“Hey, it’s me. God, I hate LA, man, no fucking weather, just a hole. Hey, I’m sorry, you know, really. I got your letter, Jesus Julia! Listen, you gotta get here, I, uh, really need you.” Small laughter. “Hey listen, just leave them. You don’t need that shit.” More chuckles. “Do they ever check this thing? Maybe by now they know better. Honey, I mean it. Get your ass on a plane. I’ll wire you the money, nothing like getting royalties. All those years I had no idea how much was there, like turning twenty-two and the heavens descended.” Phil cleared his throat. “Honey, I mean it. Get out of there. They’re gonna drive you crazy. That’s all they want, you know, they want you loony, the only way they think they can get back at…” Click
“Damnit! I fucking hate it when the goddamn machine hangs up. I think they must listen to these, I know I used to be able to ramble for ages. Maybe they changed it from four minutes to one. God, Julia, shit. You need to leave, just leave. I need to tell you something. Shit. Last night I went through the box. Sometimes I just need you and you’re not here, so I went through it. Honey, she loved you so much, and they don’t give one goddamn shit for you. If they did, they wouldn’t be this way. It’s been over, shit, twenty years now, and you know they’re never gonna let it go. Honey, you need to cut the strings. Everything in that box, God Julia, I just need to tell you, I think I need to remind you. Or maybe remind me. Grandma still has some of Jo-Jo’s stuff, maybe she has something just like your box. Maybe when I get married someday…” Another long laugh. “Maybe Grandma will part with it. Funny now that I live here, all of Dad’s stuff’s in the bedroom. The guest room Julia, your room. Honey, get your ass on a plane before I come out there and knock some…” Click
After listening to Phil’s message, Julia erased the tape. She wasn’t sure if her grandmother ever noted Phil’s tirades, but they did Julia the world of good. Not that she would leave Florida any sooner than her return ticket stated, but at least she wasn’t completely alone.
Without her keepsake box, she did feel somewhat bereft, but it was safe with Phil, in his detested LA, and Julia smiled, stepping into her sandals. The house was empty and airless, as if to breathe she would inhale animosity on a scale to knock over a city. If not for her grandfather’s bad heart, Julia wouldn’t even be on the East Coast. She would be in California, maybe with Phil or at home in Oakland. Instead she stared at low ceilings, bad artwork, and ancient furniture, the same pieces her mother had romped on. Claire and Arthur Riley never threw anything away, especially nothing their precious daughter had touched. The rickety couch was covered in plastic; was it the same plastic as when Julia had been little, flying here escorted by kind stewardesses, for her parents weren’t allowed. Claire Riley had refused their presence, even on the plane. Julia ran fingers over the cracked cover, hard to the touch, an unbending shell. She smiled, unable to hold it in. If either Claire or Arthur ever listened to Phil’s messages, they wouldn’t want him in this state either.
She sat on the sofa. It sagged, and the cold plastic stuck to her legs. Why wasn’t she on a plane to California, why was she at all obliged to these people? Would her mother have approved? Julia set her face in her hands, but didn’t cry. She wouldn’t fall victim to Claire’s trap; every time Julia went to leave, Claire set her face in frail, shaking hands that then felt wrapped around Julia’s neck. Arthur would clear his throat, the phlegm thick, sounding wretched. Misery draped this place like the permanent sofa coverings, and Julia tried to move, but plastic clung to her skin, would probably rip it off if she attempted to flee. Then she laughed, wishing she hadn’t erased Phil’s message. If she listened to him once more, she would get off her ass and blow this joint. She didn’t need guilt laid so thickly that she couldn’t inhale. The last time she visited, Claire had rummaged through the box, reminding Julia in slow, halting tones the significance of each bauble, as if Laura’s remains lay in the cigar case, held together by tape and Julia’s bloodstream. But Claire’s hands upon Laura’s trinkets had altered everything. Since then, the box stayed at Phil’s.
