The Girlfriend Stage

by Janci Patterson

  Somewhere in the middle of this utterance, I realize I haven’t heard Ty moving around behind the game racks in a while, and he’s not one to hold still unless he’s found someplace very small to hole up.

  If he gets stuck behind some game store rack and requires the fire department to extract him again—

  “Ty!” I call. I stand on my toes to try to peer over the racks of board games and dangling novelty keychains. No Ty.

  “—that love like that is just around the corner, you know?” she continues, as if I haven’t said a word. “That I could just meet some guy and we’ll fall madly in love like you two, you know, that kind of love that can weather anything and—”

  I take a step back to peer around the racks. I don’t see Ty, but I also don’t see any small spaces he might have climbed into. He hasn’t done that in a while, so he’s probably outgrown it. I dearly hope.

  But the door to the store is wide open.

  Shit.

  “Ty!” I call again, hoping he’s just outside the door, jumping from star to star on the sidewalk. I reach for my card, but the cashier is still clutching it to her.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, and I mostly am, but my nerves are spiking because Ty’s eight, and though he’s not about to run out into the street or anything, no amount of discussion about not talking to strangers has ever done any good. “I need to hurry, my son is—”

  “—and I mean, really, if he was as hot as Alec, I wouldn’t care much if he could sing, you know what I—”

  “I really need my card, please,” I say, taking a few steps toward the door. I can’t see Ty on the stoop out front. Shit shit shit.

  I don’t have time for this. I stomp back to the counter and lean across it enough to rip my credit card away from her chest. Then I grab the plastic-wrapped game I just bought and hurry out onto the sidewalk, avoiding seeing the look of shock or betrayal on her face.

  It’ll be one of those five-minute twitter storms I hate. She’ll tweet about how awful I am—tweeting it right @ me, no doubt, so I don’t miss it—and lots of fans will jump to my defense and others will say how they always knew I was a bitch and Alec could do so much better.

  You’re welcome to him, I wish I could say.

  “Ty!” I call again, looking both directions. To the left, a long stretch of street has a few tourists taking pictures of the Hollywood stars, and a homeless man sitting cross-legged and appearing for all the world like he’s meditating. No sign of Ty. To the right, there’s a liquor store, and then the street intersects with Hollywood Boulevard proper. I hope with everything in me that he’s just around that corner.

  It’s a short jog to the corner—would be shorter, I suppose, if I was wearing something more practical than my three-inch-heeled black boots—but my mom brain has already summoned every nightmare scenario that could come to my child because of my neglect.

  “Ty!” I yell as I turn the corner. And there I see him down the street, my little boy in the sweater vest and button-down he insists on wearing even during the summer, his mop of golden hair picking up rays of sunshine. He’s standing in front of a busker with a cello. He turns and waves.

  “Hi, Mom!” he calls brightly. Like he didn’t nearly just give me a heart attack.

  My relief is immediate and near-overwhelming. I let out a breath, my pounding heart starting to slow.

  Still, for him to just run off like that, in this part of town . . .

  “Ty!” I say, in the voice that usually precedes him losing video game privileges. “You can’t just run off like that.” As soon as I get close to him, though, I give him a hug—more for me than for him, since clearly he wasn’t the least bit afraid.

  “I didn’t run off. I was listening to the music.”

  And that’s when I really see the guy holding the cello.

  The incredibly good-looking guy holding the cello.

  He looks about my age, and has a kind of casual but preppy vibe, with a blue button-down open over a plain gray t-shirt and nice, dark-wash jeans. The blue in his shirt heightens the clear blue of his eyes, and his blond hair falls just over his ears. He’s giving me The Look—the one that says he recognizes me but doesn’t know where from. I’m really used to that look, especially when I’m not with Alec.

  He’s also giving me another kind of look I’m not totally unfamiliar with—the one where his gaze drifts down and back up. Where his lips twitch in a kind of stunned smile.

