Stone waves a dismissive hand. “She’s kept it pretty quiet.” He wipes some wet hair off of his face. He’s always had a face full of freckles, but they are less pronounced now than they once were. “It’s been back for a while now. The last round didn’t work as well. We’re looking into some experimental stuff, you know. I just wanted to be close.” He squints out at the horizon and then back to me.
I nod. “Of course, yeah. I’m sorry.”
We stand there for a minute, suddenly aware of the awkward nature of this interaction. How much there is to say, and how little.
“So,” he says. “What’s new with you?”
He laughs when he says it, and so do I, because the question is ridiculous. It still feels wild, all these years later, that we do not know. That we are strangers to each other now.
“Still in West Hollywood.”
Stone smiles. “Still working for Wagner?”
“Indeed.”
He nods. I decide to say it, because I’m sure he already knows, even if he’s not on social media, and because it feels important to say. To claim Leo’s presence here.
“And I got married.”
“I heard. I’m happy for you.”
It’s genuine, honest. If I’m hoping for a flare of jealousy, I don’t get one.
It’s been so long since we were anything close to romantic. Time for jeans to stop being baggy and go back to being baggy again. But there are some relationships where the origin just feels so close to the surface. No matter how much time passes, it’s stillthere. The kinetic energy that once connected us has never transformed. Maybe because we were so young when it began.
“Hello!” I see Marcella from down the beach.
Her arms wave at us overhead. I feel irritated at the interruption, but then remember I came out here looking for her.
Stone waves back equally dramatically, matching her.
“Darling!” she says when she reaches us. She flings her hands on top of her head to hold her hat down as a big gust of wind blows by. She’s wearing linen pants pushed up to her shins and an open, billowy button-down. Her straw-colored bob is tucked behind her ears, and she has a singular strand of pearls around her neck. She looks like she belongs in Amagansett or Nantucket with a trail of golden retrievers. But she lives in Malibu and is allergic to dogs.
Stone smiles. “Marcella, you look stunning.”
“Oh, come here,” she says. “Give me that face.” She pulls him into a hug and then holds him at an arm’s length. My mother has always loved Stone. “This body. You don’t change.”
“You knew me when I was ten,” Stone says. “I hope that’s not the case.”
My mother waves him off. “How is Bonnie, baby? Tell me.”
I feel a pang that my mom knew but didn’t think to mention it to me.
Stone inhales with his mouth open. When we were together I used to stick my finger through his lips when he was thinking.
“You should come visit,” he says. He doesn’t say it somberly, not exactly, but we both know what he means.
My mother nods. “I will.”
All at once Stone seems to become aware of his board, that the task he set out to accomplish has long since been completed. “I should head in,” he says. “Great to see you both.”
He gives me a small smile and then takes off down the beach. My mother comes and stands shoulder to shoulder with me as we watch him leave.
“Still gorgeous,” she says.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Bonnie?” I say.
I feel her inhale next to me. “I didn’t want to upset you,” she says.
