Page 6 of Stanton Adore

I smirk. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Adrian lies on his back across the hood and blows out a breath, hands behind his head. “You know, I think Rod Stewart was right on the money.”

Ben and I frown at each other and then him.

“You know, the first cut is the deepest.” All three of us smile.

“That is true. You remember every minute in detail. Come on, let’s go. Enough of this shit, she fucks with my head.”

“Aren’t we going in?” Adrian asks.

“No, I just wanted to see where she lives.”

“Does she have a boyfriend, married, what’s her story?” “No, no, nothing. Nothing I can dig up anyway.”

“You’ve kept tabs on her?”

“Yes, from a distance.”

“When did you last speak to her?”

After a silence of five minutes, “Seven and a half years ago, the day she dumped me.”

Adrian and Ben look at each other, the shock evident on their faces.

“So, you haven’t spoken a word to her since?”

“Nope.”

“You haven’t called?”

“Nope.”

We all look back to the window and the lights go off. Ben urges for a second time. “Just go in, man.”

“Even if I wanted to, the law forbids it.”

“She had a restraining order put on you?” Adrian gasps.

I shake my head. “No,” I answer quietly.

“Her parents did?”

I look back up to the window. “Something like that. Get in the car, let’s go and don’t let me come back here. This is pointless.”

“OK. But are we not here because of her? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”

“Shut up, dick.” I smile at Adrian. “Stop making sense.” As the car speeds away, I put my head back into the seat and rub my face.

“I need a drink, a strong fucking drink.”

Bondi, 11:50 p.m.

I lean over the railing of the balcony looking out to the ocean, sipping my Cointreau and ice out of a thick short crystal tumbler. The place Adrian has rented for me for the three months is swank, on the water. It is a little dated and well below the standard of my LA house. We chose it because it was the only one near a surf beach that had another house next door for Ben and Adrian.

Having just run for an hour on the treadmill, I am freshly showered and barefoot and wearing a loose pair of sweats and a white Bonds tank top. It’s March. Here, it’s the first month of fall, a cool briskness hangs in the air. Desperately trying to rein myself in from googling her and finding out her phone number, I take another sip of my liquor and enjoy the warmth as I swallow, temporarily closing my eyes.

“This is a fucking disaster. I should have stayed in Melbourne,” I mutter to himself.