The Last Romantics(63)

A pause. “Who told you?” she asked.

Joe decided not to give Caroline up; it would hurt Fiona to know. “Those guys don’t know what you’re doing,” he said instead.

“Of course they don’t. That’s the point.”

“It seems unfair. They trust you.”

“Trust? I’m the one at risk! I’m trusting them.” And then she said, “I trusted you. You kept secrets from me. The knee injury, Sierra, Ace. Remember?”

“Come on, that’s different.”

“Not really.”

“Fiona, the whole thing is cheap, taking cheap shots at these guys.” Joe paused. “People make mistakes. It’s not right to punish them like this.”

“I’m not punishing anybody. I’m just telling the truth.”

“Well, I think it cheapens you.”

“You don’t understand the project.”

“I don’t need to.”

“How’s the coke habit, Joe?” Fiona asked with ice in her voice.

A hot flush of shame came down on him. He didn’t want to tell Fiona the truth, but he couldn’t lie to her, not anymore.

“I just want you to find someone you love,” he said.

“Love? What would you know about it?” Fiona laughed. “I can’t talk about this with you, Joe. Good-bye.” And then she hung up.

Luna was watching Joe as he spoke on the phone. It was midmorning, a Sunday. Newspapers and sunshine on the bed. She heard the name Fiona, she knew the significance of Joe speaking to his sister after all this time. But his face was opaque.

“So?” Luna asked.

“It’s okay,” he answered. “She’s still mad. We’ll work it out later.”

*

Joe and Luna drive south, following the coast until they reach a new beach, a narrow strip of South Florida sand that isn’t packed with tourists, where no radios ricochet noise, no volleyballs arc skyward. It is high tide, and Luna bends to retrieve a shell, a slice of small white conch that forms a ring. She slips it onto her finger.

“Joe, look!” she says, and puts out her hand for him to see. With the solemnity of a prince, he bends and kisses it.

At the far end, they scramble over an outcrop of tall, slippery rock. Here they are alone on the sand. The sun beats down, and Joe builds a tent of sorts from their two towels and a battered fishing pole he finds on the ragged tide line. In the small triangle of shade, Joe traces a finger across Luna’s tan stomach. A circle. A figure eight. A heart. She lies back, and the feeling is of a creature, smooth and cool, looking for a home in her skin.

*

Somehow Donny and Joe had never crossed paths. Luck, or maybe Donny knew that Luna had a new boyfriend. Luna sometimes believed that Donny was watching her, through the windows of the bar, at her apartment as she walked up the front steps, even at the Betsy as she waited with Joe for the room key. After that night outside Revel, he’d been back only once, perched on the corner stool, not talking to her. Luna wanted to forget about her time with Donny. Back then he had seemed like all she was good for, all she deserved. Donny inhabited a dark place that was familiar to her, and she knew how familiarity could sometimes feel like comfort.

At 2:00 a.m. on the last night, Joe picked Luna up from work and they went to a nearby bar. They drank shots of tequila, then ordered pints of beer and sipped and talked, their heads close together. “Smile!” the bartender called, and they looked up: he held an old-fashioned Polaroid camera, and thunk, pressed the button. Out slid a photo, the image sticky and white. The bartender pointed to the side wall, which was festooned with Polaroids of smiling customers, but Joe said, “Can we have it?”

Together Joe and Luna watched as the paper surrendered its image, ghostly and pale until the colors surfaced: their faces, smiles, shoulders touching. Joe held the photo and turned to Luna. He kissed her, and as she disappeared into him, a hand descended on her shoulder.

“Hey, who’s kissing my girlfriend?” a voice said.

Luna pulled away from Joe. “Donny,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Luna, fantastic to see you.” Donny spoke only to Luna. “You look beautiful.”

Joe stood to face him. Joe was taller than Donny by a head, but he had none of the other man’s bulk. Or youth—Donny was closer to Luna’s age than Joe’s.

“You know him?” Joe asked Luna. She nodded and looked away, embarrassed. Donny wore an idiot’s provocative grin, looking from Joe to Luna and back again. His wide shoulders pulled the T-shirt tight.

“Leave her alone,” Joe said. He sounded like a heavy in a bad movie, but Joe was no tough guy, and anyone could see that: flip-flops and old jeans, the short-sleeved button-down shirt with tails hanging out, a man trying to dress younger than he was.

Donny smirked. “Luna, looks like you’ve found a hero.”

“Donny, go home,” Luna said. “Please just leave me alone.”

Luna became aware of others at the bar, the bartender who watched Donny steadily, the drinkers paused in their conversations, their attention directed onto the scene: Donny, Luna, Joe. Luna saw Donny begin to falter. He blinked, and the grin faded.

“Is there a problem here?” the bartender called.

Donny was losing interest, he was going to leave them, Luna realized with relief. She grabbed Joe’s hand.