ON LONG ACRE, JULIAN STOOD IN FRONT OF THE WHITE Crow, letting others pass, door swinging open and closed, people disappearing inside. Through the panes of amber stained glass he could see a fragmented image of Ashton, blond and tall, in tailored slacks, trim white shirt, thin black tie, standing, raising a dark pint, telling a joke, laughing at his own hilarity, the Greek chorus crowded at three round tables in front of him, gazing up at him adoringly. Look at all the people Ashton had brought. Riley, two of Julian’s brothers, Gwen, Zakiyyah, a contingent from Nextel. Every time the door opened there was a smell of warm lager, of old bitter, the din of happy people, a slot machine cha-chinging, counting cherries and number sevens.
Covent Garden, loud, drenched with rain. The West End shows had started, and the traffic was heavy and honking in the evening hour. The crowds from the bars and the cafes spilled out into the street, nearby drunken people cruising and cursing, one girl giddily repeating, “You did! You did! You did!” to her equally intoxicated lover who rejoined with “Never! Never! Never! All right, once, but never again!”
Whatever happened, tonight Julian had to pass muster. Because sometimes you live and not much happens to you. And other times your whole world stands teetering upside down on a head of a pin. You know it. The question is, did everybody else know it, too?
Julian could not describe how desperately he did not want to go inside, to pretend to listen, to make small talk, to answer unanswerable questions. He stood trying to spackle himself together, collecting slabs that had fractured and were now dangling off his person. He was doing it for Ashton. He forced himself to be alive for his friend. Taking a deep breath, he opened the White Crow door. Julian wasn’t in a landslide. He was the landslide.
***
“Julian!” Ashton bellowed, striding across the pub to greet him, nearly lifting him off his feet in a bear hug. “Finally! You’re only an hour late. That’s practically on time for you.”
“Put me down.”
Ashton commented on Julian’s lack of tan (“Tan, dude? I’m in London”), his wet uncut hair, his soggy demeanor. “For fuck’s sake. We didn’t travel five thousand miles to see you mope. Buck up.”
“I am bucked up.” He glanced over Ashton’s shoulder. “Gwen and Zakiyyah? Really?”
Ashton shrugged. “Riley insisted. They’re all friends now, thanks to you.”
“I had nothing to do with it.”
“The more the merrier, Riley said, and I agree. You need cheering up.”
“With Zakiyyah?”
“You’re lucky your mother is not here, too.” Ashton’s arm remained around Julian. “Why are you pissing Graham off? At Christmas, everything seemed all right. Suddenly it’s Defcon 2.”
“He’s such a hysteric,” Julian said.
“He says you came in at noon, left twenty minutes later, and never returned.”
“So? It’s my birthday.”
“Oh, now you care that it’s your birthday,” Ashton said. “He was mad, bro. He ambushed me on the fourth floor in front of my old man, screeching that it was either him or you. Said he couldn’t run the news division with you not working there.”
“What a whiner.”
“I see you’re not saying he was wrong. Well, my dad says to me, you think you can run things better than Graham, hot shot? Be my guest. He told Graham I might be his boss.”
Julian homed in on Ashton’s words. “Is he joking?”
“Dad’s over seventy, Jules.” Ashton grinned. “I should learn the business if I’m going to inherit it, don’t you agree?”
Julian studied Ashton’s cheerful face. His whole life Ashton had been on the outs with his father. After years of near total estrangement, he got in touch with the older Bennett only to help Julian. “Are you joking? Did you tell him you already have a job—in L.A.?”
“You had a job once, too, in L.A.,” Ashton said. “How’d that turn out?” He prodded him forward. “Later for this bullshit. Tonight, we party. Don’t say anything to Sheridan or Roger or Nigel.”
“Like I would.” Julian cast an eye over their group in the corner. “I see Graham didn’t show up. And why’d you invite Nigel? You know I can’t stand him.”
“Now is not the time to be funny, Jules. Now’s the time to fake being a normal human being. Mouth shut, smile on your face. Nice and big.”
Julian smiled, imitating Ashton. Nice and big. Julian stretched his lips over his clenched teeth, lifted the corners of his mouth, and walked up to his friends, his face contorted. The Klonopin numbness wearing off wasn’t helping. What a terrible way to live—to feel things.
