeping with my sister.”
Ha, that’s right. Things are a little more cut and dry for Maeve.
Now Josh gives a shrug like, yeah, okay, that makes sense. His fingers trace along my upper arm, and I let out a breath, trying to calm my pulse, which has picked up considerably. I need to just not think about the future. I need to not pay attention to Brent, and my mom’s past warnings, and my past experiences, and hell, even my own damn TV show, and—
“Only because you won’t follow your heart,” Bruce says.
Maeve’s eyes grow teary. “You didn’t wait very long to follow yours, did you, Bruce?”
Bruce pulls Maeve towards him. “I thought I could be happy with her. She’s beautiful and she’s, you know, really flexible since she’s a yoga instructor—”
“Okay,” I say, jumping up and grabbing the remote from Joe, who startles awake with a snort. I turn the TV off. “Aunt Patrice sent me down to tell you all that the shirts are in, so you’d better get upstairs and put them on. And that it’s food prep time for the Grillmaster Championship contenders.”
This wakes Joe up for real—he takes the Grillmaster Championship as seriously as if he’s Everett’s Gordon Ramsey, fervent swearing and all. He heads upstairs, followed by a slumped-shouldered Byron and a pouting Ginnie, who still sweetly helps my grandpa up the stairs, which makes me like the girl even more. Buckley snuffles at my feet and then follows after them.
“You okay?” Josh asks. He looks hesitant, and suddenly all I want is to go back to last night, to us making love under the stars and hearing him tell me how much he loves me and me saying the words back to him and all of that being so much more powerful than the fear.
“I’m okay. Brent was an ass, but I don’t have to deal with him anymore. I’ve got a much better—and dare I say hotter—agent now.” I step up to Josh and wrap my arms around his waist. “Though,” I say, as if considering, “you should see the sexy way that man takes down a meatball sub.”
Josh laughs. “I can only imagine.” He presses his forehead against mine. “I love you,” he says quietly.
“I love you, too,” I say back, and he closes his eyes briefly, like he just needed to hear it again. I wish I could say even more. My hands work their way up the back of his shirt, though, because I can’t seem to keep my hands off him when he’s this close, and his fingers inch below the waist of my jean cut-offs, and—
“Anna-Marie! Joe’s Way!” Aunt Patrice calls down, and both of us groan, as if on cue, which makes us grin at each other.
“You ready to cook them the food of your people?” I ask.
“I think Bel-Airia is going to represent really well this year,” he says with a smile.
When we get upstairs, Patrice thrusts a shockingly neon pink shirt at me. “Here’s yours, dear.”
I hold it up. There, emblazoned across the front in large, equally bright lime green letters, backed by a glittery gold star, are the words “Halsey Reunion Superstars.” It’s like the early nineties came and threw a huge neon orgy and these were the discards picked off the floor the morning after.
I’m embarrassed that I actually kind of like it.
“Now Joe’s Way,” Patrice says, “we didn’t know you were coming, unfortunately,”—here she gives me a pointed look—“so I didn’t have a shirt made for you.”
Josh smiles. “That’s really okay, I’m just fine in my own—”
“But,” Patrice steamrolls over him, “we do have Aunt Ida’s shirt, rest her soul. And I think she would be honored to have you wear it. Don’t you, Anna-Marie?”
“Ohhhh, yes. Absolutely.” I’m unable to contain my delight at this idea.
Josh shakes his head and gives me a mock glare when Patrice turns around to grab another pink shirt, and I widen my eyes in innocence. Patrice hands him the shirt.
“Thanks,” he says. “I’ll try to make Aunt Ida proud.”
I’ll have to tell him later that doing so would require body-shaming overweight teenage girls to tears, or publicly slandering Israel, so that’s probably not a good life goal.
He heads to the storage room to put on his shirt, and I change in the bathroom. When I come out, I head over to the “deck”—which is really just a big slab of concrete jutting out into the backyard—where everyone is milling around in their bright pink shirts. Normally, the deck has a hammock and a grill and not much else. For the Grillmaster Championship, there are separate grills for each entrant—four this year, set up in a circle—and even separate prep tables. The grills are stored in my dad’s garage all year long, because while we used to borrow the extras, there were so many accusations of sabotage that my dad finally bought up the used grills from Jeb’s Grill Shack when it closed.