It lived in Phil’s back bedroom alongside Stan’s love letters to Jo-Jo, old guitar picks, and music sheets that sported only lyrics; Stan never could read music. Julia knew the contents of Stan’s boxes as well as she knew her own heart, which also rested in Los Angeles in Phil’s extra bedroom. All she had to do was move from the covered sofa in Tampa, Florida.
She cried, then pried herself from the couch. If she picked up the phone, they would know, and she hated feeling so trapped, like Laura’s accident was embedded within Julia’s subconscious. Instead Julia found her purse, grabbing her cigarettes and lighter. She left no note. If her grandparents returned, wondering where she was, Julia didn’t care.
She wandered down a long, wide stretch of highway, retail lining both sides of the road. If she walked far enough she would reach the Gulf of Mexico. She would have to cross the highway, but in the daylight it was safe enough. Julia waited for a break in the traffic, then darted across, catching her breath on the other side. Since she had started smoking, her lungs balked at that sort of activity. It made her grandparents even more wary, half the reason she took it up in the first place. Phil hated it, Helen and Daniel tolerated it, but she never smoked in their houses, or at her parents. Only in Florida did she inhale within walls, even with Arthur’s heart condition. Claire never chided Julia, maybe it was the concession. If they were going to make her life hell, smoking was permitted. Maybe they were just trying to kill her; they had never actually hated Julia’s father or stepmother or half-sisters. Claire and Arthur Riley despised Julia Rose Penn, their only descendant. Julia breathed in as best she could, lung capacity already compromised. Then she blinked away tears. Throwing the cigarette on the ground, she crushed it with her sandal.
Three cigarettes remained in Julia’s back pocket, but they were being squashed as she sat on the sand, watching the water pool at the tiny inlet where children gathered and old people absorbed the rays. Young mothers tended to either their offspring or their grandparents, but Julia had never been here with Claire and Arthur. They thought it was tacky, wouldn’t dream of spending an afternoon at this small but safe section of the coast. Julia came here alone when she was twelve, after a horrendous argument with Claire about Lee. Julia had slipped, calling Lee Mom, and the fallout had rattled that entire summer, the same year that in faraway Columbus, twelve and a half year old Phil Gideon lost his mother.
That year Julia realized the extent of Claire and Arthur’s animosity not only toward her dad, but aimed at the rest of the Penns. Charles ‘Chuck’ Penn had cheated on Claire and Arthur’s daughter, but it wasn’t Lee’s fault that Laura was killed. Nor was it Liz and Diane’s fault; Liz had already been conceived when Laura was struck by a car, but… Julia smiled, wiping tears. What difference did it make now? She dug her toes into the sand. Her mother, Phil’s too, were killed in car accidents, nothing malicious or plotted, just fucking accidents! Julia needed to talk to Phil; she needed to get out of this cobwebbed state, away from perpetually tan old people, or ones so fossilized they couldn’t see straight. She needed to quit smoking, and she stood, brushing sand from the backs of her thighs. Reaching into her pocket, she gripped the last three smokes, then tossed the crumpled packet into the trash.
“Hey Phil? It’s me. Yeah, I know, I hear you laughing and no, I am NOT calling from the house. I’m at this guy’s place, some surfer-fisherman. He’s cute, wants to get laid. I might, depending on how long I end up talking to you.
“I gave up smoking today. I feel like shit. I feel like… Oh my God, I want my box back!” Small laughter. “Jesus, that sounds awful, like I want you to fuck me. I don’t, I mean, I don’t want this guy to either, shit, I can’t even remember his name! Does that make me a whore? A lay for a long distance call, what would my mother say? What would Claire say? Oh Christ, I won’t even go there.
