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“What?” Her voice is loud. Very. A cheer erupts behind her. Someone must have scored.
“The blanket. And pillows. They arrived.” I won’t shout through the phone. It feels too weird in this empty, silent apartment.
“Oh, good. Send me a picture of the layout.”
The layout? Am I supposed to do something else to the couch than toss this stuff on it? Are there rules for this?
“And Gray? It’s crazy here. I can barely hear you. Let’s talk later.”
She might wait for me to say okay, but probably not. It’s very loud at three-year-old Saturday afternoon soccer.
I take a picture of the couch and text it to her.
She sends a thumbs-down emoji. Thumbs down? Maybe this is the wrong stuff. Maybe she was thinking of a different couch. Is it possible that I’ve actually messed up pillows?
‘Isn’t this what you sent me?’I ask.
After a minute, she texts back.‘Look at the diagram I’m sending. Put the pillows where I’ve marked. And untuck the blanket, you’re not making up a bed for an overnight guest. One who has to sleep on the couch.’
Neither one of us says what that definitely puts into our minds. Overnight guests? Sleeping on the couch? As opposed to sleeping . . . elsewhere? Lana says nothing more about it because she’s classy. I say nothing about it more because I’m blushing.
In her editing app, she’s drawn all over the photo I sent, making the picture of my couch look like a football coach’s playbook. Circles and arrows and stars. I follow her directions, placing the pillows in their new spots and draping the blanket over the back and arm of the couch.
I send a new picture.
‘Better. Fold the blanket in half, though.’
I do it and send another photo.
This time I get a thumbs-up.
‘Coffee table?’
‘What about it?’
Do I have to move furniture? I mean, if she tells me to, I’m going to do it. But I wasn’t planning on a whole renovation this afternoon.
‘Let me see it.’
I stand behind the couch and take a snap of the coffee table so she can get the whole vision or whatever.
‘There’s nothing there.’
‘I guess I missed that part. What is supposed to be there?’I ask.
‘At least one book. One of the succulents. The candle.’
She’s not texting noises of despair at my hopeless decorating abilities, but I can sense an undertone of frustration. This would be easier if she were here. She’d spend thirty seconds staring at my living room, and within another minute, she’d make it look magazine-ready.
I don’t need magazine-ready. I need Sage-ready. And Sage was raised in a family with famously expensive taste. The least I can do is follow my sister’s professional advice. So I go find a book. I mostly read digitally, but I have a cool old leatherbound Gray’s Anatomy I found in a used bookstore. I bring it to the coffee table. I set it down with the candle on top and the succulent beside them. I take another picture.
‘You’re doing very well,’Lana tells me.
‘You’re a good coach.’
‘What else is in the works for this big date?’she asks.
Before I can answer, she texts again.‘This game is hilarious, by the way. I can always find the ball. At least seven kids are surrounding it as it moves down the field.’