The hammock is still there, and folding chairs are set up, enough for the handful of neighbors that inevitably stop by when they smell the grilling. On one small stand in the middle of the ring of grills is the coveted Golden Weiner. It’s a big hot dog made of foam pieces from a craft store—bun included—that’s about as long as my forearm and spray-painted bright gold and then mounted to a block of stained wood.
It’s hideous and huge, and has been in our family ever since I can remember.
“So that’s the Big Weiner,” Josh says from behind me.
“The Golden—” I start, and then gape openly when I see him.
Aunt Ida’s tiny shirt is stretched so tightly across his chest it looks like we’re running a test on the fabric strength. The words are deformed by the stretching, and his toned, tan midriff is bare above his cargo shorts.
“Oh my god,” I say.
“Pretty hot, huh?” Josh does some flexing poses. “You like this, Halsey?”
“So. Very. Much.” I laugh. “I think you should start wearing tiny old ladies’ clothes more often.”
“Don’t tempt me. I’ve been thinking I owe the world more exposure to my bare stomach.”
I sling my arm around his bare waist, and we head to his prep table, where Patrice has already set out the steak Josh started marinating yesterday when we got home from our tour of the town. And for the next hour or so—after my family sees Josh and whistles and teases him about the shirt, laughing and clapping when he plays it up—we’re cooking, and music is blaring from my old stereo system, and we’re having a surprisingly fun time with my family.
After the initial prep, the contestants aren’t allowed any assistant help, so Josh has to grill his own carne asada, alongside Joe with his multi-championship-winning hot dogs, my dad with his sea bass—really, Dad? You think you’re winning this with fish?—and Tanya making burgers I’m a little worried are made out of soy.
I make my way over by my cousin Cherstie to watch the actual grilling portion of the competition. Just before I settle into the chair next to her, I catch a glimpse of a photo on her phone that she’s looking at intently, with a smile tugging at her lips.
The pic is of Cherstie, with her arms around a cute girl with a spiky blond pixie-cut and a silver nose ring. Their hands are linked, and I’ve never seen my cousin beam so brightly as in that picture.
I’m happy for her, and a little surprised. I had no idea Cherstie is gay, and I definitely thought I would have heard about that from Aunt Patrice by now if—
Cherstie tucks the phone away quickly and with a flash of a nervous expression, and I have a feeling she hasn’t exactly shown that picture—or that girl—to anyone in the family yet
.
I decide not to say anything about it, since it doesn’t seem like she’s ready to share that part of her life. And I get it—if Cherstie’s gay, I’m sure she’s got her own share of awkward family reunions in the future, full of Aunt Patrice talking condescendingly about supporting her daughter’s “lifestyle choice” and Grandpa trying to show Cherstie’s girlfriend his “netherregions,” because he once met a lesbian who was a doctor.
No way I’m going to be the one to foist that on her before she’s ready. Which might understandly be never.
“Sooo . . .” Cherstie says, waggling her eyebrows at me as I sit down. “He’s hot. And funny. And super nice.”
I grin at her, looking bck over at Josh, his brow adorably furrowed as he studies the recipe on his phone. He pokes at the slab of meat on the grill with a pair of tongs. “He is,” I agree. “All of that.” And so much more.
“And willing to put up with all of this.” She gestures at my family in their matching pink shirts. Her dad, Uncle Joe, swears loudly at the grill, as if punctuating that statement. Ginnie is running around the yard with a hot dog she snatched from the prep table, being chased by a barking Buckley. Byron has an iPad out and is huddled into a chair by the back door, while Grandpa is muttering something to him about the Korean War. Patrice is flitting from station to station like she’s some kind of show host, cheering them on individually (though her cheers to Tanya, are, I notice, less impassioned than the others). And Lily . . . Lily is splayed across the hammock wearing what looks like nothing but the reunion shirt. She’s facing Josh, and keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs. Slowly.
