Under the Lights

I take a shot of Patrón from the minibar in my bedroom, then brush my teeth until the smell of tequila is gone. There’s no way I’m making it through this night on no alcohol, and the fact that I don’t do my own driving means I never have to think twice about it. If I still did any of the harder stuff, now would be the perfect time to whip it out. But my dad can tell that shit from a mile away — it’s one of his only interpersonal skills — so alas, all I can do tonight is get good and liquored up.

“Ronen’s here!” Vanessa calls up, and I debate taking another shot, but I don’t have time to mask the smell a second time. I head out into the car with her on my heels — I’d avoid her completely if I hadn’t promised her a ride home in time for her to get ready for some bullshit date with her bullshit boyfriend — and make the mistake of glancing at her just long enough to catch her annoying smirk.

My nerves are jacked up the whole ride. Sending dirty texts to a bunch of different standbys doesn’t help, even though I’ve got plenty of offers I know will help alleviate the awfulness for a few hours after dinner. Everything else is more of the same — Paz trying to get me on a double-date in the hopes he’ll get some ass; Royce lauding some club we gotta go to; Jeremy sending me pervy pics of some chick he got with last night; no word from Liam.

By the time I reach the mansion, I’m in an even shittier mood, and I head straight for the bar as soon as I let myself in. I’m about to help myself to the Snow Queen — my dad’s favorite vodka — when I hear steps behind me and remember that I’m being fucking filmed.

“Hey, Josh!” By now, Chuck and I are apparently old friends. “We actually missed your entrance, but were hoping you could do it again and ring the doorbell this time, let your mom answer. Get a whole ‘prodigal son returns’ kind of shot.”

I have no idea what the fuck he’s talking about, but I need this night over with and I need not to be filmed drinking, so I do what he says and force myself not to throw up all over my mother’s Manolos.

“Josh, honey, it’s so nice to have you home.” She’s careful not to leave lip prints on my cheek, though her face is so heavily made up I’m sure she’s left some trace of it somewhere on me anyway. “I made your favorite. How was filming today?”

I assume I’m supposed to pretend I’m the busiest fucking worker bee in Hollywood, so I make some shit up, let them make us reshoot it a hundred times, and then we’re sitting at the table, a team of strangers watching us eat and filming asinine dinner conversation.

“This is so nice,” my mom says at some point. “I’m so glad we’ve decided to have these weekly family dinners.”

Weekly? There is no fucking way I’m putting myself through this pain weekly. “Me too.”

“Maybe next week you’ll bring a girl with you,” Mom teases playfully, as if that’s a natural tone for her. And as if I’ve ever brought a girl to meet them, ever.

“Doubt it.” I stuff a dinner roll into my mouth, hoping it’ll keep her from trying to get me to talk for a few minutes. It works, and she switches to gushing about her busy day to my father instead.

All of this only reinforces Ally’s point — there is no way in hell people will watch this shit. We’re boring as balls as a family, and even having me here doesn’t change that. If they were hoping I’d start some shit at the table, they’re gonna be sorely disappointed. Being docile and boring is even worse than not participating at all, I realize. I think my mom might even have been disappointed about the fact that I showed up in an outfit she couldn’t trash in front of the cameras.

Just then, the doorbell rings, and when my mother says, “My, who could that be?” I know there’s some sort of setup ahead that’s going to piss me off.

Sure enough, when my mother returns to the dining room, Shannah fucking Barrett is walking in behind her.

“Joshua, look who’s here!” Marsha gushes. “You could’ve told me you invited your girlfriend.”

“My girlfriend?” I glare at Shannah. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’ve missed you.” My ex-fuckbuddy strolls over and drops a kiss on my cheek before taking a seat in the chair next to me, where I realize, like an idiot, there’s been an extra place setting all along I hadn’t noticed. “I was so happy when you called to invite me.”

“Like there’s a flaming chance in hell I would’ve done that. I prefer my pork chops without a side of crabs via Garrett Morgan, thanks very much.” I look straight at one of the cameramen and narrow my eyes. “Are you seriously filming this shit?”

“Don’t worry,” Chuck assures us. “The final version will be very different.”

“As in, you’ll edit it so it looks like I’ve actually spoken to this skank in the last six months,” I clarify.

“Joshua!”

“Christ, Marsha. You really scraped the bottom of the barrel looking for additional on-air ‘talent.’ What the hell were you thinking?”

“Wow, Josh. Rude much?”