“Honey, I’m coming home, well, probably in three days or so. Gotta see if I can change my ticket. I can’t be here, an
d I know, you told me so. Phil, you know what I thought about today? The summer of ‘72, when Jo-Jo died, and I did too. That was the first time I went to the beach alone, Claire pissed me off so badly that I ran away. Have I ever told you this? I was sitting there, wishing for a smoke, but instead I watched this old fat broad in a one-piece, but she was laying so all I could see was her pubes sticking out of the bottom of the swimsuit. God, why do they do that, I mean, not their not shaving down there, but I mean, shit! Have some modestly for God’s sake.” A large laugh. “That’s why Claire and Arthur never took me to that beach when I was little. Too many fat snowbirds. But actually, I’ve seen her here for years, so I know she’s a local. Arthur and Claire probably don’t like the locals any more than the snowbirds. Actually, I don’t even know if snowbirds would lay on that beach, too many noisy kids, and it’s summer anyways. I didn’t make a sound that day, the summer you lost your mom. Phil, oh Jesus, please don’t let this machine hang up on me yet! I love you, you know, I really do. Sometimes I wanna make love to you.” A generous giggle. “Sometimes I feel like if we did it, we’d never sleep with anyone else ever again. Then sometimes I think I’d be kissing you and it would turn into something sort of icky. Not as bad as that fat woman’s pubic hair in my view, Jesus Christ! Phil, okay. I need to stop coming here, stop subjecting myself to them, but I’m all they have left. Do they realize that, do they even see that I come here as some sort of death march, but it’s not crossing the highway that’s gonna kill me, just stepping from my room to the kitchen, sitting at the same table she did. But Laura’s not Mom to me. That’s why I ran away. Jo-Jo left you and I wanted to leave them but all I did was get as far as the beach. I bet that fat broad was sitting there then, but I was probably crying too hard to notice. Phil, make up your spare room, ’cause I can’t stay here, oh my God, I can’t!” Sobs emerged. “I want to, I really do. I wanna be what they want, I wanna be, oh God, my mother! Phil, how do you pick up that guitar and…” Click
Phil stood in the terminal, hoping Julia had actually given up smoking. It was all he could consider, her anguished message still on tape, sitting in his bedside table drawer, along with condoms, Chapstick, a pencil, and small pad of paper. Those last two items were for late night or early morning song ideas. The condoms were for protection, the Chapstick was too.
All Phil wanted was to see her and not smell smoke. He hated her habit, hoped she was serious. Her grandparents would be an eternal battle, but maybe cigarettes would have hit the road. As travelers filed from the gangway, he scanned for a medium-sized blonde; she would be a towhead after a week in Florida. That and the lemon juice she squeezed in her hair, along with the Miss Clairol she sometimes used.
Finally she emerged and Phil ran through the crowd. Their embrace was lengthy as she cried against him. Phil noticed deep sorrow, no tobacco fumes. He kissed her head, then took her duffel, the same bag as when they had met in this city, at the bus station. Now they flew across the country, but as Phil toted her luggage, he nearly carried Julia too.
They didn’t speak as they reached his car, a 1977 Ford Pinto station wagon with wood paneling. She laughed at his wheels, then took deep breaths getting into the car. Phil wasn’t sure if that was due to her former habit or just being clear of Florida. As he started the engine, pulling from the parking lot, Julia began to giggle. “Why’d you buy this car?”
“I like wood paneling.”
“Phil…”
“No one’s gonna steal it. How are you?”
“Tired. Anxious. But I did quit. I really did.”
“Quit smoking or just the East Coast?”
“Oh God, I don’t know which’s worse.”
Neither did Phil; he half expected not to see her in the terminal. Yet she had extricated herself from Claire and Arthur; they called them C and A on occasion, or just by their first names. Grandma and Grandpa emerged less and less from Julia concerning those people, more often lavished on Helen and Daniel, which Phil’s grandparents loved. They had gained another grandchild through Phil, and he and Julia still hadn’t slept together.
They wouldn’t now either, not because Julia wouldn’t offer, but that Phil had met someone. He hadn’t slept with Sunshine yet, but probably would very soon. “Julia, all I can say is I’m so glad you’re here.”
She squeezed his hand. “Oh God Phil, me too. Thanks, you know.”
“For being a prick about it?”
“No,” she laughed. “Well, yeah, but you know what I mean. All I want now is to take a shower, wash that hole off me. Sleep, uh…” She ran her hands along his forearm.
“Julia, I love you.”
