He gives me a little smile.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s a terrible disease.”
I don’t know what else to say. I pick up my water. “How is your dad dealing?”
Stone shakes his head. “Total denial. He doesn’t want to acknowledge what’s happening. He booked a trip for them to Baja in September. I can’t say I blame him.”
I run a pinky down the edge of my water glass. The beads of condensation bleed onto the table. “It must be impossible.”
Stone nods. “Life, right? It is impossible. For so many people.”
Now is not the first time I’ve thought about my responsibility. Whether I owe the world this ticket, and whether it makes me a bad person to not save someone else’s life.
I could fix it, couldn’t I? If I went back far enough. Maybe she would still get cancer but they’d have the time again. I could convince Stone to get her a better scan, enter more clinical trials earlier. I could tell them what would happen—they could cut it off at the pass. She’d have a chance.
“Hey,” Stone says. He reaches across the table and play-slaps his hand against my shoulder. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m just very sorry. I know how much you love Bonnie. I love her, too. I haven’t seen her in a long time, but I always loved being around her.”
When we were kids—way before we ever got together—Bonnie was the mom whose house you wanted to visit. She didn’t bake, couldn’t be bothered, but she always had a pantry stocked with snacks. The real stuff—Oreos and Chips Ahoy and rows of peppermint patties. Our house had one cookie jar filled with oatmeal raisin and granola bars that Sylvia baked. Stone’s house was Candy Land.
Whenever I saw Bonnie she’d always ask me what I was reading. Bonnie loved books, and she’d read almost anything.Whatever she found at Diesel in Brentwood or Pages in Manhattan Beach or Target or even Costco. She read every #1New York Timesbestseller, even the ones by Patterson.
“Is she still reading?” I ask, and feel something pinch right behind my sternum. I don’t want the answer, I realize.
“A little,” he says. “It’s easier when I read to her. We’ve been going back through Harry Potter together.”
“She loved those.”
Stone holds his gaze to mine. “She loved you.”
We were so young when we were together that we threw the word around like a kind of hot potato. Neither of us wanted to hold on to it for too long.
“I’d love to see her,” I say. “If you think she’d want a visitor.”
Stone nods. “You’re always welcome, Lauren. You know that.”
Our check comes, Stone pays, and then we’re climbing back into his Bronco. Hawaiian reggae blares through the speakers. We drive up the canyon, back to the highway. I run my hand out the window, feeling the weight of the wind, like water.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Stone pulls into his parents’ driveway. I look through the glass panes on either side of the door. I can see just a fragment of their living room—recently redecorated. It bears no resemblance to the interior I once knew, but why would it? I haven’t been inside in ten years.
We get out of the car, and Stone notices me hovering.
“Do you want to come in?” he asks.
“Do you want to check first?” I can feel my heartbeat quicken. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to see her. To see her like this.
“It’ll make her day,” he says. “Come on.”
Stone pulls the door open—a big oak with a brass handle—and then we are inside.
The house opens into an entryway. There is a coatrack that hangs with sweaters and a raincoat, and a line of shoes by the door—mostly what I assume are Stone’s, and two pairs of slippers. Past the entry is the living room. When we were young it was all Ralph Lauren florals, but now it’s cool blues and whites—a classic beach house, serene and well-appointed.
I drop my voice to a whisper. “The house looks great.”
Stone smiles. “Bonnie redecorated a couple of years ago. I like it, too.”
