“Josh,” he says, shaking his head, “if I fucked this up for you, I’m going to fix it. I’ll tell them that it was me, or that I was lying to her, or it’s all a joke. Whatever. I’ll get you out of this.”
I roll my eyes. “You can’t get me out of this. You don’t have that kind of power, Demerit. This isn’t like when we were in school. This is real. It’s Evie’s livelihood we’re talking about. My livelihood. Our reputations.” I resume pacing, my stomach in revolt. “I shouldn’t have created that dumb blog. I shouldn’t have taken it that far.”
“Look, I’m gonna help you fix this, but can I be the voice of reason?”
My mental computer screen freezes.
“No.”
“No?” He looks genuinely perplexed why I’m not jumping with glee to allow him to get me into more trouble. So I elucidate.
“If I let Drew be the voice of reason, we both know I’m totally fucked.”
Smirking, he stands and approaches me, an intent expression on his face as he puts his hands on my shoulders, then he realizes he shouldn’t touch me and takes them off quickly. If I weren’t so pissed, I’d laugh. Or punch him.
That said, between the aftereffects of last night and the fact that I’ve yelled at him—something no Cartwright would ever do in public—my anger is toned down. A notch. An eleven on a scale of ten. But he’s brave and he knows me, so he keeps talking. “Look. What if you didn’t do anything wrong? What if you just own it?”
What the fuck is he talking about?
“Own it?”
“Yep. You’re the guy with the colossal dick and proclivity to post it in weird, urban environments.”
I trudge over to the couch and collapse, defeat and bone-deep weariness weighing me down. “Dude. Really? That’s your answer?”
“Be the black sheep of the Cartwrights. They need a playboy roué.”
“You don’t even know what a roué is.”
“Doesn’t matter. The point is, what if you stop denying it and start building on it? I bet stock in Caligula Toys would soar. Not only are you internet famous, you’re for-real famous. I mean, your brother is running for nationwide office. Any publicity is good publicity, right?”
He’s so full of shit. He’s doing anything to get out of this. Groaning, I press the palms of my hands into my eyes, wishing I could somehow erase the last twenty-four hours. “No. What I did was wrong.”
“What you did was not wrong. It’s just your body. What’s wrong about your body?”
My arms fall to my sides. I stare at him with a slack jaw. The adrenaline washes away as fast as it came because I understand something now. For years, he’s been my best friend, which means that I know he’s stupid and I should’ve expected this. I’m mad at myself. There’s no use getting mad at Drew. It’s like getting mad at a dog for pissing on a fire hydrant. That’s what he does. He fucks up. Standard operating procedure.
I’ve always known this about him.
We haven’t gone through hell together without one or the other doing something wrong.
Normally him.
But I’m not going to throw away a two-plus decade friendship because my friend got a blow job. I’m a fan of them myself. And I know he wouldn’t have blabbed if he wasn’t drunk. So maybe that’s the problem we need to work on.
I look out the window. While darkness is gathering along the Willamette, a sign of Portland’s mercurial weather, the sunlight is still bright. The silhouetted buildings of downtown contrast starkly against the clouds. Despite my world stopping, outside it continues. All the people going in and out, carrying on with their lives. This shit about my identity doesn’t matter to them.
And a light goes on.
Maybe he’s right.
My idiot, wiseass best friend is right.
I answer his question. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong with my body.”
“There’s my boy,” says Drew, coming over and clapping me on my back.
“I’m like a Greek or Roman statute. My naked body is classical.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
I give him a look, and he steps away. “Just so we’re clear, you’re not forgiven. I’m still pissed, and you’re still a dick.”
“Obviously. I’m proud of your emotional maturity.” I snort-laugh. He shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Pizza tomorrow? Beer. On me?”
This is his white flag. “You’re buying for the whole year, douche.”
Nodding, he motions over his shoulder. “Want me to go explain all of this to your fam? I, uh, I deserve to stand at the gallows over what happened.”
Tempting. But in our fight club, I’ll take the hit for this. It’s my mess. He’ll owe me the next time. Because knowing him, there definitely will be a next time. “Nah. How will I ever get all that pizza if they chain you to the pipes in the basement?”
He laughs. “And they say bromance is dead.”
A hand smacks my windshield in front of my face, and I glare at the paparazzo, who’s blocking my parents’ driveway.
“Come on, Josh! That’s your blog, right? No one believes that press release!” he yells as I creep by him in my Audi.
I’m tempted to tell him to fuck off, which really wouldn’t help my situation.
But Drew’s weird little pep talk comes back to me, and instead of ducking in my seat or committing a rather public homicide, I smile at the guy and tell him through the glass, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
He looks more pissed, and my smile widens. Fucker.
The housekeeper lets me in and tells me everyone is in the back.
I pause at the threshold of the TV room, not a formal room that is open to the public, but one we live in. My dad and grandma are watching baseball on ESPN and eating Stilton and water crackers.
My dad is in a button-down shirt and chinos, talking with his mother, my grandma, whom you’ll never find in pants, even in private.
My grandmother is easygoing, and now that the shock is gone, I hope she’ll find the humor. It’s my mother who’ll need the sedatives.
Her Elegance, clad in slim, black satin trousers and a white silk blouse, pauses with a paper in her hand and looks up at me when I step in. She’s probably planning a charity event.
“Joshua, come in,” Mother says warily, surprised to see me, but hiding it behind her usual regal welcome. I didn’t call. I just drove over here with gritty determination.
“I need to talk to you and Dad.”
She raises one eyebrow and sets down her paper, her face echoing the one she used to get when Drew and I got in trouble as kids.
But I’m not a kid anymore.
With a click, my father mutes the television. All attention on me.
With a deep breath, I start talking.
“Please hear me out before you say anything.” I gather my thoughts and sit in one of the winged-back chairs across from them. “I’ve decided. I’m not going to deny I’m behind the blog. I’m going to issue a press release.”
My mother gasps, but the Band-Aid is off. “You will do no such thing. Let the lawyers handle it according to plan.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m gonna come clean about it. I think it’s pretty chicken-shit to hide like a criminal.”