The Girlfriend Stage

by Janci Patterson

  “Trust me. We will. Probably for days.” I smile, comforted a little by the fact that if things go terribly with Josh, at least Gabby’s out here waiting to help pick up the pieces.

  And I get it, in a way I didn’t fully before. She always will be, no matter where she lives. Just like I’ll always be there for her. She may not be my roommate for much longer, but she’ll always be my Gabby.

  The Renegade Lounge is a pretty typical small town bar, a lot like the one I used to work at before leaving for LA. Bright neon beer signs, carpet that looks like it’s been salvaged from a seventies-era casino. The smell of smoke and alcohol, the clatter of pool balls and the clink of glass against the bar. It’s fairly busy for a weeknight, which probably means it’s the only bar in town.

  I grip the Weiner tightly, looking around. A few guys sitting at the bar eye me openly, and one with the overly-confident bearing of an ex-high-school football star who now runs the local car wash stands up and starts heading my way. I glare at him to warn him off, but he’s clearly a few drinks past good judgment.

  “Hey gorgeous,” he says, running a hand through his thinning hair. “I think the last time I saw legs that long, I was dreaming.”

  “If you think you have a chance here, you still are.” I try to step around him, but he plants himself in front of me.

  “Hey, no need to be like that. How about you give me a smile?” He grins, reaches for my arm, and is about to get a hot dog statue to the face and a knee somewhere lower when a sharp voice stops him.

  “Kevin!” A woman behind the bar with a dyed pixie-cut and dark purple lipstick slams a mug down on the bar, loud enough the other guys behind him jump. “Back off of her. And you tell one more woman in my bar to smile and you’ll be taking your Coronas intravenously, got it?”

  Kevin narrows his eyes at her, and gives me one last ogling look as if in defiance, but retreats back to the bar.

  I nod my thanks at the bartender, and she smiles at me. “He’s in the back there,” she says, jutting her chin towards the back of the bar, currently obscured by clumps of customers. It’s clear she knows who I’m here for. I’m guessing they probably don’t get a lot of out-of-towners here, not to mention ones as hot as Josh.

  I make my way around tables and pool sticks, and then freeze when I see Josh. He’s sitting at a table up against the wall, staring down at the empty glass in his hands. He looks miserable, his shoulders slumped and his dark hair falling over his eyes. My already broken heart manages to break further.

  I did this to him.

  I wonder if I should leave before he sees me. If I should just leave his life and stop hurting him.

  But I can’t. And more, I won’t. Not until I’ve tried to fight for us. If he wants me to leave then, well . . .

  I swallow past a throat that is painfully dry, and walk to the table.

  There’s a good-looking guy with light brown hair and a threadbare but still shockingly bright green shirt sitting next to him. Ben, obviously. I’ve never met him before, but even if Gabby hadn’t told me Ben was here I would have known it was him; Josh and I laughed at length one night when he was telling me about how Ben acquired that hideous t-shirt on clearance at Goodwill and insisted on wearing it pretty much nonstop just because Josh hated it so much.

  I’m glad Josh has someone like Ben in his life. Someone to pick up the pieces if I can’t put them back together.

  Ben sees me first, and sits up straighter. He nudges Josh, and says something to him. Josh looks up and we meet eyes and I feel tears well in mine.

  Damn it, Anna-Marie, I tell myself. Don’t cry. You’ve done enough of that. Just make it right.

  “Hi,” I say, when I get close to the table and find my voice. “Um. Hi, Ben.”

  “Hey,” Ben says, but he doesn’t look particularly thrilled to be meeting me, and I don’t blame him after what I did to his best friend. This definitely isn’t how I’d hoped to make a first impression on a guy Josh considers his brother. Ben clears his throat. “I’ll—uh, I’ll let you two . . . I’ll go find Gabby.”

  Josh gives him a look that has the faintest trace of amusement, but when those dark eyes find me again, that trace vanishes. There’s just that expression of sadness, of deep, deep loss.

