“God, I love this movie,” I say as the opening credits start up.
“Oh, is it good? I’ve never seen it.”
“K-drama.” I pause the movie and turn to her. “You’ve never seen The Usual Suspects?”
“Nope. It’s old, isn’t it?”
“Not exactly a classic—1995. I watch it at least once a year. How can you not have seen it?” I pause. “Wait. You know how it ends, right?”
“He was dead the whole time?”
“Wrong movie.” I collapse back into the buttery leather of my favorite couch in the house. “Wow. A person who doesn’t know how The Usual Suspects ends. How can you even call yourself an actor?”
“The movie’s older than I am! That’s not my fault.”
I sigh. “That’s a pathetic excuse. Now watch the movie. It’s gonna blow your mind.”
“Well, now, because you’ve said it, I’ll know exactly what’s coming.”
“No, you won’t. Trust me.” I hit Play.
But apparently she doesn’t trust me, because she spends the entire movie yelling out “Is he Keyser Soze?” every ten minutes or so. It’s both sorta cute and really annoying, and I could not feel smugger than during the final scene when she gasps and I know there’s no way in hell she saw that one coming.
“Gets me every time,” I say as I shut off the TV. “When my uncle showed me that movie, I thought it was the fucking greatest thing I’d ever seen.”
“How old were you?”
“No idea. Seven? Eight?”
She levels me with a look. “Your uncle showed you that movie when you were eight?”
“Honey, my uncle took me to a strip club for my thirteenth birthday. It’s still more time than my dad’s ever spent with me, so before you judge—”
She holds up her hands. “I’m not judging. Just trying to imagine how old I’d have to be for my parents to think that movie was appropriate for me. Probably forty. Maybe not even then.”
I snort. “They do realize you’re an actress, right? Like, they know you know all this shit’s just special effects and whatever? Anyway, aren’t you a little old to have your parents telling you what to do?”
Her mouth twists into a grimace. “I still live with them, remember? And can we not talk about it?”
“Considering this is the second night in the past week you’ve stayed at my place, maybe you need to stop living with them. It’s a good sign it’s time to get out on your own when you’d rather be here with me.”
At least she cracks a smile at that. “Fair point. Though I’m not the only one who needs to get out. You really think clawing your nails into this house is worth letting your mom boss your career around?”
“What career?” I mutter. “I can’t afford to get my own place in which I’ll be able to live in the style to which I’ve become accustomed.”
She rolls her eyes. “Josh, you’re nineteen. You don’t need to live in a massive beach house with state-of-the-art everything. I promise, most of us do just fine without it.”
“You don’t seriously think I’m going to take real estate advice from someone who still lives with her parents, do you?” I snap. It’s not like I don’t know she’s right; I know I don’t need all of this. But K-drama’s got Daylight Falls. So does Liam, on top of his crazy, growing movie career. Royce has got a decent little house in the hills, and he’s also got his zombie movie franchise.
This house — these parties and my reputation — they’re all I fucking have.
But there’s no way in hell I’m gonna be telling that to K-drama. Or anyone else, for that matter. Not like she’d understand, anyway.
I expect a fiery response from her, so I’m surprised when she says, quietly, “It just sucks, always being under other people’s thumbs, doesn’t it? Like, a billion people would kill for what we have, and I’m grateful for all of it. But I don’t think other people realize what we give up to maintain these images, you know?”
Or maybe she gets it completely.
I’m about to voice my agreement, to spill the thoughts that have been bugging me for days, when she purses her lips, tosses off the blanket, and gets up. “On that overshare-y note, I think I’m gonna go to bed. It’s crazy late.”
So much for that. She hands me her empty water bottle for recycling, and then we say good night. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her to reconsider staying in the guest house when I’ve got a perfectly good guest room in here — not to mention plenty of extra space in my king-size bed — but it’s pretty clear that wouldn’t be well received.
Instead, I watch her go. Only once I see through the glass French doors that she’s disappeared into the guest house do I finally turn off the TV and all the lights and go to bed alone.
Chapter Eighteen
Vanessa
The bed in Josh’s guest house could not be comfier, but after hours of tossing and turning and drifting off for no more than twenty minutes at a time, it’s clear a full night’s sleep will not be happening. When the first light of the sun starts to peek through the windows, I give up on trying, grab my phone, and let myself out of the house and onto the beach, snatching a couple of towels from the poolside on the way.
It’s chilly next to the water, even with both towels wrapped around me, but it’s so peaceful I decide to stick it out. I’d go jogging if I had any shoes here other than four-inch Louboutins, but since I don’t, I sit and watch the few people who are, amid the seagulls and the crashing waves.
I’m gay. I can’t get those words out of my head. I can’t stop imagining saying them to my parents, to my friends, to the media. They sound fuzzy enough in my brain; I still haven’t been able to force them out of my mouth. I’m afraid to even now. What if instead of getting lost in the waves, they get carried on the water?
I clasp my hands together around my knees, feeling lonelier than I ever remember. I hate that I can’t talk to anyone about this. I hate that the person who’s become my confidante since Ally left is also the person at the center of my current inner turmoil. All I ever meant to be with Bri was friends; how did that spin so far out of control? And how did it take me this long to figure out what I want? Who I am?
Next to me, my phone rings, cutting into my thoughts, and I look down to see Ally’s name and picture on the screen. I’ve been dying to talk to her, but now I hesitate. I don’t know how to say this to her over the phone, to tell her I’m not the person she thought I was — not the person we thought I was. I don’t know if it changes things, but I know I don’t want it to. I think of how often we’ve tried on clothes for each other, swum together, seen each other in next to nothing. Never once did I look at her as anything more than a friend. It would kill me if she thought I had.
Still, I need to hear her voice. I scoop up the phone and answer it. “Hey, A. Guess you got my text.”
“I just did,” she says, yawning. “How do you sound more awake than I do?”
“I never really went to sleep,” I admit. “I’m actually sitting on the beach right now. It’s pretty nice first thing in the morning.”
“Are you…at Josh’s?”
“I stayed in his guest house.” I dig my fingers into the sand until I hit the damp layer underneath. “It was a weird night. I couldn’t go home.”