  I know I should be thinking about filling that position in our band, but maybe not with a guy this sexy.

  I don’t think Alec would appreciate that.

  Felix

  This kid’s mom looks up at me, her pale gray eyes taking me in. She tugs down the hem of her short black lace dress, which hugs her figure and ends mid-thigh—and rode up higher when she bent to hug the kid. She looks familiar, but I’m sure I don’t know her, because I would definitely remember a woman this gorgeous. With her long black hair streaked with bright red highlights, she has a sort of punk-rock beauty that’s intimidating as hell, but in a good sort of way. She looks about my age—way too young to have a six-year-old. But he did call her mom.

  “He’s good like Mason,” Ty says. “You should hear him play.”

  The woman smiles, and I see her check me out and like what she sees. “Is that right?”

  Now my hands are sweating for an entirely different reason. I’ve never exactly had trouble with women, but it’s been years since I’ve hit on anyone while sober.

  “Yeah, well,” I say. “I hear Mason is a douche.”

  She looks sharply down at Ty, and he grins up at her. “Mason is a douche,” she says. “But you don’t have to tell that to everybody.”

  “It’s okay, Mom,” Ty says. “He says he’s not the pope.”

  She laughs, a clear, good-natured sound that makes her even more beautiful.

  “I get asked that a lot,” I tell her.

  Her eyes crinkle as she smiles at me.

  I gesture to the box she’s carrying. “That game is terrible,” I say. “Have you played it lately? It’s all bankruptcy and dead-end jobs.”

  “Like real life,” she says, and I smile.

  “Yeah. Way too real.”

  “I’m going to win,” Ty says. “I always win.”

  She shakes her head at him. “I might beat you at this one.”

  “No way,” he says. “I’m going to be a doctor and have all the kids.”

  “We’ll see,” she says. I expect her to herd the kid away, but instead she looks me over again, her eyes lingering on my cello.

  “I hear you’re a musician,” I say. If she’s wanting to stick around longer, I’m more than happy to keep the conversation rolling.

  She shrugs. “I play piano a little. But you definitely look like you know how to straddle that thing.”

  I grin at her, and she smiles back, the suggestion passing back and forth between us, and apparently over the head of the kid, who is eyeing the condoms in my cello case. “Can I have one of your candies?” he asks.

  “No,” I say, too quickly. “They’re . . . not very good.”

  “What do they taste like?” he asks.

  I open my mouth, but no words come out. I look up at the kid’s mom, waiting for her to bail me out, but her eyes dance instead, and for a moment I can’t look away.

  “Rubber,” I say.

  She laughs again and the little boy squints up at her. I run my hand down the neck of my cello, unable to stop smiling.

  “Well,” she says, and she’s got this mischievous quirk to her lips that kills me. “Why don’t you play for me? I’d like to see your fingering.”

  Ty looks back and forth between the two of us, and I sure as hell hope he isn’t understanding.

  “Happy to please,” I say, picking up my bow.

  I’ve been
playing Johnny Cash all afternoon—I made up my own covers of his songs back in high school as a way to warm up and wind down from more difficult practice.

  But for this girl, I want to play something different.

  I choose an Apocalyptica cover of “Enter Sandman.” It’s complex and beautiful and interesting—all the things I’m imagining she is after only a few moments of meeting her. I look up at her while I play, and her expression has gone from amused to impressed. She likes what she hears, and she’s paying enough attention to what I’m doing that I’m wondering if she may know a thing or two herself.

  When I finish, her face is serious. “I’m going to give you my number,” she says, reaching into her purse.

  My mouth falls open a little, and I smile. “I won’t argue with that.”

  “I want you to come audition for my band,” she says.

  I blink. “Your band.”

  “Yes,” she says, holding a card out to me. “I’m Jenna Rollins, from Alec and Jenna. We’re going on tour in a few weeks and we just lost our cellist—”

  I lose track of what she’s saying as my brain stutters over the first part. That’s why she looked familiar. She’s Jenna. From Alec and Jenna. I’ve heard stuff from their new album playing on the radio, noticed the cello pieces, but that’s not what stops me.