I groan. “Is she trying to Basic Instinct my—?” I cut off, flushing.
Cherstie doesn’t miss it. “Your boyfriend?” she goads, her dark eyes flashing.
I swallow. “No. Just . . . we’re dating.”
“Uh-huh. Well, that boy wants more than just dating, that much is clear.”
We can skip that step. My nerves skitter under my skin. But Josh chooses that moment to look up at me and grin, and my heart pounds in all the best ways at seeing that incredible smile.
The smile of the man I’m in love with.
I give a knowing look to Cherstie, who laughs, and then I walk over to Josh.
“I don’t know if it’s the grilling or the shirt or what,” I say. “But this is doing it for me.”
“I don’t need to be hearing this,” My dad calls from the next grill over.
“Too bad,” I call back, and Tanya laughs. Joe yells for a beer, and Patrice scrambles to bring him one, like a nurse handing a doctor an important surgical instrument. She even wipes his brow with a dishcloth.
Josh grins. “I’m glad.” He lowers his voice. “Your uncle Joe has been casting some aspersions on my sexuality, and frankly, I’m tempted to encourage those, if only to get Lily to stop flashing me.”
“Ugggghhhh. My family,” is all I can say.
“Well, it’s not the first time.”
“That you’ve been flashed at a barbecue, or accused of being gay by a man whose goal in life is to go home with the Golden Weiner?”
“Well, when you put it that way, I guess it is my first time. For both.” He smiles and shakes some more seasoning onto the meat, which smells seriously amazing. “But growing up with Ben, and us being so close—people always thought I was gay, too. It pissed Ben off, like I was stealing his coming-out glory.”
I laugh. Mentioning Ben’s coming out makes me want to tell Josh what I suspect about Cherstie, but definitely not with her parents hovering nearby. “How did Ben come out, anyway?” I ask instead. “Was that weird at first, with you guys being so close?”
I’d love to meet Ben someday, but it scares me a bit, too. Ben is more like a brother to Josh than Josh’s actual brothers, and I know how much he values Ben’s opinion.
“Ben was definitely worried it would be weird.” Josh pushes the meat around on the grill, though I’m not sure that’s accomplishing anything. “But I’d known for a long time before he actually admitted it. Like, you remember my, uh . . . Leia thing?”
“Oh yeah. I remember.” And I definitely need to get myself one of those costume gold bikinis.
“Well, Ben used to pretend to like that too, but it was pretty clear he was paying far more attention to any scene with Han Solo.”
“I don’t blame him for that.”
“But I never brought it up, because, you know. Whatever. He was Ben, no matter what, and it didn’t matter to me that he was a Han Solo man.” Josh shrugs. “But I finally told him I knew when we were fourteen. We were at the mall, and Ben was totally checking out this guy at one of those sunglass kiosks, and kept making us walk past it until finally I was like ‘dude, just go talk to him.’ And he had this freak-out moment, and then realized that he and I were good. And then he went and chatted up the guy and totally got shot down.” Josh grins, shaking his head.
“Awwww, that’s cute. Less the getting shot down part.”
“Yeah, well, I think he’s much happier with Wyatt than he would have been with frosted-tips guy at the Sunglass Hutch, so I’d say it worked out for him.”
I can’t argue with that.
Shortly after, Patrice calls out that it’s ten minutes until the tasting and voting. About a dozen neighbors have arrived and I answer question after question about what it’s like working on a soap opera—which, admittedly, is a line of conversation I enjoy basking in—and introduce everyone to Josh, who I just refer to as “my agent.” It’s Everett, so people don’t seem to think it’s strange that my agent would come out for my family reunion. But more than a couple of them make sure to “casually” mention their own talent for the stage, or their son’s love of ventriloquism, or their cousin who can yodel the National Anthem, as if Josh will sign them as soon as he’s done flipping the beef. He handles it all with his trademark charm, and I imagine he’s used to this kind of thing.
