I would have preferred gallery chic, but coming from Barkley, I couldn’t complain. His cuff links had diamonds on them.
“Do you dress like that every day?”
He nodded proudly. “Yes, I do. It’s just me. Also, I feel like people respect you more when you’re well dressed.”
“Is that what you’re looking for? Respect?”
“There’s a better word. Reverence, maybe.”
“Well, let me just bow down in front of your holiness.”
He laughed again, a little louder, and it reminded me of Jack. Jack never laughed unless he meant it. That was always a good quality in a person.
“I like you,” Barkley said, while Sumner looked at me suspiciously. “You’ve got a bite. You’d be great at a dinner party.”
I didn’t know whether that was a compliment or not. I smiled a little, and Sumner let out a quick, sharp bark. Clearly, Barkley was giving me too much attention. He picked Sumner up and put him in his lap, and honestly, the dog looked at me as if to say, he will never love you like he loves me. At that moment, I couldn’t tell if Sumner was more like Barkley or Preston.
He put Sumner down and fed him an artisanal dog treat that was shaped like a bunny.
“This is going to sound strange, but I like to collect people,” he said. “And I’d love you to be part of my collection.”
Was he serious?
“Okay, but I’m not a tchotchke.”
He handed me one of his embossed cards, which probably cost a hundred dollars each:
BARKLEY MCFADDEN
202-867-4533
“Why don’t you come over on Saturday night. Seven. Wear an LBD.”
What was it with him and Preston and the acronyms?
“I could manage that. Shall I bring anything? Some caviar? A case of Cristal?”
He giggled, and Sumner’s whole body shook, and I could almost hear him say, you think she’s funny now, but she’s toxic, let’s get out of here.
“Just that smile and a great attitude,” Barkley said.
“I can manage that.”
“Perfect. Bye for now, dear. Say bye-bye, Sumner!”
The dog snorted in disgust and shuffled away.
I stayed for another hour, reading my awesomely horrible book but also looking up whenever I heard the clink of the metal gate to see if it was BR and his varietals. But alas, it was just the usual suspects: Umbrella Woman with the greyhound and the ever-smiling woman with the overweight Yorkie-poo, which I started to refer to (only in my mind) as Porkie-poo. The dog definitely needed a diet. Maybe it should go vegan.
That afternoon, on the way back to Brady’s house, I shopped for a little black dress, even though the last thing I should’ve been doing was spending money (new Page needed a new look). After finding one that properly accentuated my legs at an adorable boutique off 14th Street, I felt a false sense of power, which led to getting my hair and nails done (more debt for my credit card—yay!). The hair “designer,” as she called herself, encouraged me to grow out my bangs, and the manicurist upgraded me to the “crystal gel,” whatever that meant. When I got back to Brady’s place, I put on the dress, looked at myself in the mirror, and cried. I was a mess. There were moments, and this was one of them, where I really missed my father. I knew if I could call him, he would somehow make me feel like less of a failure.
Brady came home right then and threw down his keys, running over to me.
“Page. What’s wrong?”
He hugged me and I thought, I have a brother.
“I just don’t know who I am anymore. If I wasn’t staying with you, I’d be one of those crazy ladies on the street wearing leopard print on leopard print and lipstick that didn’t quite make it to my mouth.”
He started to laugh.
“It’s not funny.”
“But it kind of is. Come on, we’re going out. You look great, just pull it together.”
And that’s what I did.
CHAPTER 6
LOST AT SEA
Brady could get as excited about a turkey sandwich as the latest obscure indie rock record. Tonight it was a pop-up restaurant on a boat that was shipwrecked in a parking lot in Shaw. In the Uber on the way there, Brady was smiling ear to ear, and since his smile was infectious, I joined in.
“You know, you’ve had the same smile since you were a baby,” he said. “My earliest memory is the day you came home from the hospital. You had a pink hat on, and your tiny fingers kept grabbing at the air. And you were smiling.”
“I’m pretty sure that was gas, Brady.”
He laughed, which was my favorite sound ever. It was more of a woop than a ha.
We stood in front of the shipwrecked boat, which looked like a movie set. Halogen bulbs hung from ropes, and a DJ dressed like a captain played a track that was slightly cacophonous and dissonant.
“This sounds like Funny Bone!” I said.
“One-hit wonder.”
In our early teens, we started a faux band called Funny Bone. We had a logo and everything. Brady could sing, and I was pretty good on backup, but neither of us could really play any instruments. I set up some pots and pans and tried to mouth bass lines while Brady—clearly the front man—would do air guitar on the kitchen counter. Our one song was about catching our principal with his pants down.
“But you were good with the utensils,” he said. “Real talent.”
The hostess knew exactly who Brady was, seating us at a small table in the bow. I looked at the menu, which had phrases like farm sourced and cage free and cucumber air.
“Air? I think I’d rather have a cheeseburger.”
Brady chuckled. “It is a little over the top. But it’s comped.”
“Good. Because air is expensive.”
Brady looked at me, and in a flash I could see a hint of our father, the way his eyes caught the light. It made my insides feel hollow for a second, but then I just felt happy that I was there, lost in the moment, dining with my brother on a boat. We might as well have actually been on the water, nowhere near the land.
“You just reminded me of Dad,” I said. It had been ten years since he passed, but “passed” sounded like he was transferred somewhere else, when really, he was just gone.
“Yeah. It might be this,” he said, pointing to the little bits of gray prematurely growing at his temples.
A guy who was apparently the chef (I could tell by the Crocs—what was it with chefs and Crocs?) came over and slapped Brady on the back. They started to talk shop, so I excused myself to go to the bathroom.
When I got back to our table, Brady had ordered us a bottle of wine. While he poured me a glass, he said, “Page, I was thinking . . . you should put yourself out there. I’m going to introduce you to someone. He’s slightly older, but . . .”
“Wait a second. Why does everyone, including me sometimes, think that a man will solve everything?”
Even though the boyfriend was on my list, I wanted it to be organic. It was exhausting to think about how much of our actions were based on need of approval from others.
“Well, it’s either that or focusing on a career.”
“I know, I know. Another thing I need. That’s actually first on the list.”
We each took a bite of our “deconstructed nachos” with cheese that wasn’t cheese and sour cream that was made from almond milk.