Mira Jacob - The Sleepwalker's Guide to Dancing

“Who else’s permission did Lesley get?” she asked.

There was a pause, and then the sound of shuffling paper. “Okay, so the Lorbers, obviously. The passed-out grandma reminds me of Snow White in the coffin. Dara Lynn Rose is fine with us using the one where she looks like she’s going to kill her husband with the hairbrush. And Caitlin McCready signed off on her sisters wrestling over the bouquet. She wanted a signed printed copy, too, which is what I’m offering people if they seem hesitant. Um, what else … Oh! Lorraine Spurlock looking up at her father all moon-eyed. Is that as gross as I think it is?”

“It’s her stepfather.”

“Disgusting. But good for us. Lila Ward is fine with the ring bearer wetting his pants, the Abouselmans signed off on sad wheelchair grandpa on the dance floor, the Freedens are pretty close to releasing Dad handing the check to the caterers, and the Murphys haven’t decided on the best man pissing in the corner of the tent.”

“That’s eight.”

“Yeah.” Dimple took a breath. “Jane owns the puking bridesmaid. I thought she might want to share it. It looks better for the business, ultimately, if she’s on board.”

“Let me guess how that went over.”

“Mmm.”

“And the other?”

“Bobby McCloud.”

“No.”

“ Yes . It’s the reference point. The catalyst. It makes everything that follows make sense.”

“But it’s not even a wedding photo.”

“No, it’s a Microsoft party-boat photo. It works, trust me. I will make it work.” Dimple shut what sounded like a filing cabinet. “Listen, we are going to retell that story, okay? Do you get that? This is your chance to set the record straight.”

She had switched tones again, imbuing her voice with the kind of self-importance that had served her well in the gallery community, those trusted to be the arbitrators of meaning when the artists behind the work had lost track of their own narratives. A pulse beat between Amina’s eyes. She eased it with her thumb.

“Ami? You there?”

“Kind of.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you this week,” Dimple said after a moment. “I got your messages and all this stuff was going down and I just wanted to get some of it sorted before I talked to you. Anyway, how are things? When are you coming home?”

It seemed impossible now to have a conversation about anything else. Amina took a deep breath, trying to gear up. She turned her head slightly, her father’s trophy sneaking into the periphery of her vision, and waited for the news to find its way out of her.

“I think,” Jamie said that evening, his heart thundering under her ear, “you just raped me.”

They were on the floor in between the foyer and the living room. Overhead, ceiling fans spun in lazy circles.

Amina rolled off of him, onto the tile, where her underwear found her ankle and clung to it. “Really? You seemed like a willing participant.”

“No ma’am.” Jamie let his hand fall against her belly. “I swear to God, I just answered the door.”

Amina laughed. She hadn’t meant to come at him that way, so fast, so grabby. She turned her head to look at him. Dots of sweat lined his upper lip and hairline. He looked a little overwhelmed.

“Was it … too much?”

“No way. I just wasn’t expecting you.”

She sat up, found her shirt, and slipped it over her head. “So you want me to go? Maybe come back later?”

He cupped her calf, squeezed it. “Don’t be a freak.”

Amina smiled to show him she was not a freak. She stood up and stepped over him, walking toward the kitchen.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked. “You have seltzer and beer.”

“I don’t have beer, actually. We drank it all last night.”

“Do you have seltzer?”

“Yeah. You hungry? I could make us something.”

She did not want to eat, possibly for months, but Amina made the appropriate noises of enthusiasm. Ever since her parents had returned from the hospital, shrunken like old apples and unable to say anything beyond the fact that the results weren’t looking great, she had felt weirdly high. Not stoned, but toxic — the kind of high you get on gas fumes in your own garage.

Jamie walked down the hall toward his bedroom, taking off his shirt. “Just let me jump into the shower real quick.”

Amina got herself a glass of water and sat down at his kitchen table, an old red Formica job from the late sixties, red with a slightly lighter harlequin print. A single paper napkin lay on it, and she folded over an edge.

“So how have you been?” Jamie called from the bathroom, peeing. She shuddered. Pee talkers baffled her. How could they do that? Give you no opportunity to not listen?

“Fine. You?”

“Fine. Good, actually.”

He had a good view of the park from his kitchen, the tops of the trees, the lush, interlaced branches that seemed to hold the darkening sky up behind them. Amina tore a bit of the napkin off, listening to the screech of the shower turning on, and wondering what it meant about their future that Jamie showered with the door open. She was a closed-door showerer, a hoarder of steam and privacy, and for a minute it seemed like that meant something, then the sweet, rich smell of deodorant soap wafted down the hallway, filling her with a satisfaction so complete that even ripping up the napkin felt rewarding. Jamie turned off the shower and went to his room. A few minutes later he emerged, wearing the same shorts but otherwise clean in a way that made her want to get him dirty again.

“You’re getting tan.” She tapped the bridge of his nose, where the contrail left by sunglasses made his eyes look greener.

“I was out at the pool all day.”

“Oh, yeah? What pool do you go to?”

“Paige’s. She’d love to see you sometime, by the way.”

“Yeah.” She looked back down at the napkin, folding the remains into a tidy square. When she looked up, Jamie was studying her with a funny look.

“Is that weird or something?”

“Not, it’s not that, just that I’m …” There was no good finish to the sentence, Amina realized, uncomfortable , and nervous , and scared to see Paige as a grown-up not being feelings she wanted to share. “Hungry. I’m hungry. You’re making dinner?”

Jamie nodded slowly, as though unwilling to break from his thought. “Actually, I was thinking in the shower — what do you think about going to the Frontier instead?”

“I think you’re a genius.”

Of all the things Amina loved about the Frontier Restaurant (its tacky faux-barn exterior, the walls jumbled with bad desert paintings, the tortilla maker spouting fat gobs of flour like something out of a Mexican Willy Wonka’s), she loved the orange vinyl booths in the front the best. Right across from the ordering counter, they offered a steady view of the kitchen and the clientele of doctors and gallery owners and car salesmen and students and junkies who came in all day, every day.

“Who do you think gets the bigger socioeconomic cross section of Albuquerque: this place or the DMV?” she asked, stealing an onion ring off Jamie’s plate.

“Here for sure. You sure you don’t want to get more to eat?”

“I’m not that hungry.”

“You ate your dinner and half of mine.”

“I did not!”

“A third. Definitely a third.”

“Wow. Territorial. Did you count the actual onion rings I took?”

“Ninety-seven.” Under the table, Jamie’s knee brushed against hers; it felt hairy and slightly damp and strangely not off-putting. “So you’re going to do it?”

“I guess so.”

“You haven’t decided?”