I see Dad through the glass, and he waves us outside. Stone holds the slider open for me.
There’s a bottle of red open on the railing and two small water glasses. I gesture to Stone, he nods, and I pour.
Dad offers Stone his hand from the chair, shakes it. “How you been?”
“Not bad,” Stone says. “Happy to be back in the water.”
“I hear you’re here under hard circumstances.” He gestures with his head in the direction of Stone’s home. “I’m sorry. We’re thinking about Bonnie over here.”
Stone nods, sips. “Yeah, thank you.”
The truth is, I’m not sure Dad ever really liked Stone. Part of it I think was that Stone was rich and Dad was not. Or Stone was a better surfer. Or he didn’t like the way Jeff treated the beach likecompany stock. But part of it was that Stone always struck my dad as living too easily.
“You want a life where you can feel the road underneath you,” Dad used to tell me. “You want a life with some traction.”
I wonder, now, watching the two of them together, if Stone ever knew. We didn’t talk about it—we were too young then. I’d have told him flippantly, a joke—You know my dad thinks you’re spoiled—or not at all. I chose not at all.
Marcella comes out with the white wine. “Oh, you started.” She sets the bottle down on the coffee table. It clinks against the glass.
I feel a pang of irritation—she’s the one who told us to come out.
“Thanks so much for having me,” Stone says. “It’s really nice to see you guys. It’s nice to be back here.”
I consider our graying deck, the splintered wood on the banister. Still the best view on Broad Beach.
Stone looks my mom in the eye. I am reminded of his eye contact, the way he used to look at me, hold my gaze. I was fifteen when Stone and I first kissed, sixteen when we had sex for the first time. In so many ways Stone was not only my first love but also my orientation to men in general. He was the placeholder. For years afterward, whenever I’d meet a new man I’d compare him to Stone. How he stood, how he talked, how he kissed. I could see if the guy was right for me by judging how closely he aligned with Stone.
Leo was the first man I met whose metric had nothing to do with Stone. I couldn’t have measured them on the same scale—it would have been like weighing air and fire.
“I think we’re about ready to eat,” Marcella says.
Stone rubs his hands together in a way that makes it seem likehe hasn’t had a home-cooked meal in quite some time. “Starving,” he says. “I’ve missed Sylvia’s cooking.”
We file inside. Mom has set the table, and Sylvia is putting down the salad. Dark leaves of spinach curled underneath piles of shaved Parmesan.
“White fish—Mediterranean style—salad, and some rice,” Sylvia says. She takes a seat, starts helping herself. “Everyone eat.”
Stone holds my chair out for me, and I sit. He follows down next to me.
“I hear great things about the Ranch,” Dad says. “Still haven’t been to check it out, though. Damn it’s pricey.”
“I’m happy to hook you up,” Stone says. “Any time.”
“I do OK on the real ocean.”
Stone just smiles. “Of course,” he says.
Stone was always a humble person, but he also knew the way he appeared to other people. He was aware that every girl at Malibu High wanted him, and he’d remind me of it, sometimes, in ways he thought were subtle but weren’t.
But now I see the ways he has softened. His privilege isn’t something he carries around proudly anymore but something he wears. Like a leather jacket that has become supple with age.
“Well, I’d love to check it out,” Marcella says. “Maybe I’d actually get in the water if it wasn’t the real ocean. Do you temperature control?”
Stone laughs. “Just say the word and I will make it happen.”
I serve myself some fish. It’s flaky, salty, perfect. The tomatoes are sweet, the olives soft and juicy.
“This is delicious,” Stone says. “Thank you.”
