Page 62 of Not on the Same Page

“Nah.” Robert laughs. “Casey and I spent a lot of time playing these.”

Paul frowns and hums, unconvinced. “You’re probably rusty.”

Once the guys examine all the games and make a list of which ones to play first, Robert gives me a hug and the three of them go back to the bags set. Erick and Lisa return to their conversation, and Dad goes to the grill to check on the meat. I grab a can of soda from the cooler, then join him.

“I used to beat both of you at those games, you know.” He flips over a piece of chicken, then pokes at another.

“You should come play. Show us how it’s done,” I suggest lightly, as if I didn’t buy the game system almost entirely so he might have a reason to visit more often.

He nods, a pensive look on his face. “Maybe.”

Better than no, I think as my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Dad glares at me as I pull it out. “You such a hotshot that you have to be taking calls at family parties now? You know the rules.”

It was Mom’s rule—no phones at family functions—and she was beyond strict about it. I pulled out my phone one time when I was on a tight deadline, and she swatted it out of my hand with the back of her wooden spoon.

Based on the chuckle Dad makes under his breath, he’s remembering the same moment. Smirking, he clicks the tongs a few times in my direction.

“Don’t even think about it.” I take a step out of his reach, pointing to the prominent outline of the phone in his back pocket. “Don’t pretend like you don’t have yours either.”

A quick glance at my screen has me stepping even farther away and sitting in a chair on the other side of the deck because it’s Trina. Over the past week, I’ve only heard from her to discuss business. No pleasure. There’s no way I’m letting Dad and his tongs get in the way of me seeing what she wants.

Trina: Imani thought it’d be fun to fly out here and sign her contract in person. She already booked a flight with a friend and has no other plans. No lodging, no itinerary. Oh to be twenty-something again.

Another message comes in just as I’m about to respond, which makes me smile.

Trina: I think she’s expecting that we show her a good time.

Me: So she’s staying on your couch?

Trina: Absolutely not.

Trina: Come to think of it, it might be fun to paint each other’s nails and share secrets and talk about how much of a hardass you are.

Me: Sounds like you have an itinerary already.

The dots bounce at the bottom of the screen, then disappear, then start again. When her text finally comes in, I let out a laugh loud enough that all of our guests glance at me before returning to their activities.

Trina: No. Dear god, please help me. You did this. Had I known showing her around Chicago was a condition of me signing her, I would have refused.

Me: You would not have.

Trina: You’re right, I would not have. But I still don’t want to be solely responsible for her good time. I am not a good time.

Me: Yes you are.

Trina: I’m a good lay. There’s a difference.

I cannot acknowledge what those words do to me in front of my family and my brother’s friends, so I shove down any hint of desire and choose instead to focus on the comfort that Trina’s dry humor brings me. I love it when she jokes around likes this.

But the urge to push the envelope is strong. She was hesitant the other night in my office, and when it comes to her job and her boss, I can understand why. Still, I can’t help myself when it comes to her.

Me: I like hanging out with you, too.

Those dots bounce around for a while, but my dad clears his throat pointedly from the chair next to mine. I have no idea when he got there. I’ve been too engrossed in my messages.

“Those are what your mom liked to call ‘moon eyes,’” he says softly, circling his index finger in the general direction of my face.