Luke waited a moment, thinking about it. He wished he were in his small bed at the cabin, not lost in the king-size bed of his old house. “I know you didn’t see my movie.
Pescadero.
When you do see it, talk to me first.”
“Why?”
“My wife used to say I was stuck in the past. And somehow you’re a part of that past. Even if I didn’t really know you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. But you’ve haunted me somehow.”
“It’s usually the golden boy who haunts the outcast girl.”
“Not this time.”
“Don’t fall for me.”
“I’ll do my best,” he told her.
She was quiet for a moment, and Luke waited for her.
“Come by at ten,” she said finally. “I want to sleep for a very long time.”
“Good night, Blair. Kiss Sweetpea for me.”
He could hear the sound of her kiss before she hung up the phone.
At 7:00 A.M. Luke was parked across the street from the house in Noe Valley, the house Gray Healy had run to the night before. Sometime in the middle of the night, Luke had decided that he was done searching for Emily, that he had found Blair, his true Lost Soul. Blair’s soft voice had hummed in his ear all night, weaving through his own troubled dreams. But by morning his resolution had faded and he had fled his house before breakfast, before a shower, before finding something other than mountain man clothes to wear.
He waited for Emily to emerge. When they lived together, she always woke early, went to a yoga class or for a run before work. He couldn’t make those assumptions anymore. She walked out on him, proving that he knew nothing about her.
He listened to music on the radio, changing stations impatiently with every lousy song. He felt irritable, angry at himself for stubbornly sitting there and waiting for her. He tried to imagine the scene: She walks out of the house and then what? He’s furious, his anger exploding in words hurled in her direction? He’s overcome with love, runs across the street and into her arms? Shouldn’t he know this before he confronts her? Does he want to see her because he loves her or because he hates her?
He decided then: He loves her and he hates what she’s done to him.
What did I do to you,
he thought,
that made you capable of such cruelty?
He remembered this: There had been an evening in fall a couple of years before, a surprisingly warm evening in the city, when he had finished work and then picked her up at her office—this was before she was working at home. They had walked along the Embarcadero, arm in arm, telling each other about the day. His was good—he was finishing the script for
The Geography of Love
and liked it. In his own life his father had died while out sailing with a neighbor’s son, a boy who should have been Luke if Luke had agreed to sail with him every weekend. If Luke had been in the sailboat instead of in the garage, turning wooden bowls, destroying them, turning new ones. In
The Geography of Love
the father and son are so close that the son can hear the father’s thoughts. When the father dies in a boating accident, the son’s on board, and though he tries like hell, he can’t save him. His father’s voice stays in his head, but his own voice leaves him. Luke knew the young man would find his voice by the end of the script—he was writing for Hollywood after all. And as he told Emily on their walk, “I can rewrite my life. I can give my father a different son.” She had said, “You can give yourself a different father.”
She talked about a poster she had created for the arts festival, one that she was sure would win the competition, and at that moment she was happy because she didn’t know that it wouldn’t win, that like most of her work, it was good but not good enough. They had walked and kissed and walked some more.
When they got cold, they decided to stop at a restaurant, and suddenly they were ravenous for oysters and white wine, which they ate till they were giddy. Someone came by
Pescadero.
When you do see it, talk to me first.”
“Why?”
“My wife used to say I was stuck in the past. And somehow you’re a part of that past. Even if I didn’t really know you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. But you’ve haunted me somehow.”
“It’s usually the golden boy who haunts the outcast girl.”
“Not this time.”
“Don’t fall for me.”
“I’ll do my best,” he told her.
She was quiet for a moment, and Luke waited for her.
“Come by at ten,” she said finally. “I want to sleep for a very long time.”
“Good night, Blair. Kiss Sweetpea for me.”
He could hear the sound of her kiss before she hung up the phone.
At 7:00 A.M. Luke was parked across the street from the house in Noe Valley, the house Gray Healy had run to the night before. Sometime in the middle of the night, Luke had decided that he was done searching for Emily, that he had found Blair, his true Lost Soul. Blair’s soft voice had hummed in his ear all night, weaving through his own troubled dreams. But by morning his resolution had faded and he had fled his house before breakfast, before a shower, before finding something other than mountain man clothes to wear.
He waited for Emily to emerge. When they lived together, she always woke early, went to a yoga class or for a run before work. He couldn’t make those assumptions anymore. She walked out on him, proving that he knew nothing about her.
He listened to music on the radio, changing stations impatiently with every lousy song. He felt irritable, angry at himself for stubbornly sitting there and waiting for her. He tried to imagine the scene: She walks out of the house and then what? He’s furious, his anger exploding in words hurled in her direction? He’s overcome with love, runs across the street and into her arms? Shouldn’t he know this before he confronts her? Does he want to see her because he loves her or because he hates her?
He decided then: He loves her and he hates what she’s done to him.
What did I do to you,
he thought,
that made you capable of such cruelty?
He remembered this: There had been an evening in fall a couple of years before, a surprisingly warm evening in the city, when he had finished work and then picked her up at her office—this was before she was working at home. They had walked along the Embarcadero, arm in arm, telling each other about the day. His was good—he was finishing the script for
The Geography of Love
and liked it. In his own life his father had died while out sailing with a neighbor’s son, a boy who should have been Luke if Luke had agreed to sail with him every weekend. If Luke had been in the sailboat instead of in the garage, turning wooden bowls, destroying them, turning new ones. In
The Geography of Love
the father and son are so close that the son can hear the father’s thoughts. When the father dies in a boating accident, the son’s on board, and though he tries like hell, he can’t save him. His father’s voice stays in his head, but his own voice leaves him. Luke knew the young man would find his voice by the end of the script—he was writing for Hollywood after all. And as he told Emily on their walk, “I can rewrite my life. I can give my father a different son.” She had said, “You can give yourself a different father.”
She talked about a poster she had created for the arts festival, one that she was sure would win the competition, and at that moment she was happy because she didn’t know that it wouldn’t win, that like most of her work, it was good but not good enough. They had walked and kissed and walked some more.
When they got cold, they decided to stop at a restaurant, and suddenly they were ravenous for oysters and white wine, which they ate till they were giddy. Someone came by
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