She giggled. “I know you do. Jesus, I had to sleep with that loser, shit! But it was worth it, God, I don’t even need to actually hear your voice, just talk to you. Or at you,” she smiled, still running her hand along his skin.
He shivered, wasn’t sure if it was from wanting her or Sunshine. He ached for one of the women. Then he smiled. Sunshine was eighteen, but an old eighteen. She seemed older than Julia even. “Hey, I uh…”
“Yeah Phil?”
“There’s someone. Sorry.”
She laughed, but didn’t move her hand. “And just how much of a someone is she?”
“She’s young.”
“Legal?”
“Yes,” he sighed. “Eighteen. Her name’s…” He chuckled.
“What? Not Claire, Jesus, not that.”
“Sunshine. Sunshine Galveston.”
“Sunshine?” Julia removed her hand from his arm. “What the fuck kinda name is that? Sounds like a stripper!”
She was, how Phil had met her, out with a bunch of guys with whom he was making inroads. If he played his cards right, an album might finally emerge. “She’s really innocent, well, sort of innocent. I met her at a club. She uses a fake ID, about all that’s false on her.” He smiled, turning off the freeway.
“Uh-huh,” Julia snorted.
“Really. She’s uh, just a minute.” Traffic was busy, and he swerved to avoid an accident. He said nothing for ten minutes as Julia stared out the window. Had she wanted to sleep with him? Phil didn’t look at her, but noticed her uneven breathing. Not that she was crying, just a smoker’s hack. She was twenty-three; how in the world could she have already gotten that hooked?
They reached his house, a small bungalow that Phil had purchased last year, after coming into his inheritance. Stan Gideon might have only released two albums, but he had owned the rights to all of his songs, leaving them to his wife and infant son. Had that been part of the plan, Phil occasionally mused.
The front yard was speckled with grass that now in early summer was starting to turn brown. The front door was new; Phil wanted his possessions secure, his and Julia’s, that cigar box as precious as all of Stan’s belongings. As they went inside, she looked around, noting nothing had changed since she was last here, right after Christmas. They had spent the holiday with their own families, then met up at New Year’s, spent in Los Angeles, in Phil’s new house. He had decided to make LA his home and would stick it out until either he hit the big time or the skids.
“Have you even washed these curtains?” she asked, pointing to ragged fabric.
“Was waiting for you to get home.”
“Ha ha. Make Miss November do it.”
“She’s a stripper, not a Playboy bunny.”
“What’s the difference?” Julia giggled.
Phil sighed. He wasn’t sure, except that dancing naked seemed more artistic, or at least less exploitative. It was how she moved, the way she had looked at him, as if she too understood. Not like Julia did, no one knew Phil like Julia, but Sunshine was close. Maybe after Phil slept with her, she would be everything Julia wasn’t.
Which was better, as Julia sniffed around the room like she was Jo-Jo, making Phil laugh. “I’ll buy you some Pine-Sol, Lysol, Comet, whatever you want.”
“I’m not cleaning this place.” Then she sighed. “Is it okay if I stay?”
&nb
sp; “Of course.” He stepped her way, wrapping her close. “Honey, this’s your home.”
“It’s Miss November’s home.”
“Not yet.”
“When?”
He flopped on the sofa, dust swirling. They laughed, running their hands through the particles, then Julia sat beside him. “You wanna tell me about it?”
“What’s to tell? They’re assholes. End of story.”
“Grandma and Grandpa Asshole.” Phil laughed, then kissed Julia’s head. “Honey, I am so sorry.”
“Me too,” she sniffed, leaning into him. She stroked his chest, and Phil groaned.
“Julia…”
She stopped. “I know, just making sure Miss November had something. I guess she does.”
“Honey, tell me.”
She buried her face into him. “Easier to tell your machine.”
“Okay. Pretend I’m not here.” He began to hum. “Leave your message at the beep.”
She giggled, then pulled away. Scooting to the other end of the sofa, Julia then lay on her back, setting her feet over the arm. “Hey it’s me. So Phil, how’s your girlfriend?” She giggled. “No really Phil, really. Really. Shit. You know what I left there?”
Phil said nothing.