Riley often came with Ashton when he visited Julian, the two of them spending long weekends in London clucking over Julian’s apathy. Gwen looked good. Breaking up with Julian agreed with her. And Zakiyyah . . . well, what could he say. Gwen, okay, they’d known each other a long time and had become friends again, but only Riley would think bringing Zakiyyah to London was a good idea.
His two youngest brothers were happy to see him, a delegation from the Cruz family, and there was even a group of people from Nextel, no doubt invited by Ashton to prove to their L.A. contingent that look, Julian was doing fine, he made new friends! As if in any incarnation Julian would ever be friends with a dumb drunk like Nigel from sub-editing, who corrected men and insulted women and called both joking. Nigel was a skinny, gawky, rumple-haired, rumple-suited man with nicotine-stained teeth. His jacket smelled of old alcohol. Something about Nigel had rubbed Julian the wrong way since he first met him, back when he barely noticed other people existed. Nigel drank in tandem with his boss Roger, the manager of the sub-editing department, who was already too drunk to get up to shake Julian’s hand. But while Nigel was a mean drunk, Roger was at least a jolly one. Sheridan, who was being all chummy with Nigel, didn’t seem to mind that the man’s flirting sounded like misogyny. As Julian neared, he overheard Nigel saying to her, “Do you know what virgins have for breakfast?” and she said, “No, what?” and he said, “Mm-hmm, just as I thought,” but instead of slapping him, Sheridan hooted!
Julian hugged his brothers, waved at the Nextel people so he wouldn’t have to shake Nigel’s hand, and was encircled by Riley and Gwen who clucked and searched for something positive to say about his appearance. “My God, you’ve lost weight,” said Gwen, trying to hide her shock.
“She’s right, we’ve never seen you so thin,” said Riley. “You used to love food.”
Zakiyyah stood nearby, not approaching. Julian nodded to her, she nodded back; both kept their eyes averted. He didn’t want to see what was on Zakiyyah’s face any more than he wanted to show her what was on his.
“Your hair is getting so long,” said Gwen, touching Julian’s head. “That’s so unlike you.”
“Jules,” Riley said, “next time you shave, stand a little closer to the razor, will you?” She smiled. “See, despite what Ashton thinks, I can be funny, too.”
Julian actually smiled back at the coiffed and shiny Riley. “Look at how well you look,” he said. “Does the London rain even fall on you?”
“Aren’t you a charmer. Come here, come in for your therapeutic lean.” She hugged him fondly, kissed him on both cheeks, appraised him. “Gwen, he’s like this because he hasn’t been listening to any of my advice.”
“No, I have, I have,” Julian said. “I’m eating yellow food. And purple food. And red food.”
“You shouldn’t be eating any yellow food, Jules,” Riley said, “you’ve got no fire to balance against it.” She rubbed Julian’s unevenly shaved face. “You’re pale like a haunting.”
“I’m still looking for the sun.”
“You know where the sun is?” Riley said. “Los Angeles.”
“Time to get some beer into the man, and all will be well,” Ashton said, pulling him away and sparing him a response. “My round.”
“But Gwen is right, Jules,” Riley said seriously, “you have to eat.”
“Why?” Julian said. “You don’t eat.”
At the peninsula bar in the middle of the gold-lit pub, Ashton turned to Julian. “Riley is right,” he said. “You look like shit.”
“Come on, Ash, don’t hold back.” Julian turned away from Ashton’s troubled gaze. They both stared at a nearby table with four young women.
Ashton gulped down a third of his pint while they waited for their drinks. “Do you see them?” he said. “One of them could be yours. Or even all of them. Maybe all at once—would you like that?” He knocked into Julian. “Smile, for fuck’s sake. They’re checking you out.”
“Not me.” Tall, lean, groomed, pressed, well-dressed, good-looking Ashton had always been a girl magnet. Except that one time at the Canon Gardens brunch.
“That’s because I’m friendly and have a smile on,” Ashton said. “Your woe-is-me look will get you nowhere. Even in London, where there’s a paucity of available men.”
“Yeah, like me.”
“Why the hell would you be unavailable? Back on the horse, my brother. What are you waiting for? Isn’t there a group for people like you?”
“What people is that, Ash?” Julian tried to sound less drained.
“You can’t keep falling back on the moves you had when you were twenty, Jules,” Ashton said, returning the women’s inviting smiles. “You’re no longer in your sexual prime.”
“I have to join a group for that?”
