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“That’s exactly my point.”
“The lady doth protest too much,” Annelise adds, looking at Laura. “I think you might be on to something there.”
“That’s it. I’m going for a shower.” I throw down my bag and march for the bathroom.
“Hey, I was in line next,” Chrissy calls out.
“And then it was supposed to be me,” Gina says, but I give them all a sharp look.
“Yes, fine,” Chrissy says, “you deserve the hot water. But no leg shaving. I want to shower before the picnic.”
“Picnic?” I gesture to my wet self. “Do you have any idea what the weather’s like out there?”
“Have you looked out the window?” Gina asks with a cheeky smile.
Well, I’ll be darned. Full sunshine. The heavens were playing a trick on me.
“Listen,” Jess says, standing in the door of the bathroom as I try to peel off my crepe pantsuit. “You’re coming to this picnic with us. Don’t even try to say otherwise. We’re going to have a great time. We’ll get your mind off of everything that’s going on over there at the Cochon Noir.”
“It’s Bouchon Noir.”
“It is? But Cochon sounds so good.”
“Except that Cochon Noir means black pig.”
“Ohh.” Jess frowns. “I thought it meant black cushion. Sounded awfully fancy. Now go wash up. We’re leaving in an hour.”
I am still soaking wet, having just stepped out the shower, when my telltale ringtone echoes throughout the apartment.
Yes, it’s the Titanic theme song, and yes, everyone judges me for it.
But when we moved into this little place with six iPhones, we needed to each have our own sound. Every time something beeped, buzzed, or dinged, six of us would jump for our phones. I didn’t need to battle anyone for the use of “My Heart Will Go On” as my ringtone.
“Where is it?” I call into the room. “Someone grab it. It’s probably Mom and Dad.”
The next problem with a closet-sized apartment is that noise echoes in all directions and our stuff is everywhere.
“I think it’s over here,” Gina calls as she lifts a sweater. “Nope. Not here.”
“I’ll check in the kitchen.” Annelise drags herself from the sofa to glance into the corner with a fridge that we call the kitchen. “Nope. Not here.”
“Got it.” Laura holds up my phone in triumph just as it finishes ringing. “Sorry,” she says, the silent phone in her hand.
“No problem.” I urgently dry myself. Mom will call back in a minute.
I’m pulling my shirt over my head when, right on time, the Titanic flute sings out again. I answer on FaceTime.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, lovely. Hi, girls,” Mom sings out.
“Hi, Mom,” they all sing back. It’s a habit we picked up when we all got our first cell phones.
“Ah, you just got out of the shower. That’s why you didn’t answer.”
“That’s right, Mom.” No need to go into the details.
“Heading out?”
