“I guess so,” he said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to go. I’ll be off in a minute.” James doubted this but sat down anyway, as hopeful as an eighteen-year-old boy who still thinks he has a chance to get laid. He watched her pacing the room, fascinated and frightened by her energy, her youth, her anger, and mostly by what she might think about him.
She got off the phone and threw it onto the couch. “So,” she said, turning to him, “two socialite girls got into a fight at a club, and a bunch of people videotaped it and put it on Snarker.”
“Oh,” James said. “Do girls still do those things?”
She looked at him like he was crazy. “Are you kidding? Girls are vicious.”
“I see,” James said. A painful pause ensued. “I brought you my book,” he said again, to fill up the silence.
“I know,” she said. She put her hands over her eyes. “I’m just so confused.”
“You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to,” James said. The book was sitting on the coffee table between them. On the cover was a color rendering of New York harbor circa 1775. The title of the book, Diary of an American Terrorist, was written across the top in raised red type.
She took away her hands and stared at him intently, then, remembering the book, picked it up. “I want to read it. I really do. But I’m upset about Philip.”
“Oh,” James said. For a moment, he’d forgotten all about Philip.
“He’s just so mean.”
“He is?”
She nodded. “Ever since he asked me to move in with him. He keeps criticizing everything I do.” She readjusted herself on the couch. “Like the other day. I was doing a salt scrub in the bathroom, and some of the salt got on the floor. And then I had to do something right away—like go to the drugstore—and Philip came home and slipped on the salt. So when I came back, he started yelling at me about being messy.”
James moved closer to her on the couch. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said. “Men are like that. It’s an adjustment period.”
“Really?” she asked, looking at him curiously.
“Sure,” he said, bobbing his head. “It always takes men awhile to get used to things.”
“And that’s especially true of Philip,” she said. “My mother warned me. When men get older, they get set in their ways, and you just have to work around them.”
“There you go,” James said, wondering how old she thought he was.
“But it’s hard for me,” she continued. “Because I’m the one taking all the risks. I had to give up my apartment. And if things don’t work out, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“I’m sure Philip loves you,” James said, wishing that Oakland did not and that he could take his place. But that wasn’t possible unless Mindy decided
to get rid of him as well.
“Do you really think so?” she asked eagerly. “Did he tell you that?”
“No…” James said. “But why wouldn’t he?” he added quickly. “You’re so”—he hesitated—“beautiful.”
“Do you really think so?” she asked, as if she were insecure about her looks.
She’s sweet, James thought. She really doesn’t know how gorgeous she is.
“I wish Philip would tell me that,” she said.
“He doesn’t?”
She shook her head sadly. “He never tells me I’m beautiful. And he never says ‘I love you.’ Unless I force him.”