“Join something. What are you doing with yourself? I know you’re not working. And as Riley pointed out, you’re definitely not eating. So what are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Nigel says he keeps asking you to go for a drink and you refuse.”
“Why would I want to go for a drink with that wanker?” Julian said.
“Oh, come on. You could use a friend.”
“Not fucking Nigel.”
“He’s not so bad.”
“No, not until you get to know him.”
“You’ve never been out with him. You don’t know him!”
“I know him superficially,” Julian said, “and frankly that’s plenty.”
“He’s nicer than he looks.”
“He’d have to be, wouldn’t he.”
“Stop calling him fucking Nigel,” Ashton said. “I’m not breaking up another fight. You’ll never lick him, you’re barely a flyweight these days.”
“You don’t agree that what fucking Nigel lacks in intelligence,” Julian said, “he more than makes up for in stupidity?”
“You’re ridiculous.” They gathered their pints onto a tray.
“I see you didn’t answer my question.”
“You haven’t answered any of mine for almost two years,” Ashton said. “Welcome to the fucking club.”
Back at the tables, Ashton thrust a menu at Julian and told him to take it to Zakiyyah, who was being held hostage by Nigel. As Julian got near, he overheard Nigel trying to coax Zakiyyah into leaving with him, and telling her she should smile more. “Oh, look,” she said, actually smiling when she saw Julian, “the birthday boy himself.”
“How you doing, Jules, having a good time?” Nigel said, less happy with the interruption.
“Well, I just got here,” Julian said. “But yes.”
He and Zakiyyah sat without speaking or opening the menus until Nigel joked himself out of the non-existent conversation and staggered off to the men’s.
“What a guy,” Zakiyyah said with a headshake. “His problem is he’s got delusions of adequacy.”
Julian almost smiled. “Ashton wants us to order.” He handed her a menu. She pretended to look at it.
“How’ve you been, Julian, really?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Why do you never return anyone’s calls or texts or emails if you’re fine?”
“Don’t take it personally,” Julian said. “I don’t even return my mother’s calls.”
“That’s not a good thing,” Zakiyyah said. “That’s not an excuse.”
“About the menu . . .” Zakiyyah was sharper dressed and more made up than she’d been in L.A., as if she was making an extra effort for Julian’s birthday. She still subdued her crazy hair into a respectable twist, but the curls kept flying all over every time she moved her head. She looked like painted art—to other men perhaps. Julian could barely raise his eyes to her.
“When are you moving back home?” she asked. “It’s all anyone’s asking. Don’t tell me you like living here.”
“Yes, very much,” Julian said. “Very much. Absolutely.”
A frown marred Zakiyyah’s face. “You can’t possibly. It hasn’t stopped raining since this morning.”
“It hasn’t stopped raining since 1940,” said Julian, suddenly an expert on wet climates. Ironic, since there were decades in his life growing up in Simi Valley when he couldn’t remember a single day full of rain. Not one. He wasn’t saying it hadn’t happened. He was saying, it wasn’t in his memory, so it might as well have not happened. He sighed. What would people talk about if there was no weather?
Zakiyyah must have had a few pints already to loosen her tongue because she said, “Is London your penance?”
That wiped the fake smile off Julian’s face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Fair enough, but why are you punishing Ashton, too? It’s not his fault, is it, what happened? Why does he have to do penance? He’s the happiest guy, and you’re bringing him down, making him contemplate crazy things.”
“What crazy things?” Zakiyyah came slightly into focus. She went from blurry to less blurry. Julian glanced over at Ashton, menus open, arm around Riley, joking with Tristan and Gwen.
Zakiyyah didn’t answer, lowering her curly head into the nightly specials. “Ava is upset,” she said. “She says you haven’t called her back in months.”
“Who’s Ava?”
“Stop it. You know perfectly well who Ava is. Mia’s mother.”
Another kick in the gut. When Z called Josephine Mia, it was as if his Josephine had never existed. Something happened, but to another girl, another boy, in someone else’s life. It was brutal. “Her name was Josephine,” Julian muttered.
“It really wasn’t, Julian,” Zakiyyah said. “It really wasn’t.”
Julian hung his head.
“About Ava . . .”
It was true, he’d been avoiding Josephine’s mother. The woman had got it into her head that Julian—who was about to become her son-in-law—was actually her son-in-law. She treated him as if they were fellow sufferers, travelers in grief. She called him bi-weekly, even in London, and when she couldn’t reach him, which was all the time, she would call his mother and engage her in trying to find him.