  Alec and Jenna are in love, like dramatic-movie. kiss-in-the rain, roll-end-credits” kind of love—most of their songs are duets about their relationship. She was a teen mom and Alec stepped in and parents her kid—this kid. Their perfect couplehood practically is the band. If they’re going on tour then there hasn’t been some breakup I didn’t hear about.

  But there is no way in hell she wasn’t just hitting on me.

  Shit, I think, and then realize she’s waiting for me to respond. “Your cellist is Mason Brenner,” I say. “He’s good. I’ve heard him play.”

  “He’s also a douche,” she says. “So we’re in the market.” She’s still holding out the business card, and I take it. It’s done in sleek grays and black, and behind her name and phone number is the Alec and Jenna “AJ” logo.

  “Let me give you my number, too,” I say, because I’m not sure how I’m going to convince myself to call up Jenna Rollins and ask to audition for her and her boyfriend. Especially because she’s even more beautiful in person.

  “Sure.” She pulls out her phone. “And you are?”

  “Felix,” I say. “Felix Mays.”

  She smiles at me, and I get the sense that she knows exactly how confused I am. I’m beginning to wonder if she and Alec have some kind of open relationship they somehow manage to keep secret.

  I give her my number, though I have to fish it out of my phone. It’s a new one, on my dad’s phone plan, so my dealer can’t reach me and my old friends can’t call. Which means the contacts list on this thing is embarrassingly bare, but I’m not about to show her that.

  Jenna fidgets with the clasp on her purse, still smiling. “I really hope you’ll audition for us. I’d love to work with you.”

  I can’t imagine why that would be, but I also know I can’t turn it down. “What do you want me to play for the audition?”

  “Anything,” she says. “But preferably something you love.” And then she puts a hand on her son’s shoulder and he waves at me, and they walk off down Hollywood Boulevard along the row of stars.

  I grip my bow, stare after them, and wonder what the hell just happened.

  Two

  Felix

  My sister Gabby calls while I’m packing up. When I answer, she sounds nervous, which for Gabby means overly enthusiastic, like a cheerleader on uppers.

  “Hey, Felix! How’re you doing!”

  I know exactly what she means to ask. “Hey, Gabs,” I say. “Still clean.”

  She lets out a tiny relieved sigh and her voice dips to a more natural pitch. “That’s good, Felix. Really good.”

  “Agreed.” Now, with that out of the way, we can have a conversation without her trying to discern the state of my sobriety from unrelated news. Any less direct answer would only serve to increase her anxiety. I don’t fault her for it. She loves me, and I put her through hell. Any response she deems “dodgy,” and she’ll be peppering me with questions designed to divine the truth without having to outright ask.

  Probably because she’s learned from experience that if I’m back on drugs, I’m not going to answer honestly.

  “You will never believe what happened to me today,” I say.

  “You still coming over for dinner?” she asks. “You can tell me all about it. Will has his critique group tonight and I’m just getting off my shift now, so I can grab us some take out.”

  “We’re still on,” I say. Before I got out of rehab this last time, I’d only spoken to my sister once in six months, when she came to visit me in treatment and stared at me like I’d been diagnosed with a terminal brain tumor. When I got out, I begged her to give me my cello back so I could make money doing something other than cashiering at the gas station, where not only would half the clientele be high, but the meniality of the job made it a constant fight not to put a needle in my arm.

  She’d cautiously agreed, getting it from where she’d had it stashed in a climate-controlled storage unit to which only her boyfriend had the key. I’d known when I started using again that she was the only one I could trust to keep me from pawning it, even if I begged her or broke into her apartment. Both of which I did.

  God, she has every right to hate me. But I’m beyond thankful she doesn’t. And more, that she actually seems to want me back in her life.

  “I’m feeling Chinese,” Gabby says, and I know she’s talking about this crazy place she loves.

