“Haaaay y’all.” Darlene lifted her hand to wave in that weird way some people do, opening and closing their fingers like they’re trying to catch a mosquito. “Whoa. I’m out of breath. Dear me.”
Still holding on to Rae, I gestured to the three women, each in turn by lifting up my notebook in their direction. “Raquel, this is Angela Jones, Darlene Simmons, Jessica Molina Ramirez, and Patricia Robillard.” An odd combination of apprehension, ingrained good manners, and a sense of duty making it so I wasn’t quite certain where to look. “Ladies, this is Raquel Ezra.”
“It’s so nice to meet you!” Darlene enthused. “I am such a fan. You are amazing.”
“I’m also a fan,” Angela said, reaching out her hand for a shake, necessitating that Rae drop my fingers.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Rae said, and she sounded like she meant it.
Angela, expression hazy, added, “I’ve seen Starlight Express twelve times. I might have a problem.”
Rae chuckled, and Jessica stepped forward, wearing a huge grin. She started speaking in Spanish, her tone equally gushing and effusive.
Rae’s grin wavered, her forehead knitting together, and she covered Jessica’s hand with hers. “I’m sorry, I don’t—” she looked at me anxiously, her tan cheeks rosy with a pink blush “—I don’t speak Spanish. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh! No, I’m so sorry!” Jessica shook her head quickly, looking mortified. “I’m sorry. I just assumed. And you know, I don’t even realize I’m speaking it sometimes, especially when I’m nervous. Sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize. I never learned. My mother—who is from Italy—didn’t even want me to learn Italian. I picked up a little bit though, despite her best efforts, especially when she cussed.”
This made everyone laugh, and I could see Jessica relax, the matter forgotten.
Darlene launched into a monologue about how brave she thought Rae’s acting choices were. This lasted for several minutes, and I began to feel light-headed. I still hadn’t eaten. Even though we stood beneath one of the big oak trees and in the shade, the heat of the late afternoon began to wear me down.
Eventually, Darlene paused to take a breath, and Angela—who had been Darlene’s roommate in college, which was how we’d met—grabbed her friend’s hand and spoke before the redhead could, “Anyway! Thanks for letting us interrupt your date. We just wanted to say hi.”
“Oh, this isn’t a date.” Rae waved a hand through the air as though dismissing the idea. “Jackson and I are just friends.”
A shard of something cold and painful slithered from the base of my skull downward at the way she’d said “just friends.”
“We’re waiting for Charlotte Mitchell and her kids.” Rae laughed, all smiles. “Jackson and I ran into each other by accident. This isn’t a date.”
My stomach soured, and suddenly I was no longer hungry. But I grit my teeth. No one to blame but yourself, Jackson. If you hadn’t been such a fuckboy in your early twenties, none of this would be happening now.
“O-okay,” Angela said, her eyes flickering to mine and then back to Rae. “Sounds good. We’ll just, you know, get going. Good to meet you.”
“Bye Jackson.” Patricia sent me a cheeky grin. “Let me know when you’re in Knoxville. We’ll have lunch.”
I nodded politely, saying nothing, because I suspected no matter what I said, it would be the wrong thing.
Soon the women were on their way, taking a moment to speak with Dave as they went. As soon as they were out of earshot, Rae turned abruptly and marched over to the blanket and sat. I followed slower, studying her as I approached, and taking note of her erratic movements.
She withdrew her phone. She glared at the screen. “Charlotte is going to be another half hour,” she grumbled. “She said she fell asleep on the couch.”
That sounded like Charlotte, she was always taking catnaps.
“She probably wanted some alone time,” Rae said wryly. “I think she’s getting sick of my company.”
My eyes flickered to Miguel and Dave twenty paces back, the suits and dark sunglasses a jarring sight against the tranquil backdrop of the national park.
“Are you hungry?” Rae asked, her eyes flickering to me just briefly.
I debated how to answer. I wasn’t hungry, not anymore, but I needed to eat. “I could eat.”
“After meeting your fan club, I’m not sure I have much of an appetite. But I have this picnic basket full of food. Do you . . .?” She motioned to a spot on the blanket across from her.
“Thank you.” I crossed to the place she’d indicated and lowered to my knees, setting my notebook and pen to one side as I watched her struggle to open a bag of chips. “Hey. You might want to—Rae. You’re upset. Stop a minute.” I reached over and covered her hand.
She closed her eyes, shaking me off. “I’m not upset.”
Oh. Yeah. She’s upset. I wasn’t going to tell her to calm down. Telling a woman to calm down was like throwing gasoline on a tire fire.
I glanced around us. We were surrounded by a tall, thick wall of prairie grasses and reeds. How we were sitting, not even Dave or Miguel could perceive what we were doing. Unless there were paparazzi in the sky, no one could see us.
She huffed, opening her eyes and glaring at me. “I should be able to speak Spanish.”
Uncertain where she was going with this, I asked, “Why is that?”
“I’m half Cuban. Did you know that? I’m fifty percent Italian, fifty percent Cuban, and one hundred percent midwestern.” I would’ve taken her statement as a joke—a play on words—except she sounded brittle. “But my problem is, I’m really ten percent Italian, ten percent midwestern, and eighty percent I-have-no-idea-who-I-am.” She sighed, the sound so melancholy, I had to fight with myself not to reach out and pull her into a hug.
“I wish I knew how to speak Spanish.” She stared at the tablecloth, sounding thoughtful and distracted. “I think—I think I’m going to learn. I’m going to learn. And then I’m going to Miami. And Cuba.”
“You should,” I said softly.
Her eyes cut to me, then narrowed, glittering angrily. “Oh? You think so? You don’t think that might be pushy of me?”
I held still, watching her. At some point, if I was patient enough, she’d tell me what I’d done to upset her. I just needed to wait.
“No response to that? I guess saying because isn’t an option right now, is it?” she hissed, dropping the bag of chips and folding her arms, her features tight. “‘In anger we should refrain both from speech and action.’”
She sounded like she was quoting someone, but I had no idea who.
She must’ve seen my confusion because she grumbled, “Pythagoras. Some Greek dude who lived thousands of years ago and my mom—whatever! Forget it. I want to ask you a question.”
“Sure. You can ask me anyth—”
“Did you have sex with all of them?”
Maybe I should’ve been shocked or offended. I wasn’t. I absorbed her question and the anger behind it, doing my best to reach inside her mind and attempt to read her thoughts.