“She asked about you at Christmas,” Zakiyyah said. “She wanted to know if you got her shortbread.”
“Yes. I thanked her for it. Didn’t I? I meant to.” Julian had given the shortbread to Mrs. Pallaver and her unmarried daughter. When would this ordeal be over. “Are you still at Normandie?” he said, to change the subject, to say something.
“Yes, because it wasn’t Normandie’s fault.”
Oh, for sure, it wasn’t Normandie’s fault. Julian ground his teeth.
“It wasn’t Normandie’s fault,” Zakiyyah said, “or your fault, or Ava’s fault, or Poppa W’s fault.”
“Really? Not even his?” said Julian. “Because . . . no, fine. It wasn’t anybody’s fault.” How about your fucking fault. “Do you know what you’re having?”
“Or my fault, Julian.”
“Do you know what you’re having, or what.”
“Julian, look at me.”
He would not.
“Poppa W wanted me to tell you how sorry he is,” Zakiyyah said gently.
“So he keeps saying.”
“But you keep not hearing.”
After he got out of the hospital, Poppa W came to Julian’s apartment, Zakiyyah in tow, to explain, to apologize. He tried to save JoJo, he said, he really tried. He was so sorry. Blah. He loved her. Blah blah. They had a thing once, but it was over. Blah blah blah. Julian endured it catatonically, the weepy nonsense from an urban street soldier who lived and worked in a crack castle. But still—to think that Julian had been in a foursome instead of a twosome. Hard to accept. Hard to accept a lot of things.
Couldn’t Zakiyyah see how much Julian didn’t want to talk about it? How much he didn’t want to talk about anything. And yet . . . “When you called her mother to rat her out about our wedding,” Julian said, “did you do it to save her, too, like Poppa W? To save her from me?”
“I called her mother because I was worried sick about her!” Zakiyyah exclaimed. “Oh—I can’t do this with you again, Julian. I just can’t.”
With amazing self-control, Julian pushed away from the table and stood up, leaning down into her upset face. He wanted to throw the table through the stained-glass window. “Then why do you keep bringing it up every five seconds?” he said through his teeth. Every five fucking seconds. That’s how close to the surface it was, his outrage.
He felt a soothing palm on his back. Ashton stepped between them, glancing at Zakiyyah for a mute second, then turning and smiling at Julian.
“I tried, Ashton!” Zakiyyah said. “But you saw—he’s impossible.”
“And yet it’s his birthday, so we’re going to cut him some slack.” Ashton’s hand remained on Julian’s back. Unlike Zakiyyah, Ashton was a pro at the manly comfort, at the open-palmed thump. “You still haven’t looked at the menus? That’s it, I’m ordering whatever I feel like for the both of you. You’re gonna eat it and you’re gonna like it. Come and help me, Jules.”
As always, Ashton took care of things. He dragged Julian away, ordered bar food—Cornish pasties and steak and kidney pies and salads—and paid for it. While they waited, he drank lager like it was water. Ashton could always hold his liquor. Said it was in his DNA. He got it from his mother’s side. Gin flowed through her veins when she carried him, and now it flowed through his.
“I’m going to have a stern talk with that Riley of yours for foisting that woman on me,” Julian said.
“Give her a break. She’s trying to help you.”
“Which one? And she’s not.”
“Both of them.”
“She’s not. Trust me.”
Ashton breathed a long hard sigh between the swallows. “Why are you still torturing her? Can’t you see she’s mourning, too?”
“She had to come all the way to London to feel better?”
“Why not? You did. You’re not the only one who lost something,” Ashton said. “Mia was Z’s closest friend. So stop the blame game. Recall what Mike Nichols said and shut up. Nichols is your life hack, Jules. Did you forget your very first newsletter? It was about him.”
Mike Nichols:
Born in Berlin.
Fled Nazi Germany.
Related to Einstein.
Became a comedian.
Won more Tonys
Than anyone else for directing.
Owns four hundred Arabian horses.
Has four marriages, three divorces.
Exit quote: “Cheer up, life isn’t everything.”
Mike Nichols’s Riddle on Perspective and Blame:
Premise: A lonely woman, whose husband is always away, begins an affair with a man who lives across the bay. In the middle of one night, she and her lover have a terrible fight, and he throws her out. She takes the ferry back but is robbed and killed by the ferryman, who throws her body overboard.
