The Girlfriend Stage

by Janci Patterson

  He groans like this kills him, and I pull him in for a kiss before unwrapping and shimmying into the waders, which bunch around my waist like they are one hula-hoop away from being clown pants.

  “There it goes,” I say. “My last shred of dignity.” And yet somehow, Josh and I both laugh our way to my house.

  “Okay,” Josh says. “Do you want me to scout ahead? Make sure Patrice isn’t waiting to ambush us with family pictures?”

  “No way. You’re just trying to get first dibs at the shower.”

  Josh puts his finger to his lips and we both smother our laughter as we slip into the house via the kitchen. For a moment it seems as if the coast is clear. I don’t hear anyone moving around in the house, even on the floor above.

  And then Josh stops in his tracks, and I realize this is because my entire family is sitting in the adjoining den in a circle around a cheese platter, staring right at us.

  Maybe I’m just growing paranoid, but I have a sinking feeling they’ve been lying in wait.

  Twenty

  Anna-Marie

  I blink, trying to make sense of why my entire family is sitting in the living room waiting for me at an hour when most of them should still be asleep. And they, likewise, study me, probably trying to piece together why I’m wearing a men’s shirt and a large pair of rubber waders.

  “What’s going on?” I direct this at my dad, but he avoids my eyes, staring at the cracker and cheese platter sitting on the coffee table. Speaking of which . . . “Why is there one of those grocery store party platters? And is that a banner?”

  Strung across the top of the large bay window is a whole bunch of pieces of printer paper, with large glittery letters drawn on—by Ginnie, I’m guessing—that all together spell “WE’RE HERE FOR YOU.”

  “Anna-Marie,” Aunt Patrice says, trying to project an essence of calm it’s clear she doesn’t actually feel. She gestures to an empty armchair with the deliberate air of one of those game show models on The Price Is Right. “Please. Have a seat.”

  This is the absolute last thing I want to do right now, with all of them crunched together on the couch and loveseat, watching me—or the party platter—with varying expressions, all of which are weirdly intense. Joe, next to Patrice, is clearly uncomfortable, his lips pursed under his moustache like some selfie girl doing duckface before a badly needed wax. Next to him is Lily, who is dressed shockingly modestly in a pair of jeans—without holes in the crotch!—and shirt that can’t be seen through. She looks altogether too pleased with whatever is going on for my comfort. On the other side of her, Cherstie sits crammed up against the couch arm, biting her lip and tying the ends of her dark hair into nervous knots with her glitter-nailed fingers. Grandpa is on an armchair beside the couch, eyeing my waders with narrowed eyes, like he’s trying to figure out if this is the latest youth trend.

  On the loveseat is my dad, drumming his fingers on his knees, and next to him Tanya, who is clutching his arm and watching me with wide eyes. Next to her is Buckley, who is the only one not acting weird, because, well, he’s a dog and possibly has even less idea of what is happening than I do.

  I don’t see Ginnie or Byron anywhere. This worries me more than anything else, oddly.

  What is happening that they don’t want the kids around for? Kids who have already seen the Boy Scout video, so it can’t be about that, can it?

  “I think I need to change first,” I say, then glance over at Josh, who is folding his arms across his bare chest self-consciously, probably because of Lily’s hungry gaze. “We both do. There was this moose, and I lost my pants, and—”

  “I think this,” Patrice says, gesturing at us in a way that somehow encompasses both our current state of dress and possibly who we are as people, “is exactly why you need to take a seat, right here with your family. Who loves you.” She presses her lips together. “And Joe’s Way, it would probably be best if you joined us for this.”

  Josh and I exchange a look, and I can tell he’s going to follow my lead. Which is good. Whatever is going on, I have a feeling I’m going to need him at my side.

  “Fine,” I say. “But can we make it quick? Because these waders are . . . well, like wearing giant rubber clown pants.”

  I sit at the very edge of the armchair, and Josh sits on a folding chair that has been set up next it.

  “She’s here now, can I finally have a damn cracker?” Grandpa says, and Patrice glares at him.

  “Not now, Dad.”

