“Yes.” I sat up, taking as much time as I needed. My head was not screwed on tight. I took deep, even breaths to keep the nausea down. “Nothing. Even when I don’t go out of my way to talk to her, she keeps quiet.”
“Something’s not right,” he said, almost to himself.
“No,” I agreed, yawning. Even my jaw hurt.
“You don’t sound good,” he said.
“I don’t feel good.” A small crack sounded in the recesses of my mind when the image of our dead van suddenly appeared in my head. I laughed like I had out on that cliffside, like a loon, ignoring the pains and the extreme nausea. I wasn’t sure what came over me, but it brought me under.
Once I calmed some, Brando cleared his throat. “You only laugh like that when you’re headed for a breakdown. I know you.”
“Maybe I am,” my voice broke. “It was hard for me to leave you, Brando.”
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“Because you wouldn’t have gone.”
“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t have.”
I picked at the blue gingham blanket. I had to redirect his attention and mine—my lip trembled. I hadn’t gotten this far without crying to give in now. I could do this for another week. “The van going over the cliffwasfunny. Brando, you had to see it!”
“That could have been you in that van, Scarlett.”
“Could have, but it wasn’t. Did the guys think it was funny?”
I could sense his smug smile. “Yeah, until they found out that their wives were huddled on a bus full of pro soccer players after.”
Violet came in then, waving her magic wand of splendid tea, her camera around her neck. “Time to get up, you fierce wee dancer!”
“Irish Violet?” Brando said.
“Yes.” I laughed some, reaching out with a give me gesture. The tea was warm in my hands and smelled of manna. It had a wonderful lemon and honey taste to it.
“Come on, the girls who don’t have men between their legs want to go shopping. Despite the soreness, my heels are up to it. How about yours?”
I almost spit my tea out, not ready to have that conversation yet. Brando didn’t notice or had assumed she was talking about all of the dancing. I could tell he started to tense again, not ready to say goodbye.
“Oh,” Violet mouthed when she realized. She took a step back, adjusting her camera. She snapped a picture of me, tea in one hand, phone against my ear, propped up by the shoulder, leather jacket covering my top, white sheet covering everything but my heels. I knew my hair was no better than I felt.
“Why do you keep taking pictures of me?” She had been snapping shots of me lately, especially when she thought I wasn’t looking.
She snorted. “Ask your husband. By the way,” she screamed toward the phone, “your wife’s boobs look amazing under that leather jacket!”
I threw the hefty travel magazine on the nightstand at her. She laughed and shut the door just in time. Then it opened a crack, only her lips visible. “Be ready in twenty!”
“What’s she talking about?” I asked him after she had shut the door again.
“I told her to take pictures of you. For me. So I’ll be able to see what your time was like.”
“Oh,” I said, and my lip started to tremble again. I sniffed, hoping I could contain it all.
“Take a picture of your boobs for me under the leather jacket.”
It was so unexpected that I laughed, louder than I intended to. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder...”
He muttered something about growing firmer, but then turning directions, he sighed, so heavy, so strained. “Be careful. Do you hear me, Ballerina Girl? When I text you, no matter how good the sale, you text me back.”
“All right.” Before he could hang up, I stammered out, “I love you. One week to go.”