Question: Who is to blame for the woman’s death? The husband, the boatman, the woman herself, or her lover?
Julian finally had an answer to a question. “Fuck Mike Nichols,” he said.
***
While they were waiting on the food, and Julian was catching up with his brothers, Zakiyyah sat down across from them. Tristan and Dalton misinterpreted their brother’s glare and moved to another table.
“Look, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“And yet . . .”
Reaching across, Zakiyyah patted his hand as if she’d just learned to pat. Two slaps, like a bear, missing his hand completely on the second go. “Ava really needs you to call her, Julian.”
“It’s on my list.” He hid his clenched hands under the table.
“She asked me to ask you something.”
“She asked you to ask me?”
“Yes. Because you never return her calls. She wants the necklace back.”
“What necklace?”
“You know what necklace,” Zakiyyah said. “Mia’s crystal.”
“Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Ava needs it back,” Zakiyyah repeated. “She’s become convinced it’s the key to everything.”
Julian raised his eyes. “I got to keep four things from Mia,” he said in a stone-cold voice. “The crystal, the beret, which was mine to begin with, and two books. So three things really. Ava got everything else. So you can tell Ava that I told you to tell her I’m not giving the necklace back. It will never happen.”
“She said she’ll give you something in return for it. Some of Mia’s baby pictures. Her high school diaries. Video tapes of her performing at Coney Island.”
“No, thanks,” Julian said. “She’s haggling with me through you? Why does she want it anyway?”
“Ava says without the crystal, she can’t find her.”
“What?” Julian stared into Zakiyyah’s face, suddenly at full attention. “What did you say? Find who?” His legs went numb like he was falling.
“People keep seeing Ava wandering around Brooklyn,” Zakiyyah said, “and when they ask what she’s doing, she says she’s looking for her child. She says she’s sure Mia’s still out there somewhere.” She glanced behind him. “Food’s here. But I know—crazy, right.”
Could Julian vanish? Fall through the floor and disappear? He didn’t look up, couldn’t muster even a glib reply.
***
They pushed the round tables together. Riley put Julian between her and Ashton. As the others ate and drank and chatted merrily, Julian, who wasn’t hungry or chatty, just drank, and while he was thus occupied, a million miles away, Nigel said, “If women are so much smarter than men, why do they wear shirts that button down the back?” and everyone laughed except for Julian, and then Nigel, encouraged by the laughter, told a limerick. On the boobs of a barmaid in Sale, were tattooed the prices of ale, and on her behind, for the sake of the blind, was the same information in Braille. Everyone guffawed again. Was it just him? Julian had never been great at ignoring assholes.
Not to be outdone by Nigel, Riley said to no one and everyone, “Hey, did you guys hear about the note I found under the cash drawer at the Treasure Box? On a scrap of pink perfumed paper someone had written, ‘I want you to fuck me till I die.’” Riley laughed, flinging around her flouncy hair. “Isn’t that hilarious?”
A hush fell over the ale-infused crowd. No one could tell if Riley was joking. Julian glanced at Ashton and quickly stared into his uneaten bangers and mash. Nigel roared with laughter. “Well done, mate,” he said to Ashton. “But can I ask a stupid question?”
“Better than anyone I know,” said Julian.
Nigel har-de-har-harred. “How did you reply?”
“I politely declined,” Ashton said. “Frankly it seemed like too much effort.”
“Ashton is nothing if not polite—and lazy,” said Riley.
“Relax, Riley,” Nigel said, “didn’t Julian work there, too? How do you know the note was even meant for Ashton? Maybe one of Julian’s bits of stuff left it for him—”
Julian shot up from the table. A still sitting Nigel echoed a slow beery whoa, Ashton a fast beery whoa, his hand covering Julian’s fist.
“Calm down,” Nigel said.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Julian said.
“Try smiling once in a while.”
“Don’t fucking tell me what to do.”
“Whatever,” Nigel said. “Obviously, I was just joking around. Of course, no one wants you to shag them, Jules.” He howled with laughter.
“Everybody’s a comic these days,” Ashton said. His face showed nothing. “Nigel, shut the hell up. Jules, come on, bud, sit.” Standing up he forcibly lowered Julian back into the chair with the downward pressure of his hand. “Truly this is the land of no mercy,” Ashton said, draining his pint and throwing Riley a scolding glare, as in why are you starting more trouble.
