“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?
“Um, no?”
I hear her suck in air. My mother is a stunningly beautiful woman, but there is a small gap between her two front teeth. A scout for some New York modeling agency once told her that the gap added character to her beauty, and if she wanted a career as a model, all Mother had to do was pack her bags and move to Manhattan. My mother eschewed the idea, stayed in Texas and got married. A proper lady was interested in a husband, not a career. But she never got the tooth fixed, either.
“Today is Ashley’s wedding anniversary.”
I feel Jamie’s hand close over mine and realize that I’m clenching the arm of the chaise so tight it’s a wonder the metal doesn’t crumble. How typical of my mother to remember my dead sister’s anniversary when she hardly ever bothered to remember her birthday when Ashley was alive.
“Listen, Mother. I have to go.”
“Are you dating anyone?”
I close my eyes and count to ten. “No,” I say, but an image of Damien fills my mind.
“Does that no mean yes?”
“Mother, please.”
“Nichole, you’re twenty-four years old. You’re beautiful—assuming you haven’t gotten even bigger in the hips—but you’re not getting any younger. And with your—well, we all have flaws, but yours are so extreme, and—”
“Jesus, Mother.”