“June 23rd.”
“Where do you live?”
“Right next door to Guinevere.”
They all looked to Masoa, then Guinevere, and back to me.
“He lived there first, and I moved in next door,” Guinevere replied. “No, I didn’t know.”
Roy picked the questions. “Where did you grow up?”
“Townhouse on East 63rd Street in New York.”
“This your first time ever leaving the city?”
“No. I’ve traveled, but mostly to other cities.”
“Do you have any kids?”
“No.”
“Do you want kids?”
“Eventually.”
This time, they looked to Guinevere, who quietly finished off her salmon. Finally, she gave up and glared at them before turning to me. “I’m not a kids person,” she replied.
I found that hard to believe. “You love kids. You spent most of your time visiting them in the hospital.”
“Oh, I love them, but in expected, limited doses. Plus, I can always just give them back to their parents,” she replied.
“She wants her mother to die of a broken heart is what she is really saying,” her mother replied, frowning at her.
Guinevere sighed. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve gone from a hard no to a maybe.”
The boys looked at me.
“Are you out of questions?” I asked.
“What’s your favorite movie?” Malik asked as seriously as he could.
“Guys, really?” Guinevere frowned.
“I have to agree, that was a weak one.” Her mother laughed.
“Ocean's Eleven.”
“Me too.” Guinevere smiled.
“Wait!” Roy raised his hand. “Which version, 1960 or 2001?”
“2001.” I hadn’t even known there was an earlier one.
All of them—including Guinevere—groaned.
Her mom shook her head.
“He can’t be perfect.” Guinevere tried to defend me, but ended up frowning. “Really? Clooney over Sinatra?”