  “You dragged me out of bed, and I haven’t even had a decent breakfast, and I’ve been sitting in front of this cheese plate for the last twenty minutes—”

  “Anna-Marie,” Patrice says, steamrolling over Grandpa’s complaints. “You know we love you.”

  “Yes. I do,” I say carefully. “And according to the banner, you are also here for me. Which is great, I guess. Is this about the video? I’m sorry you guys had to see that, but, really, it’s going to be fine. Josh is handling all the press stuff for it, and—”

  “It’s not just the video,” Patrice says. “We know now, and everything makes so much sense. The video, you . . . servicing Shane in your room—”

  “Servicing him? I was on my knees because of the bat! Not that it’s any of your—”

  “—And then sneaking out with Joe’s Way the very next night, and now, returning home half-clothed—”

  As she rattles off every indiscretion of the past several days, I hear the chime of Josh’s phone turning on. It starts buzzing like it’s having a seizure, as text after text pops up. Josh’s eyes widen, and my stomach turns in dread.

  “What do you mean, you ‘know now’?” I ask, cutting off Patrice. “Dad? What is she talking about?”

  My dad looks up at me then, and it’s almost like he can’t bear to do so, and I feel like I’ve been slapped.

  My dad has never looked at me like that, like he’s ashamed of me.

  “Bill . . .” Tanya says softly, squeezing his arm.

  “This is nonsense,” he says gruffly, and then stands up and leaves the room.

  “Bill, get back here!” Patrice yells. “This is your daughter and she needs your support!”

  I don’t know what they think I need support for, but that look on his face lingers in my mind, cutting through me.

  “Anna-Marie, darlin’, I think this is just a little much for him right now,” Uncle Joe says, and Patrice nods along with him.

  “What is?” I realize my voice is starting to sound squeaky in my growing panic.

  “Shit,” Josh says, with the utmost feeling, and he hands me his phone. Then he run his hand through his hair because he looks like otherwise he might punch a wall instead.

  I look down at the article he’s got pulled up on the phone, at the top of which is a picture of . . . Ryan Lansing? My ex-costar beams at the camera, posing at some charity event, and it takes me a long beat of even greater confusion before I read the pull quote at the top of the article.

  “Our time together was brief, but long enough for me to see a pattern of out-of-control and deviant sexual behavior . . . I just want Anna-Marie to get help.”

  And in bold, the article title: Soap Star Ryan Lansing Dishes on Former Co-Star’s Sex Addiction.

  Oh. Hell. No.

  “He said I’m a sex addict?” I jump to my feet, my voice well past hysterical. “That mother-fu—”

  “And we’re here for you,” Patrice says. “Even your dad, despite his refusal to acknowledge your problem.”

  Uncle Joe grimaces. “Go easy on him, Patty. I can’t imagine what it would be like to know your little girl is giving more rides than Disney World.”

  Really Joe? You can’t imagine?

  But Lily just nods, her face the picture of innocence, and Cherstie glares at both of them. “Dad, that’s not fair. We haven’t even given Anna-Marie the chance to s
ay anything.”

  “I don’t care what anyone says. I’m eating a cracker,” Grandpa says, reaching for the cheese platter.

  I’m only partially paying any attention to them, my eyes scanning over the article, though the pull quote captured the essence of it. Ryan Lansing—Ryan Man-Whore Lansing!—is giving his reaction to the video, talking about how he’s not surprised I would jump from Josh Rios to some guy in my hometown, how he guesses there are dozens more men—dozens, he says—that we don’t even know about. He calls our series of hook-ups while I was on Passion Medical a “lovely, passionate affair,” which is giving it considerable more romance than either of us did at the time. And how my “increasingly apparent addiction” led not only to him regretfully needing to end things—as if he dumped me!—but ultimately to . . .

  “He says it was my sexual problems that got me fired? Mine?” I feel like my brain is going to explode all over the cheese platter. “He was the one who broke Bridget’s Bubble Time Award! He was! While having sex with Sarah! Who framed me! Who—”

  “It sounds like your work environment isn’t helping your problem.” Patrice oozes sympathy. “All those sex parties. And cocaine.”

