“I thought of everything,” she says proudly, and proceeds to unpack the juice, the cups, a bag of chips, a jar of salsa, and a small plastic bowl.
“I love Sunday,” I say, taking the mimosa that Jamie hands me and holding it up in a toast.
“No shit.”
We settle down on our lounge chairs, sipping and talking about nothing in particular. Fifteen minutes later, I’ve finished my drink, Jamie’s finished three, and we’ve made a blood pact to go to Target that very afternoon and buy a coffeemaker that brews coffee instead of swill.
That’s apparently all the conversation Jamie can stand, because she closes her eyes, tilts back her head, and starts to soak up the sun.
I, however, am antsy.
I shift around on the lounge for a few minutes, trying to get comfortable. Then I give it up and go upstairs to fetch my laptop. I’ve been fiddling with a pretty simple iPhone app, and I run what I’ve coded so far through the simulator before settling into the fun part. But in the end I spend only a half hour or so with coding, declaring objects, synthesizing properties, and creating various subclasses. The day is just too lazy for even easy programming work. Besides, the glare from the sun makes it hard to see the screen. I shut down my computer and head back into the apartment, this time returning with my camera.
The pool area is not beautiful, but the cracked concrete and splashes of water make for some interesting close-ups. A flowering plant I don’t recognize grows near the fence, and I grab a few petals and toss them in the pool, then lay on my stomach, trying to get a shot of only flowers and water, with no hint of concrete from the pool or the deck.
After a few dozen shots, I turn my attention to Jamie, trying to capture on film the way she looks at peace, in such contrast to her usual frenetic persona. I actually get some amazing shots. Jamie’s got the kind of face that the camera loves. If she ever gets a break, I think she has a chance of actually getting work as an actress. But getting a break in Hollywood is about as common as, oh, being offered a million dollars for your portrait.
I almost laugh out loud. Now there’s someone I’d love to photograph. I close my eyes and imagine light and shadow falling across the angles of that amazing face. A hint of stubble. A slight sheen of sweat. Maybe even his hair slicked back after a dip in the pool.
I hear a faint noise and realize it’s me, moaning softly.
Beside me, Jamie stirs. I sit up straighter, trying to shake off the fantasy.
“What time is it?” The question’s rhetorical, as she’s picking up her phone to check the time even as she asks. I glance at the display. Not quite eleven. “I told Ollie he should come hang with us today,” she says, her voice a little groggy. “I mean, it must suck with Courtney out of town, and I thought he had a good time last night, didn’t you?”
“He looked to be,” I say. “But you’re the girl who can force anyone to have a good time on a dance floor.”
“Ha! I was so not forcing him. That boy may not admit it, but he likes to dance.” She peels off her T-shirt to reveal a pink bra that she apparently assumes will pass as a bathing suit top. “Do you think he’ll come?”
I shrug. As much as I love Ollie, I don’t really want brunch company. Going out would mean getting dressed. Staying in would mean cooking. “Call and ask.”
“Nah. It’s no big deal. If he comes he comes.” She sounds suspiciously nonchalant.
I take a sip of my mimosa and shift on the chaise so I can see her better. “He wants me to wear a tux at the wedding,” I say, stressing the last word. “Because I’ll be his best man. When he gets married.”
“Oh please, Nikki. I am not banging Ollie. Quit worrying.”
“Sorry,” I say, but I’m genuinely relieved. “Sometimes I think you need these little reminders.”
“But were you serious about the tux? Because that’s just so eighties. Or maybe the seventies? When did Annie Hall come out? That’s the movie where Diane What’s-Her-Face wore the men’s clothes, right?”
“Diane Keaton,” I say. “Annie Hall, and it’s classic Woody Allen from 1977. Honestly, James, it won Best Picture. How can you not know this? You’re the one who wants to work in Hollywood, not me.”
“I want to work in Hollywood now. Not before I was born.”
I’m sure there’s a great comeback lurking out there—something about Saw: Part 27—but before I can articulate it, my cell phone rings. Jamie shoots me a smug look, satisfied to have gotten the last word.
I glance at the caller ID, silently swear, then push the button to answer the call. “Mother,” I say, forcing myself to sound glad to hear from her. “How did you—” I see Jamie’s guilty expression and know exactly how she got my number. I cough and backtrack. “How did you get so lucky to call when I actually have time to talk?”
“Hello, Nichole,” she says, making me cringe. “It’s Sunday morning. You should be at church trying to meet a nice man, but I had a feeling I’d catch you at home.” For my mother, religion is on par with The Bachelor.
I can tell she’s waiting for me to say something, but I never know what to say to my mother, and so I stay quiet. I’m actually proud of myself for managing the feat. It’s taken a lot of years for me to reach this level of defiance. And being fifteen hundred miles away helps, too.
After a few moments, she clears her throat. “I’m sure you know why I’m calling.” Her voice is low and serious. Have I done something? What could I have done?