“I left all I ever was. When I was twelve, I left my heart in that house, probably encased in fucking plastic. Some sort of fucking sheet rock, and they just rolled it up alongside all she ever was. All Laura and I are to them are relics, not human, nothing to them is human. Or humane. Just cracked plastic, that’s all I am, cold, cracked plastic. They lay me out every single fucking summer. I hate them Phil, I hate what they’ve done to me, to her, to my dad. I love my dad and all they want is for me to hate him.”
She lifted her head, tears falling toward her temples. Julia was one of the few people Phil had met who could cry in silence. He wiped her forehead, spreading liquid into her hairline. “I love you.”
“They don’t. They hate me because my last name is Penn. And because I look like her, well, a little.” She continued to stare at him. “You look like Daniel. Have I ever told you that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Really? When?”
When we got back from the convenience store, Phil wanted to say. When we decided friendship was better than screwing each other, and Phil smiled. “Right before you headed to Florida the first time, you know, from Columbus. You told me then.”
“When Phil? I don’t remember.”
He traced her temples, and she cried as he did it. “When you were getting ready to leave, when I took you to the bus station. You were sitting in the red Pinto, and you said I’d be a handsome old man.”
She nodded. “Oh yeah, I remember.”
He smiled at her allowance for fiction to become truth. Julia seemed to cope better if life’s edges were frayed. “Yup. That’s what you said, and I told my grandma and she loved it. I mean, I think she always saw it, but she never said anything.”
“If you grow up to be anything like Daniel, oh my God, Miss November won’t know how good she has it.”
He laughed. “If I ever grow up. Big shoes to fill.”
Phil meant his grandfather’s, even if Stan Gideon had worn a size fifteen.
That night they went to sleep in separate rooms, but in the morning Phil found Julia at his side, curled in a ball. He covered her, then went to pee. Then he made coffee, letting her sleep.
She woke at nine, looking rough, then plowed through three cups of lukewarm coffee. Phil had to be at the studio by noon, and asked if she would be all right here alone. “I mean, you can come with me. You’ll be bored as hell, but…”
“No, I think I’ll stay here, clean a little.” She sniffed, then smiled. “Miss November know how to use a mop?”
“No idea.” Phil didn’t know much more about Sunshine than she looked great in the buff and seemed to want to get to know him that way too. “So I don’t know when I’ll be home…”
“Vons is around the corner, right?”
“Yup.” He took his wallet from his back pocket, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill, setting it on the table. “Get whatever this’ll buy you.”
She giggled. “I have money of my own, you know.”
“Well, Lysol ain’t cheap baby.”
“Is Miss November allergic to cleaning products?”
He kissed her forehead, leaving his lips for seconds longer than normal. “Dunno. Haven’t asked her yet.”
“Phil, it’s okay, I mean. Okay, yeah, I think I did wanna sleep with you this time.”
“You did sleep with me,” he laughed, staring at her temples.
“Well, okay, sleep. But Phil…”
“Better this way Julia.”
“Is it?” she asked, as he stepped to the front door.
Her hands were set into her sides, her smile a tease. She looked like… His mother, maybe like her own. A little like Laura Riley, maybe even some like Stan Gideon. Except that unlike that trio, Julia appeared permanent. She was a fixture, as long as Phil didn’t make love to her. If that happened… “Julia, get your ass to Vons and buy me a roast.”
“Yes sir!” she laughed, saluting as he went through the door.
At seven p.m. Phil returned to a fragrant house, but the combination of beef and ammonia didn’t turn his stomach. The faint scent of tobacco bothered him, but maybe she had needed a few puffs. Smoking was a hard habit to kick, like any other drug; Phil steered clear of pot, beer, and cigarettes, which wasn’t easy, especially with the current company he kept. Not Sunshine, but the all the guys with whom he made music; it seemed everyone was on something.
Was it growing up in Ohio, was it Daniel Reese? Was it just Stan Gideon; Phil wasn’t sure, but he ignored Julia’s smoky breath, kissing her cheek. “Looks great in here baby. Smells good too.”