Then one of them, a girl named Beth who is two years older than me and already has four kids, turns to me with a wide grin. “So where’s Shane? I don’t think I ever saw you much without seeing him right there too.”
I try to stifle a wince, and glance over at Josh. He’s staring fixedly at the grill, and I can tell he heard.
The truth is, I don’t know where Shane is. He’s no doubt heard about the barbecue, and I’m surprised he hasn’t used it as an opportunity to show up and taunt Josh again.
Though I suppose I’m giving myself too much credit. Not everything in Shane’s life is about me.
“Shane and I broke up,” I say quickly. “Like five years ago.”
“Pfft,” Beth says dismissively. “You two are never really broken up, not for good. You two are like—”
But I’m spared hearing what Shane and I are like by Aunt Patrice, bless the woman, who rings the end-of-grilling cowbell. “Line up for tasting and voting!” she calls. “And no double votes! I’m watching you, Hal!”
Everyone laughs, even our neighbor Hal, who did indeed get caught trying to stuff the ballot box one year. We form a line and grab a plate, putting a few bites of each contestant’s entry on it. I want to stand by Josh and hold his hand and reassure him that Shane and I really are broken up and will stay that way. Josh, though, has to stand away from the voting, along with Joe and my dad and Tanya.
He won’t meet my eyes.
I take a bite of carne asada, barely paying attention to the competition itself, and nearly drop the plate in surprise. It’s fantastic. Like unbelievably good. Even better than Joe’s hot dog, which hasn’t wavered from its usual deliciousness.
Apparently Josh Rios can add “great cook” to his long list of qualities that make him the perfect man. I can’t wait to tell him this. And that he really shouldn’t be worried about Shane.
From the murmurs around me, I can tell everyone else is suitably impressed too. We fil
e up to the table where Patrice has set out slips of paper and pens, and write down our vote and stick it into an old rusted coffee can that probably predates World War II. Then Patrice takes a few minutes to tally the votes, and grimaces at her husband briefly before announcing, “And the winner is Joe’s Way Rios, and his carne asada”—the ‘r’ she rolls dramatically—”from Bel-Airia!”
Everyone claps and cheers, and even Uncle Joe shakes his hand like a man conceding defeat to a respected opponent. Patrice hands over the Golden Weiner to Josh, who holds it up proudly and grins at me. I grin back, and realize I don’t have my phone on me to take what feels like a necessary picture. I look behind me to see if I left my phone on my chair, when I notice Byron staring at me, his eyes wide. Wider, even, than when he first met me, if that’s possible.
He glances down at his iPad, and then back up at me, his cheeks flushed. Even the tips of his ears are red.
I suddenly have a very bad feeling. Especially when Grandpa looks down at the iPad and says, “I told you, I don’t want to see my granddaughter naked on TV. I don’t care what young people think is normal these days.”
Did he say naked?
I am over there and grabbing the iPad from Byron’s hands in two long strides.
“Wait,” Byron yelps, “I didn’t—a friend sent it to me, I swear, I wasn’t looking for—”
But I’m not paying attention to him. Because on the screen I see myself at the edge of the hot springs, naked and standing in a van’s spotlights, my expression horrified.
Probably similar to the expression on my face right now.
Not just a picture. A video.
Online, for the whole world to see.
Sixteen
Josh
I hate leaving Anna-Marie while she’s freaking out about the video—especially in the middle of a crowd of neighbors and family and . . . Patrice. But I’m her agent, and I have to figure out what the reach of this thing is so we can be fully informed and get ahead of it if necessary. After Tanya confiscates the iPad and fends off the few nosy neighbors who were gathering around to see what nudity Grandpa was so loudly advertising, I squeeze Anna-Marie’s hand and tell her I’ll find out how bad it is. Then I walk around the side of the house so I can make phone calls without being overheard by half of Everett. I’m about to call my office and ask one of the publicity specialists to do a workup for me of everywhere that’s posting the video and what kind of traffic they’re seeing, when I notice I have a text from Ben.
The Girlfriend Stage Page 17