  “Anna-Marie isn’t on cocaine,” Tanya snaps at her. “We’re not talking about drugs.”

  “I’m just saying they go hand in hand. I saw a documentary once.”

  Grandpa swears, glaring down at his pants covered in cracker dust. “The damn cracker broke! It can’t even support the cheese! What kind of platter is this?”

  Patrice ignores him. “Even if cocaine isn’t involved”—and here she sounds incredibly doubtful, like she thinks if she broke into my trunk she’d find enough blow to film the sequel to Wolf of Wall Street— “we’ve certainly seen the behavior to support Mr. Lansing’s claims, behavior that is out of control. I have some information here that I was recommended by Doctor Wagner—”

  “Don’t listen to him!” Grandpa says. “He’s a quack.”

  Lyle Wagner is our neighbor, and also, I’m fairly certain, a proctologist. Probably the one Grandpa should be seeing for his netherregions. I’m about to say this when Patrice holds up a sheet of paper she’s clearly printed from the internet. “Some of the symptoms,” she says with an air of authority, “include having sex in public, an excessive number of partners, the impairment of family relationships, the loss of jobs because of sexual behavior—”

  “It was Ryan Lansing’s sexual behavior that lost me the job,” I snap.

  “Still,” Patrice continues. “The behavior we’ve all seen since you’ve arrived is definitely excessive.”

  “Don’t forget deviant,” Lily chimes in brightly.

  “You! How dare you, with your flashing my boyfriend and . . . and your sausage!” I shriek incoherently, because language itself is failing me in my rage.

  Lily shakes her head sadly. “I’m glad Josh finally knows the extent of the problem. He deserves a woman of class.”

  She reaches for a piece of cheese from the platter, but Patrice shoos her away. “You don’t want to upset your stomach again, dear. Not after how sick you were last night.”

  I smirk at her, not caring that I’m probably a thick layer of facepaint away from looking like an evil clown. “Wonder what upset your stomach. Have any ideas, Lily? Any raw meat products find their way into your mouth?”

  “Clearly not as many as have been in yours,” Lily says.

  I can’t take it anymore. I lunge forward, I’m not sure what I’m actually going to do to Lily, but it sure as hell isn’t going to be classy. Josh reaches his hand across me, blocking me from leaping across the coffee table.

  “Anna-Marie.” His voice is calm, too calm, like he’s forcing himself along a very thin line. He grips my arm. “Who is Ryan Lansing’s agent?”

  I’m shaking, but I manage to calm down enough to answer this. Mainly because it’s an easy question. “Brent. He has—had—the same agent as me.”

  “Brent.” Josh’s dark eyes gleam with a look that is vicious and almost . . . eager. “Fantastic.”

  He takes his phone back out of my hand.

  “Anna, honey,” Patrice says. “Maybe you should sit down, and we can go around the room and talk about our concerns. And you’ll see that we don’t want to judge you, we want to help you. Dad, why don’t you start?”

  “Because I’m finally eating!” Grandpa grouses around a mouthful of cheese.

  “Fine.” Patrice sighs. “I’ll begin. I’m concerned about what kind of strange sex-play you’ve been engaged in wearing fly-fishing gear and—”

  “Brent!” Josh says loudly into the phone, making it clear he’s going to make this call right here and now. I can hear Patrice’s teeth click together as she shuts her mouth. “Josh Rios here. When you said there’d be more coming, I didn’t think you meant a lawsuit for one of your biggest clients. But I’m reading the baseless and defamatory accusations Ryan Lansing is making against Anna-Marie, and I have to say, I’m itching to get lawyers involved.”

  There’s a silence in the room as pretty much everyone—including myself—strains to hear what Brent is saying back, but all I can make out is the reedy quality of his voice. I wonder if I’m imagining it, but I do think I can hear him eating something. Probably another meatball sub, even at like seven in the morning.