  “Get me the Mountain Dew Chicken,” I say. “And a couple of those breakfast egg rolls. The ones with the sausage.”

  “Done. See you at my place in an hour?”

  “Give me an hour and a half,” I say. “I’ve got to run by the clinic first.”

  Gabby pauses and takes a deep breath. I’ve told her that the medication is prescribed, and I can only take it under supervision of the clinic at least for another week or two, but I know it still makes her nervous. I don’t blame her. Suboxone is an opiate, and I’m in recovery. I didn’t want to stay on the stuff myself, but my therapist sat me down with the numbers and convinced me I had a much better chance of staying clean if I let the maintenance drugs block some of the cravings, probably for a couple of years.

  “Okay,” Gabby says. “See you in a few.”

  I hang up, empty my cello case of today’s earnings, and put my cello away. I’m not loving the dirt left behind by leaving her case open, so I’m thinking if I want to keep doing this I might need to get my backup case from my dad’s place for money collection.

  If I don’t get a job with Alec and Jenna, which seems so far-fetched I’m beginning to wonder if I imagined it.

  Except there’s her card tucked in my pocket, next to my chip.

  I load my cello into my dad’s spare car and drive halfway back to Valencia to the clinic. It’s at the facility where I did rehab—my dad read an article while I was still doing inpatient about people finding drug dealers out of corner Methadone clinics and insisted I do all my outpatient treatment at an upscale facility. I was fairly certain this was because he cared about me staying sober and not because he wanted to brag to his friends about how much my treatment cost. It doesn’t make the treatment easier, but it does keep me out of sketchy neighborhoods where I would be more likely to find a dealer, so I didn’t argue. After peeing in a cup (to ensure I’m not on heroin, and that I am on Suboxone) and swallowing my pill in front of the nurse, I head back down to West Hollywood to Gabby’s apartment.

  Gabby opens her door and throws her arms around me, and already I can smell the delicious scents of Fong’s, creators of all things that don’t belong toge
ther and yet somehow do. I squeeze her back, and she holds on way longer than she used to. We were close before I went to New York, and I wish I could put things back the way they were.

  I wish a lot of things I can’t make happen.

  Gabby lets me into her new apartment—I still think of it as her new place, though she’s been here almost a year—which is a mismatched mess of mod furniture and stuff she bought on Craigslist.

  “Still working on the exorcism of Sarah?” I ask. Last time I was here, all the furniture had been purchased by Will’s ex-fiancée. Now Gabby’s footprint is starting to contend with hers, at least.

  Gabby rolls her eyes. “Getting closer. But until we sell that couch—” she points at a high-backed, sharp-angled purple couch that dominates the living room—“we can’t afford to buy another one.”

  “I’d buy it from you, but I don’t have a room to put it in.”

  She raises an eyebrow at me. “There are only two kinds of people in this world. Those who can afford to buy our couch, and those who want it. I’m guessing you’re in category B.”

  I smile. “Yeah. And I owe Dad enough money to buy a house in a lot of places.” I pause. “Not in LA, though.”

  Gabby gives me a look that screams pity, and I wish I hadn’t said that. It’s my fault I’ve been in rehab three times. It’s my fault I didn’t stay clean the first time. Or the second.

  “Are you going to pay him back for rehab?” she asks. “You know he doesn’t expect it.”

  I shrug. “I know. And it’ll probably take me the rest of my life, but I want to try. I want to pay back all of it—even though Dad said I should just pay him back for the two times I screwed it up.”

  “Ha,” Gabby says. “That sounds like him.”

  Gabby dumps food on plates and we eat it on the purple couch, which is more comfortable than it looks. “Okay, so tell me about this incredible thing that happened to you today. Did you get thrown a fiver by Angelina Jolie?”

  I smile, glad she finally asked. I’ve been dying to tell this to someone. To even say it out loud. “Better,” I say. “I got hit on by Jenna Rollins.”