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Why did I feel the need to mention that my sexual orientation matched his? Why did he feel the need to text me after dinner to inform me that he made it back safely? Why did we feel the need to keep the conversation going?
My hand waves away her complaint like an annoying mosquito, and I stick my tongue out at her, then turn my attention back to the TV after turning up the volume.
She starts a slow clap. “That’s very mature of you.” Sarcasm permeates her words. “Remember you’ll be hitting thirty soon! It’s time to grow up, pretty boy.”
Grunting in irritation, I reluctantly focus on her rather than the TV. “First of all, unless you’ve mistaken me for someone else, my birthday is in December, so not even close. Second, if you stopped calling me ‘boy,’ maybe I’d act like a man. You know how I feel about that nickname.”
“What? Is it my fault you’re both pretty and a boy?”
It’s my turn to gently slap her arm. “No guy wants to be called pretty, whether they’re a boy or a man.”
“My brother called you pretty countless times, and I don’t remember you ever complaining.”
“Don’t drag Caleb into this. You’re to blame for the ridiculous nickname.”
“Says the guy who nicknames everyone based on a so-called resemblance. Do you even remember my actual first name?”
Heat scorches my cheeks as her embarrassing question registers. “Penelope Garcia is the best character inCriminal Minds, and youdolook like her.” I rack my brain for a second… I haven’t called her Emily since the first day we met at work… Actually, I addressed her by her last name—Carter; she never adopted her husband’s name. She scoffs.
“Reed is the best character, but I’m glad I don’t look remotely like him… although I dig his geeky side.”
“But he’ll never be as good as—”
She cuts me off, chuckling now. “Barney Stinson, I know.”
Her earlier agitation has dissipated, so I focus on the screen again, thenshush her before she has the chance to rant about my proverbial nonchalance. I frown. “Can’t you see I’m trying to watch this? ‘Trying’being the operative word since you won’t let me.”
“Since when are you so hooked onHow I Met Your Mother?”
“That’s nothing new!”
“But something changed. The way you demanded to watch it as soon as you got here… I know you, Nino. What gives?” Garcia’s line of questioning covers Barney Stinson’s words of wisdom, which makes me grumble.
Without another word, I pause the episode, bolt from her dark purple armchair, and head for the kitchen. When I reach the threshold, I stop and tip my head in her direction. “I’m making tea. Want some?”
“Sure, let’s follow the Brits’ five o’clock tea tradition, although neither of us is a Brit!” She chuckles. “There’s genmaicha in the upper-left cabinet.”
“You got it!” I wink at her. “I’ll be back in a few.” Narrowing her eyes, she shoots me a knowing smile but doesn’t protest, her attention already focused on her iPhone. I have no doubt that she’ll grill me once I return. Still, I grin at my good fortune, busying myself with the task at hand.
The boiling water reminds me of the first time that her baby brother cooked in an attempt to seduce me, but only succeeded in splashing hot water on his forearm, which sent us to the ER. What a klutz! A pang of uneasiness strikes; it’s been a while since I’ve heard from him, other than through Garcia.
“Hey Siri, set a timer for six minutes.”
Once Siri confirms my request, I get lost in my thoughts again, staring out the window and mindlessly following the shadow of a woman hidden behind curtains in a building across the street. This is my refuge. Living so close to my best friend’s a blast, and she doesn’t miss an opportunity to make me feel right at home whenever I’m back in Paris.
We often discuss how her eagle eye studied my portfolio and awards—including the Monochrome Photography Award, CAP Prize, and ZEISS Photography Award—and made her look past my lack of experience in fashion. I was grateful that she didn’t ask whether I was related to the famous Jean-Baptiste Toussaint and, in her role as assistant/receptionist/talent scout, hired me on the spot. Several months later, she confided that the resemblance between me and the multi-award-winning war-zone photographer was unmistakable, in both our style and our looks. Stupid me, thinking that I could hide the resemblance under my dreadlocks.
“What took you so long? Daydreaming again?”
I deposit the tray on the apple green coffee table and snatch the nearby remote to deflect her question.
What did I do to deserve such a perfect friend? Oh, right, I slept with her brother!
Thankfully, he became my one long-distance friend before we lost touch, yet somehow, my bond with his sister solidified. The experience reinforced my tendency to hook up rather than pretend that brief encounters can become more than a good time.
Before reclaiming my spot, I pour a fair amount of genmaicha into each mug and blow on mine.
“Thanks, Nino.” Smiling back at my redheaded friend, I let her stew for a second longer until she worries her lower lip and asks, “So, where were we?”
