The Last Romantics(65)

Joe returned with two gin and tonics.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you,” he said. “Come to Bexley with me. I want you to meet my family. And it’s time I went back for a visit. It’s Louis’s birthday soon. Caroline always throws a big party at their place in Hamden. He’s turning twelve. Jesus, that means I’m old.”

Luna sipped her drink and gazed out at the night sea. “Do they know about me?” she asked.

Joe tilted his head to the side. “Well, not exactly.”

Luna lifted her eyebrows. When she didn’t respond, Joe said, “Just consider it. I think you’d like them. I really do.”

“Mmmm,” Luna said, not quite a question, not quite a statement. Joe continued talking, but a vision of her own sister came to her then, from the night before Mariana disappeared. Mariana had been lying on the couch watching TV. A children’s program, some cartoon played out in manic color. “See you for breakfast,” Luna had called, and Mariana’s eyes stayed fixed to the screen as Luna left for her shift at the restaurant. What cartoon had Mariana been watching? Luna realized that she could no longer remember. A vicious ache for her sister and mother overcame her. She put down the drink and closed her eyes.

“Why don’t you move in here?” Joe asked suddenly.

The question could not have surprised her more. Luna opened her eyes and looked at Joe. He sat leaning forward, elbows on knees. He took her hands into his. “Move in with me,” he said.

“But . . . but what would your family think?” Luna said.

“My family? Oh . . .” He smiled with relief as though the answer to a vexing riddle had just been revealed to him. “Luna, I don’t care what they think. And they’ll love you anyhow. And even if they don’t, we live here, they live there. It doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t know,” Luna answered slowly. “Are you sure you want a roommate?”

“I don’t want a roommate.”

“Are you sure—”

“Yes,” Joe interrupted. “I’m sure.”

Luna bit her lip. “But my hours at the bar suck. I’m not back until three, sometimes four a.m.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“And I snore.”

“I know.” Joe smiled. “Me, too.”

“But—”

“But what?” asked Joe.

Now Luna went quiet. What if she broke her lease, moved in here, and then Joe decided he wanted someone else? What if he decided to move back to New York? Living alone was easier, safer. She knew where everything was kept, she knew what food to buy. Living alone was the daytime; Joe was the night. Joe was drinking and sex, the clubs, the constant side-to-side motion of the bar and behind her the brilliant glistening bottles lit up like vaudeville girls. During the day Luna tended her plants, she cooked sometimes, and watched her tiny color TV; she sewed the rips in her clothes with a long needle and black thread, the short, fine stitches her mother had taught her how to make.

The day and the night together, in one place, here, and in this moment Luna wanted it with a raw longing that terrified her.

Luna smiled. “Okay, roommate,” she said. “Go get us another drink.” Joe leaned in to kiss her, but she pushed him away, and he stood up too quickly and swayed, or maybe Luna’s own head initiated the movement, an unsteady mixing of sky and balcony, city lights and sea, the horizon, the railing, tall Joe, his arms held up to right himself, and then he was gone, opening the glass doors, disappearing inside.

The dawn was coming, and Luna wondered what it would look like from up here, the first smudge of pink over the ocean streaking into a fiery red and then the glorious sun. Her plants would thrive on this balcony, so much larger than her own. She and Joe would eat fresh tomatoes with basil and dill. Every day she would set her alarm so they could watch the sun rise.

From inside came the sound of Joe’s footsteps on the kitchen tiles, glasses retrieved from a cabinet, the fridge door, and a scattershot of ice cubes, and then a loud whomp as something heavy and soft fell or dropped to the floor.

Luna turned her head from the view. “Joe?” she called. “Joe? Are you okay?” There was no answer, no sound from the kitchen, so she stood and walked inside, her sight momentarily gone as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

In the kitchen Joe was lying on the floor, his arms by his sides, his legs open in a V as though he were midway through marking an angel in the snow. Briefly he opened his eyes and issued a tired half smile, motioned for her to join him on the floor, and then began almost immediately to snore.

Luna made her way back to the living room, where she found a pillow and a throw blanket on the couch, and returned, crouching to lift Joe’s head and slide the pillow underneath. She curled up beside him, her head on his chest, and spread the blanket over them both. Lulled by the rhythm of his breath, the firm pillow of his rib cage, she almost fell asleep, but the marble floor was cold and hard against her hip, and she remembered that she had to be at work early that afternoon to check stock and she still hadn’t slept since the night before.

Luna lifted her head and kissed Joe on his open mouth. She thought about waking him to say good-bye, but no, he was tired, he should sleep, and so she stood up, straightened her skirt, and grabbed her purse. She rode the elevator down to Collins Avenue, and now, at last, she saw the first sun, the light rising with each passing moment, washing the street and buildings around her with pinks and yellows. Luna marveled at the beauty available each and every day with a simple dawn.