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“Are you an artist?” Elle asks as we line up at the counter behind another pair of women talking, little dogs clutched in their arms.
It’s the first time someone’s asked me that in a long time.
I pull out my phone and show them my social feed.
Annie scrolls, her eyes widening, and Elle nods slowly.
“This is amazing,” Annie says as she surveys the posts of dancers, athletes, kids playing. “Is this why you’ve been taking barre, to study dancers?”
“Annie’s a dancer. A real one,” Elle volunteers, and Annie rolls her eyes. “And a singer and an actor and a writer.”
“Elle’s exaggerating.”
We’re ordering our drinks, Annie pulling out a credit card before I can even offer to pay, when suddenly her face clicks in my mind.
“You’re Annie Jamieson.”
She’s the daughter of one of the biggest rock stars the world has ever known, and she’s married to another of them. She also sang the national anthem at one of the playoff games in LA this year.
“I heard you were amazing on Broadway. I hope you’re returning someday?”
“I’m on a stage break since my daughter’s two. I almost miss the days of eight performances a week.”
We laugh as the barista prepares our drinks.
“I don’t have kids, but my sister is due any day with her first. A girl.” Excitement bubbles up as I think of the sono images Mari’s been sending me—from the first one of a tiny, hard-to-make-out form to the latest, which was so distinct I could imagine reaching out to touch her and having her wrap a tiny fist around my finger. “It’s hard because she’s in Colorado. I’m still hoping to be there for the birth, but things have been complicated here.”
As in I have no idea where we’ll be living until Clay decides what his plan is.
“You had a lot of basketball in your feed. You must be a fan,” Annie says.
“My boyfriend plays.”
“Pickup?”
“For LA.”
Annie nods knowingly as she takes her drink and leads the way toward a corner table in the window, turning her back on the street. Maybe to get the sunlight or the privacy.
These two remind me of my friends in Denver. They’re not impressed by people who are “A Big Deal,” either because they are too or because they just don’t give a fuck about labels and follower counts. Which is a relief because I have a hard time guarding against people who are.
“It was so great when they won this year,” Annie says. “I follow a little, and we sit in one of the boxes from time to time. Which one is your boyfriend, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Clayton Wade.”
They exchange a look.
“It must have been hard to watch his team win from the sidelines. But he still gets a ring.”
“True. I just wish I knew where he was going to be next year,” I say.
“He doesn’t have a contract?”
I shake my head, feeling foolish.
“Negotiations are always hard,” Annie says kindly.
We moved here for basketball, but Clay hasn’t talked to me about his career since championships.