  I know that feeling.

  I don’t bother asking if I can sit; I just pull out a chair across from him and do. Ben claps Josh on the shoulder once and walks off without looking at me. If I do manage to fix things with Josh, I have a feeling I’m going to have to do some serious damage control with Ben.

  I shift in my seat uncomfortably, and then set the statue on the table. “So I brought your Weiner.”

  And despite the misery etched into his expression, Josh actually laughs. God, it feels good to hear him laugh again. To be the one to make him laugh.

  He picks up the statue and then sets it back down again. “I feel like there’s a literal emasculation joke in that somewhere.”

  I smile. “In a giant foam hot dog? I think you’re reaching, Rios.”

  “Yeah, well.” His smile drops, and he looks back down at his glass. “I’ve always had a habit of that.”

  I draw in an unsteady breath. “Josh, I—” I start, just as he says, “I’m sorry about the picture—”

  We both cut off, and there’s a beat of this intense awkwardness that’s downright painful. I just need to get this out, but I can’t help but ask. “Picture?”

  He sighs and pushes his phone at me across the table. “I figured you hadn’t heard yet, what with the moose stealing your phone.”

  There on the screen is yet another internet gossip site. The page is scrolled down too far for me to see the headline, but there’s Josh, leaning against his car, his hand holding the bridge of his nose. You can’t see his face super clearly, but he’s definitely recognizable and he’s definitely crying.

  “Josh,” I say. “I’m so sorr—”

  He shakes his head and takes his phone back. “You don’t have to—”

  “Let me go first, please. I just need to—I want to—” I can’t seem to get the words out. My carefully prepared speech has vanished from my brain and I’m half tempted to blurt out “Yer a wizard, Harry,” and run. But Josh just nods, looking increasingly broken with each fumbled syllable, and I force myself to continue. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry for what I said, for how I hurt you. I’m sorry I messed it all up like—”

  “No, Anna-Marie,” he says, shaking his head. “You didn’t mess it up. Or at least, it wasn’t just you. If I hadn’t driven to Wyoming, if I hadn’t intruded on your life like that . . .” He lets that hang there, and my lungs seem to clench. He regrets coming to Wyoming entirely. Of course he does.

  Still, I need him to know. I need to try.

  “I shouldn’t have yelled those things at you,” I say. “It wasn’t fair, and—you never gave me any reason to doubt you. I was so scared, and mad at my dad, and the truth is, he’s the one I should have been yelling at.” I pause, running my fingernail along a crack in the table. “I mean, I did, after you left. Yell at him.”

  Josh’s eyebrows raise. “Really?”

  “Yeah. It didn’t go well. At first, anyway. Then we talked, and . . .” I shake my head. I can tell him all the details—and will, if he wants me in his life enough to know them—but I don’t want my issues with my dad to derail this. Those issues have derailed enough of my life. “Anyway, it was like I needed to finally say all the things to him that I’ve been keeping inside for years, you know? And he needed to hear them. And he did.”

  Josh’s lips quirk up in a faint smile. “I’m glad. The only thing I did before leaving town was shove Shane.”

  My mouth drops open. “You what?”

  He winces, and actually looks ashamed of this, though really I’m wishing I’d been there to see it, and possibly done some shoving of my own.

&
nbsp; “Yeah, I may have barged into his house and shoved him onto the floor and stepped on him while telling him what an asshole he is and that he’ll never work in my town.” He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t stick around to find out if he bought that.” Josh looks down at the table, like he expects me to be angry about this. And maybe I should be, but I’m not.

  “Thank you. For defending me. For always defending me, to everyone. I—I love that you care enough to do that.”

  He leans back in his chair and nods, but he won’t meet my eyes.

  “The other thing about talking to my dad,” I say, “is that it made me realize how wrong I was to accuse you like that. You’re not anything like him, and I know that. And I’m sorry I said you were.”

  He lets out a breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. When I said you’re—” he stares up at the ceiling like he can’t even look at me “—replaceable. It’s not true. It will never be true.”