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Josh says, in a tone which implies everything but that. “A lawsuit is a lot of hassle, and though I’d love to make Anna-Marie rich off of whatever settlement Mr. Lansing would beg us to take, I think it would be even more satisfying for some of Mr. Lansing’s sexual proclivities to make the news. How long do think it would take us to find some jilted lovers willing to spill all the details? And since he likes to toss the word ‘deviant’ around so freely, how much do you want to bet we can find a few stories of his sex life that would make Hugh Hefner blush?”

  Having slept with Ryan, I’m fairly certain he’s not actually creative enough in bed to have stories like that, but I have to admit, it’s thrilling—and vindicating—seeing Josh go full agent beast-mode on Brent’s ass.

  And judging by the wide-eyed way everyone in my family is looking at him—with the exception of Grandpa, who is poking at the cubes of swiss and grumbling about “uppity foreign cheeses”—they’re seeing a new side of him as well.

  Brent’s tone sounds a bit frantic. I can’t make out the words, but I can almost feel the breeze from all the back-peddling.

  “No, Brent, we’re well past what I want,” Josh says. “What I demand is that Ryan Lansing issues a full and complete retraction of his accusations concerning my client’s personal life. One in which he acknowledges that though he plays a doctor on television, he is in fact not a medical professional capable of making a mental health diagnosis.”

  Brent speaks again, his tinny voice wheedling, but Josh cuts him off.

  “I don’t care what you have to do to make that happen. I only care that it does. And that there is equal or greater coverage on this retraction. And I promise you, Brent, if this doesn’t happen, you will regret ever having signed that lying piece of shit you call a client.”

  And then he hangs up before Brent can say anything back.

  Part of me want to fling my arms around Josh and another part wants to sit back and admire the sexiness of his (shirtless) protective wrath. But most of me knows that even if Ryan issues this retraction, it won’t solve everything.

  People think I’m a sex addict, with a proclivity for flashing Boy Scouts at hot springs.

  My own dad thinks I’m a sex addict. That expression on his face, the clear shame that made it so he couldn’t even look at me—

  Tears well up in my eyes, and Josh sees it, his cold fury softening. He squeezes my hand, but before I can follow my instincts and melt into his arms and just let him hold me, Patrice clears her throat.

  “Well, that was . .
. very forceful.” Patrice sounds a little out of breath, and her cheeks have spots of pink in them. “But back to sharing our concerns about Anna-Mar—”

  “That’s enough,” Josh says, standing in front of me and shielding me from my hounding family members the way I did for him the first day he showed up at my house. “Anna-Marie isn’t doing this right now, and maybe not ever. She’s not a sex addict, and beyond that, any details about her sex life are up to her to decide if she wants to discuss with you.”

  He looks back at me, and there’s a hint of uncertainty about whether he should have dressed down my family like that. But I’m glad he did, because at this moment—and maybe always, because it’s Josh—he’s far more capable of handling this like a calm and rational adult than I am, and after dealing with Shane and then a murderous moose, I’m likely to either beat my cousin to death with a cheese platter or just start crying in front of my whole family.

  The first of those options is far more appealing, but I don’t think either will help my situation.

  I squeeze his hand back, just as Patrice tries one last time.

  “But Joe’s Way,” she starts, in this placating voice, “If we just—

  “No,” I say to my family, with a special glare at Patrice. “Josh and I don’t want to hear another word about this.” And even though this may not be the best time to do so, I can’t help but also blurt out, “And the name he wants to be called is Josh. Not Joe’s Way. Josh. Respect that, and him, or you don’t get to talk to him at all. Got it?”

  I’m not sure I’m able to police this threat as long as we’re staying in the same house as her, and honestly, I don’t think Josh cares about her butchering his given name nearly as much as my tone implies, but it sure feels good to call her out.

  Patrice’s mouth slams shut in response, which is also gratifying.

  I pause, and then turn to Tanya. “Tell Ginnie she did a great job with the banner. I like the glitter.”

  Tanya smiles at me. And I find myself hoping she doesn’t believe a word of these crazy accusations. That maybe she’ll be my stepmom, for good, and more than that—maybe someday she’ll be my friend, too.