We dig in, going around the table sharing stories of our weekend and talking over the next show.
“I have an announcement,” Barry says.
Ron has made Barry his own special Sunday brunch: no fatty, salty casseroles but rather a protein shake, plate of fresh fruit and three grilled chicken breasts with steamed broccoli.
I should hate Barry, but he’s the only man left who can still score us free drinks.
Barry pulls out his cell and holds up a photo of a young man about the age of my rude server who resembles Patrick Schwarzenegger.
“Don’t you already eat enough chicken?” I ask.
“His name is Colton...”
We again groan collectively.
“...and he’s very sweet.”
I act as if I’m gagging.
“He’s pursuingme, if you must know,” Barry continues undaunted.
I roll my eyes. I actually didn’t realize they could go that far back in my head.
“Spare me,” I say.
Barry taps on his cell for a second and then holds it up again for us to see. A stream of texts—accompanied by a number of photos that would make the lemons in our trees turn red—goes on forever.
“Where did you meet Colton?” Sid asks.
“Oh, let me guess?” I add. “A dating app? How original.”
“No, it was very old-fashioned,” Barry says. “A real meet-cute. It was my chest day at the gym, and he asked if he could work in.”
“You’re right. That is so old-fashioned,” I say. “In fact, I think I saw that same scene in a movie at a bathhouse once.”
“Stop it!” Barry says, his voice rising suddenly. “He really is nice. Sweet as a date shake. He has his degree in theater...”
We all groan even louder.
“. . . and,” Barry continues unthwarted, “he wants to be an actor.”
This time, we pull off our bonnets and sling them at his face.
“He saw our show,” Barry says. “He loved it. He says he has some ideas. Oh, he’s calling! I’ll be right back!”
Barry leaps from his chair and walks to a chaise by the pool, where he takes a seat under a yellow-and-white-striped umbrella with fringe.
“Is hegiggling?” Sid asks.
“Maybe it is love,” Ron says with his forever-sunny demeanor.
“Right,” I say. “You know what Dorothy would say right now? ‘When a twenty-two-year-old girl marries a man who’s eighty, chances are she is not after his body,’” I say, before adding, “‘Even his.’”
“Eat, eat,” Ron says. “It’s getting cold, and I cooked all morning.”
I watch Barry as I eat. He’s sitting cross-legged like a schoolgirl on the chaise, leaning forward, holding the phone so tightly it looks as if it might break, his free hand drawing a heart on the orange Sunbrella fabric.
Am I jealous? A little.