  The tears prick at my eyes again, even as my heart swells with the first gasping sense of hope. “Really?” I can’t help but ask.

  He looks back at me, his brown eyes soft. And reddened from crying tears of his own. “Yeah. Really. Losing you hurts like hell; that’s the only reason I said that in the first place.”

  I nod, and brush away a tear that has leaked out. It does hurt like hell, but for the first time, I think maybe that’s a good thing.

  Maybe it’s supposed to hurt when you lose someone you love. Maybe it means you’re really in it.

  “Okay,” I say. “Okay. So I know I hurt you, and I’m a giant ass”—here he opens his mouth like he’s going to contradict me, or possibly make some comment about the relative smallness of my ass, but I’m too afraid to let him speak before I’ve finished— “but if you were willing to give me another chance, I promise I’ll do better.”

  His eyes widen, and his lips part again, but I keep going.

  “I mean, I’m still messed up. And I’m still scared. But I love you, and I want to be with you, and I’ll go to therapy or whatever to work on my issues, which, you know, I should probably have done years ago—”

  “Okay,” he blurts out.

  But my mouth is running too fast for my mind to process his response. “—And I promise I’ll actually talk to you about my fears instead of yelling them at you, and I know I’m not the greatest communicator and I have a tendency to throw shampoo bottles in people’s food, and there’s no way I’m going to be perfect at this, but I know now that I want to fight for us and—wait, what did you say?”

  He blinks and swallows before answering. “Okay. Yes. Definitely yes.”

  My heart skips a beat. He looks so much like a stunned deer in headlights—or maybe a stunned naked actress in headlights—that I feel the need to clarify. “You . . . still want to be with me?”

  With that, a slow grin spreads over his face and he gets up from the table just enough to take me in his arms and kiss me. And all that pain from our fight, all that anxiety I felt driving here, all of it drains away with his lips on mine, with our bodies pressed together. I am no longer fear and loss; I’m—we’re—hope and love and everything that feels right in the world.

  We make out long enough that people in the bar start whistling and cheering, and when we pull apart, I’m pretty sure I see a few people with their phones out.

  But I don’t care if these pictures end up on the internet. I don’t care about anything right now, except Josh. Whose wide grin back at me—and yeah, maybe his hand at the small of my back—is making my knees weak.

  “So you’re my boyfriend again?”

  “God, yes,” he says, then chuckles. “Though we pretty much suck at the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing, don’t we?”

  “It just—” I still don’t fully know how to explain this, but I want to. “I guess being a girlfriend feels like constantly auditioning. Constantly wondering if I’ll get the part.”

  Josh puts his hands on my waist, holding me close. “Halsey,” he says. “You’ve got the part.”

  My heartbeat speeds up—a surprise, because it was already going faster than Mikey’s coke-fueled drum solo. I bite the inside of my cheek. “Then maybe we could skip that step.”

  If I’d thought Josh’s grin was wide before, it’s nothing compared to now. His eyes gleam. “If you insist.”

  And then we kiss some more, despite the attention of the bar’s patrons and the thumbs-up from the smiling bartender. We don’t mind being the center of attention, Josh and I.

  Especially if we’re there together.

  Twenty-eight

  Anna-Marie

  We arrive at Josh’s place late in the evening the following day; neither of us were particularly interested in doing anything after leaving the bar other than finding a hotel and spending the rest of the night—and well into the morning—wrapped up in each other. Ben and Gabby didn’t seem to mind, even though they had to get a room for themselves, and then Gabby had to drive my rental car back, which left Ben by himself in his car—all so that Josh and I could drive back together.

  They really are incredible friends, and we owe them big time. For my part, I will definitely do better at overlooking Will’s issues with personal hair care property. And be legitimately happy for Gabby for her new living situation—which will be easier now that I really know our friendship isn’t limited to crappy apartments and even crappier coffeemakers.

