“Timeless,” she answered with a grin. I wished instantly that she was speaking of us. Weren’t we though? Timeless? Nothing could change what we’d had all those yearsbefore, even if the idea of what might’ve been lingered between us.
“Oh, well, thank you. That’s a nice sentiment.”
She pointed up to the picture. “But that... that’s powerful. Children and guns...” She shook her head. “How tragic. Were you scared when you took that?”
“No, not scared. Sometimes the camera feels like a shield. In the beginning, when I was on location like that, I took a lot of risks.”
“Do you think you’ll win another Pulitzer?”
“It’s kind of a once-in-a-lifetime thing, but I do want to go back into the field.”
“I bet some of the best photos are happy accidents.”
“Such is life.” I stepped toward her and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I want to kiss you.”
She took a quick sip of her wine. “Um... do you ever go to any shows around here?”
I chuckled. “You’re an amazing subject changer.”
“I don’t think I can say no to you much longer, and I really want...” She swallowed and looked around.
“What, Grace?”
“I really want a do-over.” The conversation was making her nervous; her chest was heaving in and out.
“What do you mean?”
“You were my best friend.” She choked back tears and looked away.
“Please don’t cry.”
When her eyes met mine again, they were intense, blazing. “I’m trying to tell you something, Matt.”
I took her in my arms and held her against my chest. She wanted to take it slow, the way we had done before—allof those amazing moments in our dorm just being together, dancing, singing, playing music, taking pictures. That’s the problem with adults. There’s no taking your time because you think, even at the relatively young age of thirty-six, that your days are numbered. You think you know everyone inside and out, heart and soul, after talking to them for five minutes.
Pushing back her shoulders, I searched her face. “I have an idea. Stay here, get comfortable, take off your shoes.” I pointed to the shelves of vinyl. “Pick a record. I’ll be right back.”
I left the loft, took the elevator, ran across the street, and hustled up three flights of stairs in one minute. Rick Smith was the only stoner I knew in a five-mile radius. I pounded on his door.
He answered wearing sweats, a rainbow-colored sweatband, and no shirt. He had an extremely toned body for being a fortysomething writer who only left his house to walk his cat, Jackie Chan. “Matt, my man, what’s up?” He was out of breath.
“Sorry, Rick, did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, no, I was just doin’ Tae Bo.”
“Oh, Tae Bo. Is that still around?”
“Well, it’s not like it could disappear; it’s an exercise, bro. Come on in.” He held the door wide open. I had never been in his apartment, only to the door; I had returned Jackie Chan once after he got out.
It was like I had traveled back in time, and I kind of liked it. Everything in his apartment was old but in perfect condition. The Toshiba TV in the corner was paused on Billy Blanks in midmotion. Rick was exercising to a seriously old Tae Bo video. “Is that a VHS?”
“Oh yeah, my VCR works like a dream. Why get rid of it, you know?”
“Yeah.” I expected his apartment to seem like that of a hoarder, but it was totally the opposite.
He walked to the kitchen and grabbed a water bottle out of the refrigerator. “Welcome to my humble abode. Can I offer you some water, or perhaps a wheatgrass shot? I have an emulsifier, too, if you’d like me to whip you up a nice, fresh juice.”
“Oh, thank you, Rick. You are too kind.” He was a health nut. I thought idly that I probably should have read one of his books before I came over and asked him for pot.