“I’ve been working and slaving, oh my!” She giggled, sitting at the table. It was bare and scrubbed, as were the counters and stove. “Phil, you are an absolute pig.”
“I am an absolute man,” he smiled, pulling a Pepsi from the fridge, it too having been cleared out. “Shit Julia, what didn’t you clean today?”
“Your underwear. I will scrub a lot of things Phil, but I am not touching your laundry.”
“That’s fair.” He sat, cracking his knuckles. “I can do it tomorrow.”
“What about Miss November? Can’t she throw those stiff boards in the washer?”
“She hasn’t even been here yet.”
“Probably too scared to step into this pit. That’s why you wanted me to come back here, asshole.” She laughed, then stood, checking the roast. “Okay well, it looks like meat. You need to shower first or shall I do the honors?”
Phil drained the Pepsi, then stood, pulling her close. “I’m sorry, okay?”
She looked to the floor. “I mopped and you didn’t even notice.”
“I see everything, you know that.”
Their eyes met. “Do you Phil, really?”
“You know I do.”
He could have kissed her, which would have led them to his bed. Instead he set his fingers along her face, up to her forehead. Phil left his digits there, as if placing more into her than his prick. “Julia, if you want me to…”
She shook her head, then set her face against his. “Why do you love me?”
“Can’t help it.”
“You can help some of it.” She pressed against him, but he was flaccid.
“Julia…”
“They’re supposed to love me for me. Did they ever? Did they love her for who she was, or for only what she wrote?”
“I don’t know honey.”
“I don’t either. Neither do they. They can’t remember loving her, all they know is how to hate him. They hate him, which translates to them hating me.” She lifted her head, then set her fingers to Phil’s temple. “Why Phil, why?”
“Oh baby, I dunno.”
Dinner was delayed by her sudden outburst; Phil removed the overdone roast from
the oven. He didn’t mind, preferring meat well-cooked, but Julia wailed about that as well as her grandparents, and her dad not getting to the doctor. Phil hadn’t heard that tale, but Chuck’s poor health tumbled forth, along with how much Julia missed her keepsake box. Lamenting her homeless status, she wept in Phil’s arms as he surveyed all her handiwork. Everything had been dusted, polished, and vacuumed. Julia had never cleaned like this before, and if Phil brought Sunshine here, she would have to understand the tidiness wasn’t the status quo.
But Julia’s presence was permanent, whether she was bawling or stoic. If Sunshine balked about another woman in the picture, she would be history. “Honey, let’s eat something. You need to eat.”
“It’s ruined, I ruined it!”
“You did not.”
“Phil?” Julia’s eyes were red and puffy. “Why do you put up with me?”
“Why do you think?”
“Uh, well…” She smiled, wiping her face. “I don’t know really. It’s sure not because you find me irresistible.”
“Oh but I do.” He kissed her, a warm, friendly exchange. Then he smiled. “Julia, how many women would clean my house, cook my dinner, then cry in my lap?”
“I don’t know. All of them?”
“No honey. Only you.”
“But Phil, why me?”
He stroked her hair, wondering how being so torn apart by her grandparents hadn’t driven her crazy. “Julia, let’s eat some dinner.”
He pulled her from the sofa, then led her to the table. Phil served, would have cut her meat if she’d asked. He would do anything but sleep with her, yet that tempted. Had his father felt this way for Jo-Jo, some inbred desire for weakened females? Julia lifted the fork to her lips as if her trembling hands needed assistance. “You can’t go back there honey. I mean it.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Don’t go back there. They’ll kill you, I swear to God.”
“I left my notebook there Phil.”
He dropped his fork. “You what?”
She stared at her plate, then put her finger into the peas. “I realized it as Greg drove me to the airport. If we went back for it I would’ve missed the flight, or maybe I would’ve chickened out altogether. Besides, he was bitching enough as it was, I mean, the sex wasn’t great but he didn’t seem that put out. I put out, what else did he want?”
“Julia, what are you gonna do?”
It was the same notebook she’d had on the bus, barely half full then and not much more had been added since. “Honey…” He reached across the table, grabbing her hands. “God Julia, you want me to go get it for you?”