  We walk into Josh’s living room, and he turns on the lights. He drops his duffel bag full of clothes near the door, and holds up the Golden Weiner. “I’ll need to find a place of honor for this. Especially since as good as the carne asada was, I think your uncle Joe’s hot dogs actually beat the ball park’s.”

  I smile. “Worth the drive?”

  He looks back at me, and his smile turns tender. “Definitely.”

  I laugh, looking around Josh’s living room, thinking of the Weiner resting on the dark wood coffee table next to the designer glass and pewter chess set. Or poking up from behind those bespoke mason jars he paid way too much for.

  And that’s when it finally occurs to me what this place is missing—it’s him. Not that he isn’t the guy who fits with classy, expensive decor, or the guy who needs to have an upscale place he can entertain clients. That’s definitely Josh Rios. But only part of him. And even before I knew that Josh has read every Harry Potter book at least a dozen times, I could tell his living space wasn’t reflecting the whole of his personality. It’s missing the Josh who tries to balance beer bottles on his head when he’s drunk. The Josh who does goofy French lobster impressions. The Josh who loves my snort-laugh.

  The Josh who is actually proud to have won a foam hot dog statue at my family reunion.

  “I’m sure we’ll find the perfect spot,” I say, and catch him grinning at me. I realize I said ‘we’ like I’d be involved in his decorating decisions. I realize I want to be, and not because I actually care all that much about decorating.

  He sets the statue down on the granite-countertop bar separating the kitchen from the living room. “Do you want a drink or anything?”

  I raise my eyebrow. “I think you know what I want. And I think you’re stalling.”

  “Maybe I need a drink.” He runs a hand through his hair.

  He’s nervous. Like actually, seriously nervous about this. Which, you know, makes sense. A man’s secret basement is a big deal. And if it was anyone but Josh who had a secret basement he was terrified to show me, I might actually be worried myself.

  I give him a smile. “If you’re not ready yet—”

  “No, I want to show you. I’ve just—I am worried this may actually send you running. I really wasn’t lying about being the biggest geek in the world.”

  I step forward and put my arms around him. “Just promise me you didn’t fake Alan Rickman’s death, and really he’s chained up down there, dressed up a
s Snape and brewing potions and sneering.”

  Josh smiles down at me. “Nothing illegal down there, I promise. Just criminally nerdy.”

  “Then I doubt we’ll have a problem. I am, after all, the girl who wrote Death Arsenal fan fiction. And not just, like, years ago, either.”

  “Fan fiction I still need to read.”

  “Basement first, Rios. Though . . .” I pause, my heart beating faster.

  He looks a little concerned, so I decide to plunge ahead.

  “I don’t have a ring yet,” I say. “Isn’t that breaking the rules?” We talked around this quite a bit on the long drive here—how we’re in this for good, how maybe neither of us, but particularly me, do well with a lukewarm level of commitment. How we both want something way more long-term than ‘girlfriend’ implies—something more like forever.

  We haven’t, however, gotten into cut and carat-level specifics.

  He lets out a small breath, and smiles. “I’m willing to bend the rules. Especially since it’s probably a little late for Tiffany’s to be open.” Then he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “That being said—how soon do you think you might want a ring? Or, you know, a certain formal and life-changing question?”

  My stomach feels fluttery, and though some of it is still residual fear, it’s mostly just excitement. And a kind of pure, perfect happiness.

  I look into his warm brown eyes. Eyes I want to still be looking into well past when we’re old enough the rest of our bodies aren’t worth studying all that closely. “As soon as you just can’t take not proposing to me another second,” I say, and he makes a little groan.

  “Are we sure Tiffany’s is closed?” he says, reaching for his phone.

  I laugh. “No more stalling.”

  He presses me tightly against him and sighs into my hair. “Yeah, okay. Basement first.”

  And even though I’m dying to see the world’s geekiest secret in this basement, I regret the moment he peels away from me, the moment I’m no longer in his arms. Luckily, I know it won’t be long before I’m back there.