My dad said these names like they were supposed to be somehow significant to me, and I just nodded. “And they’re, um, good,” I said, starting to regret I’d ever said anything.
“Oh my god,” my dad said, shaking his head. He pointed to my phone. “Get Sabrina on the phone,” he said, in the kind of voice I’d heard him use in his D.C. offices, the tone that sent interns scurrying to do whatever he needed done.
“Um,” I said, even as I reached for my phone. “Why?”
“Because she needs to hear about this,” he said in a tone that absolutely didn’t invite discussion.
I called Bri, put the phone on speaker, and hoped she wouldn’t answer. When she did, on the third ring, I took a breath to start talking immediately, but Bri beat me to it.
“Andie,” she said, sounding happy to hear from me. “Hey! I’m . . . I’m actually really glad you called.”
“So here’s the thing,” I said, jumping in so that she would know my dad was on the line and wouldn’t start talking about how hungover she was, or my plans to sleep with Clark at some point in the undefined future, or anything. “Um, I’m here with my dad. He wanted me to call you. . . .”
“Wait, what?”
“Hi, Sabrina,” my dad said, moving over to speak into my phone. “Alexander Walker here.”
“Hi, Mr. Walker,” Bri replied politely, but I could hear the confusion in her voice.
“We have a situation here. We’re watching Rio Bravo—”
“Excellent choice,” Bri said, all the confusion gone now that we were talking movies.
“And my daughter apparently has never heard of Ricky Nelson or Dean Martin.”
“Andie,” Bri said, sounding scandalized. “What’s the matter with you?”
“What?” I asked, looking from my dad to the phone, feeling the need to defend myself. “What’s the big deal?”
“I’m sorry about this, sir,” Bri said, chagrined. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I just thought you should know,” my dad said, looking at me and shaking his head. “It’s a failure on my end too, of course.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” I said, picking up my phone and taking it off speaker. “It’s just me now,” I said to Bri as I headed out of the room.
“Not too long,” my dad called after me as he picked up some papers that were stacked on the coffee table. “We’re watching The Searchers after this!”
“Oh, that’s such a great movie.” Bri sighed as I closed the study door behind me and walked a few steps down the hall.
“Come over,” I said immediately. “I think we have some bagels left.”
“No, thanks,” Bri said, and I could hear the disappointment in her voice. “I’m on concessions for the five thirty show.”
“You’re working so much lately,” I said. Bri didn’t respond, and a moment later I felt bad for bringing it up—but more and more these days, it was getting harder to see her. She was either working at the Palace, or texting at the last minute that she wouldn’t make the Orchard or pool hangouts because she had to close up the theater.
“Yeah,” Bri finally responded. “I’m really sorry about that. Things are just . . . kind of crazy. At work.”
There was something in her voice that made me stand up straighter. Since Bri almost never told you what was bothering her until she was ready to, you had to learn to pick up on signals. And I had a feeling Toby would have sensed something from the very beginning of this conversation. “Is everything okay?”
There was nothing but silence on the other end of the phone. With every second that passed, I was getting more sure that there was something going on with her, even though I had no idea what it could be.
“Actually—” Bri started, just as my dad yelled, “Andie! Are you coming?”
“Ignore him,” I said into the phone, hoping somehow that she wouldn’t have heard him.
“It’s fine,” Bri said, and her voice was brisk and composed again. “I’m fine. I promise. I was just . . .” The sentence trailed off, and when she came back on the line, her voice was much more upbeat. “I’m fine,” she said again, “just have to get ready for work. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” Before I could say anything else, she’d hung up, and I was left looking down at the contact picture that filled the screen, of Bri and Toby either arguing while on the verge of cracking up or having their laughter interrupted by a fight, I’d long since forgotten which. I held the phone in my hand for just a minute more, wondering if she was going to call back, before giving up and returning to the study.
Three hours later I’d finished my second John Wayne movie of the day and was feeling emotionally depleted. “Man,” I said, as my dad turned off the TV and reached again for the stack of papers, pulling his reading glasses out of his pocket. “Didn’t John Wayne ever make a comedy? A musical or two?”