Phil would walk all the way across America if she asked. Instead she shook her head. “No, I mean, if I’d wanted to remember it, I would’ve.”
“Will they read it?”
“Who knows? I doubt it, they never read her last novel, or if they did, they never say anything about it.”
Phil nodded. “Julia, really, what’re you gonna do?”
“I took care of it.”
“Yeah?”
“I bought a new one today at Vons.”
She spoke as if having replaced a stick of deodorant. “You bought another at Vons?”
“Well, they sell them there. Really Phil, it’s just a notebook.”
“It’s not just a notebook! If I left Dad’s guitar outside overnight, you’d have my head!”
She began to cry. “Don’t get mad at me, shit!”
He stared at her, then sat beside her. “Baby, my God! Why’d you leave it there?”
“Because I forgot, I just forgot it.”
Truth was fluid with Julia Penn; she had smoked that afternoon because she didn’t have her notebook, only a cheap impostor from a grocery store. “Honey, oh Julia…” Phil cradled her as he recalled his mother holding him, or how Helen had comforted him after Jo-Jo was dead. “What am I gonna do with you?”
“Sleep with Miss November,” she wailed.
He considered that was true; as soon as Julia was subdued, Phil would usher Sunshine into this house. He sighed, then kissed Julia’s nose. “Baby, tomorrow we’ll go shopping, get you a proper notebook.” She would want a leather-bound, lined but empty journal, that last tidbit scaring Phil. At least the old one contained words, proof she had lived.
“Phil, do you think she’ll read it?”
“Oh baby, I dunno.” He did know, but couldn’t bear to tell her. Claire Riley wouldn’t touch Julia’s most prized possession. She might encase it in plastic, but the living words inside wouldn’t see the light of day.
“I just couldn’t leave them without some part of me, you know? They never acknowledge that I might be able to write too!”
“I know honey, I know.”
She gripped his torso, then slipped her hands under his t-shirt. Phil arched from her touch, then found her mouth. They kissed for a while, never more than his lips to hers, neither daring to go further. Just as he began to desire more, she pulled away.
He smiled, standing, rearranging his jeans. “What am I gonna do with you?”
“Don’t fuck me, whatever it is.”
“Yeah?”
She nodded. “If you ever make love to me, it’s over.”
“I know.” He leaned against the counter, then looked at the sink. It sparkled, and he laughed. “Besides my boxers, is there anything else you didn’t touch?”
“Well, under your toilet seat. Phil, I nearly gagged.”
He laughed. “Okay, that’s good. A man’s gotta have some sacred, filthy places.”
“Your mind not enough?”
“Oh, you’re so far into my head, probably why you’re so screwed up now.”
She laughed, then put a forkful of peas into her mouth. She chewed slowly, then stood, spitting them into the trash. “God, cold peas, yuck!”
Two feet separated them, then Phil moved her way. “Honey, tomorrow, we’ll go shopping. New notebook, new peas. You name it, LA’s got it somewhere.”
“Phil, if I asked you…”
“Anything Julia.”
He would do anything except sleep with her, which made him laugh, all he had wanted most of the bus ride to Columbus while she had gripped her notebook as hard as holding him. He shook, thinking of her deliberately leaving that journal behind, as if shooting herself in the head.
“What Julia, what do you want me to do?”
Her eyes watered as she kissed his face, from his left ear to the middle of his brow, brushing aside his long hair to do so. Phil needed a trim; maybe they would do that tomorrow too.
Her lips were soothing, as if putting something back together. But not him, and she could do nothing for Stan. Or for her mother, or those assholes in Florida. Too many ghosts, and Phil held her hands within his. “What do you want me to do Julia?”
But she didn’t need to speak, and Phil didn’t ask again. Tomorrow they would get him to a barber, which made him smile. Then to a travel agency, not that Phil would need a haircut to fly to Florida. Only a ticket, with a return. If Sunshine griped, Phil would accept it. He could move on from Miss November, but Phil would never leave Julia behind.
Chapter 3