I wrote a story so good no one believes it was me. I have to laugh.
@JosieTheJournalist: me: i have to wake up early so i should go to bed before midnight
my anxiety: how about reliving all of your past mistakes instead
The anxiety is back. Wait, who am I kidding? It never really left.
Part of it is because Alice and Monique keep suggesting we watch movies or different TV shows on Netflix and I don’t care about any of them, which only gives me more room to think about what people must be saying about me.
God, I’ve said so many things on Twitter that I can’t remember it all. People could comb through my account and come to a million different conclusions about the kind of person I am. I’m afraid to check it out myself. If I see the notifications, I might not be able to stop myself from looking through them.
But without my computer to look at, I can’t stop thinking. I called each of the women in the story—short, emotional conversations with lots of tears—but I wish I could take them to a private island so we didn’t have to deal with the news. Instead, I’m stuck inside my head and don’t know how to get out.
I wonder how Lennox felt when he saw my name in the byline. The thought of him being angry with me should be terrifying. But it isn’t. When I think of Lennox, my breathing doesn’t get faster and my heart doesn’t race. I just want to punch him, no anxiety involved. It’s kind of shocking.
My phone rings and Alice picks it up. I glance over at her as she reads the screen.
“Um,” she says, “I think it might be Marius.”
“What?” My stomach drops.
“That’s what the phone says.” She shrugs. “Do you want to talk to him or not?”
I didn’t mention him in the Lennox piece, but he still must be having a hard time, just like everyone else with a story. Before I can allow myself to chicken out, I grab the phone and accept the call.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.”
His voice sounds deeper, but it’s probably just the phone. I bite my lip.
“Marius—”
“Look.” He takes a deep breath. “I heard about the Lennox…about what you wrote.”
“Oh.”
“And I was gonna ask my publicist to ask you,” he continues. It sounds like he’s rehearsed this. “But then I just…I thought I should do it. So I just wanted to make sure that in the Deep Focus profile, you didn’t mention anything about what I told you. It’s really…private. My parents don’t even know.”
I blink, taking his words in. My throat is dry.
“Of course not,” I say, standing up. “I’d never do that. Ever.”
Monique glances over. I avoid her gaze.
“Okay.” He coughs. “And, um, if you could cut the parts where I talk about him, that would be really helpful.”
I want to ask if he’s still doing the movie. I want to ask how he’s doing. I want to ask if things are going to be this awkward forever—if we’ll even keep talking after this. But I don’t, because part of me doesn’t want to know the answer.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll talk to my editor about it.”
“Thank you.”
“Marius,” I say. My voice is soft. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” he says.
I want to say more—so much more—but the phone buzzes to let me know someone else is calling. The screen tells me it’s Mom.
“Listen,” Marius says, “I have to go.”
“Marius—”
“But it was an amazing story.” His voice goes soft. “I’m really glad you wrote it.”
He hangs up before I can reply. I suck in a shaky breath and accept the call from my mom.
“Hi, Mom,” I say. “It’s Josie.”
“Oh my goodness.” Mom’s voice hits my heart. I want to be back at home, want her to hug me, want to rest my head on her chest. “Josie, I’ve been trying to reach you for ages. Are you all right?”
“Mom,” I say, because it’s the first thing I can think of, “I—I’m with Alice. We’re okay.”
“I know, baby,” she says. “We keep seeing you on the news. I can’t believe it. I’m so proud of you.”
Something gets caught in my throat. I’m not sure if it’s a laugh or a sob. Alice’s head whips around and I avoid her gaze. She’s trying, I can tell, but I don’t want to have this conversation in front of her. The only private place in this apartment is the bathroom. I take the two steps and close the door behind me.
“I’m freaking out, Mom,” I say. My voice wavers with tears. “And it’s so bad, because I shouldn’t be freaked out, because this is good. When I was writing it, I didn’t think anything like this would happen. But it’s so big and so fast and I don’t feel like I have any control of it at all and I’m scared of everything.”
“Slow down, baby,” she says. Her voice is calm but stern. “It’s okay to feel what you feel. You’re my baby, so I’m almost as overwhelmed as you are. Understand?”
I nod. She can’t see me, but I know she understands.
“What are you worried about, Josie?”
“Everything,” I say again, because there’s so much going on that I don’t even think I can list it. “I wrote about what happened to me in middle school and I’m not sure if I should’ve. And people think I couldn’t have written it because I’m so young.”
“We know that’s not true.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s what other people think that matters—that’s what it feels like, anyway. And I want people to believe the women. But I don’t want my life to get ruined because I tried to help. I don’t want to get sued.”
“Wait a second. You aren’t getting sued.”
“Lennox said he was gonna sue the paper, which means I’m probably gonna get in trouble,” I say. My voice is hoarse with unshed tears.