“Your favorite playwright, Tennessee Williams, wrote that love is nothing but a four-letter word,” Riley said to Ashton over Julian’s head. “That’s why.”
“Now that’s funny, Riles,” said Ashton.
The rough topic was changed to more genteel ones about work and new cars, to the best running shoes and L.A.’s empty reservoirs, to the stupidity of avatars and a recent earthquake that made everyone start nailing their furniture to the floor, and to the sightings of superstars.
Julian, too, tried to join in the conversation. “Hey,” he piped in, “did you hear about the former Miss Venezuela who went from being a top model to spending the last fifteen years of her life living on the streets? Her body was just found in a Caracas park.” The table reacted poorly; Julian didn’t get why. They had just been talking about famous people! Julian tried to catch Ashton’s eye, but his friend’s crystal blue gaze remained in his vanishing beer. Let’s have another round, Ashton said. Surreptitiously Julian checked his empty wrist and when he looked up, they were all eyeing him with a drunken mix of concern and pity, all except Nigel, who couldn’t care less.
“How you doing there, Jules?” Gwen said.
“Don’t ask him umbrella questions, Gwen,” Ashton said. “Ask him how he’s doing today. The more specific the better.”
“I’m doing great today, Gwen, thanks for asking.”
“Julian, darling, have you been to a therapist?” That was Riley.
“He’s got a cot in the corner of the shrink’s office at the walk-in clinic,” Ashton replied for Julian. Ashton always acted as if he knew everything. Mr. Fantastic. Mr. Razzle Dazzle. Tonight, he razzle-dazzled their friends with fake knowledge of Julian’s progress in the art of mourning. “Yes, he’s been to a shrink. He’s even been to a priest.”
Zakiyyah perked up. “What did the priest say?”
“The priest asked him where his faith was,” Ashton replied, winking at Julian and raising his glass. Julian raised his in reply. Ashton was always full of joy, always happy, always smiling. How could you not love an open face of someone always smiling. Julian looked away, the vision of another open smiling face cutting him up like razor wire.
“The priest was right,” Zakiyyah said. “Julian looks and acts like a man who’s lost his religion.”
What could you possibly know about it, Julian was about to say, but she looked so sad that he kept quiet.
“Julian’s also been to a faith healer,” Ashton said, “and a fortune-teller. He’s tried—you don’t mind, do you, Jules—he’s even tried electroconvulsive therapy to rid himself of painful memories.”
“Did it work?” Riley asked with uncommon interest, as if considering it herself.
“It did not,” said Julian.
Zakiyyah wanted to know what the fortune-teller had offered.
When Ashton became reticent, Julian prodded. “Ash? What, the cat got your tongue? You’ve told them everything else. Go on, tell Z what the fortune-teller said.”
“She was a gypsy and she didn’t know what she was talking about,” Ashton said.
“Why do you even bother going to fortune-tellers, Jules?” Riley said. “To empower and optimize yourself, you should practice a cleansing regimen, like I showed you.”
“Oh, but I don’t go to them,” Julian said. “That implies continuity. Ashton and I were walking down King Street, and one flagged us down.”
“And told you what?”
Julian was amused at the pained expression on Ashton’s golden face. The conversation had taken a turn Ashton resented. He wanted to convince their friends that Julian was doing everything he was supposed to, but the gypsy didn’t fit into Ashton’s neat narrative about Julian’s alleged progress.
“She said the time had not yet come for the Lord to act.”
There was a confused pause.
“What does that mean?” Riley said. “Act how? Do what?”
“How should I know?” Ashton said.
“You didn’t ask her? Ugh. Julian, what did she mean by that?”
“Ask Ashton,” Julian said. “He seems to know everything.”
“It’s a sin to go to fortune-tellers,” said Zakiyyah. “They practice the dark arts. Black magic.”
“Z is right,” Riley said to Julian, rubbing his forearm like he was a genie lamp. “You must keep doing other things that help. Have you tried earthing, like I suggested?”
“You want me to walk barefoot in London?”
“What about an irrigation colonic?”
“Riley, Jesus, please,” Ashton said.
“You please,” she said. “I know you don’t believe in it, but it really helps.”
“I don’t believe in irrigation colonics?”
Riley twisted Julian’s face away from Ashton and to herself. “Ignore him, Jules, and listen to me. Your body must be cleansed and strong, and I promise you, your spirit will follow. How much weight have you lost? Are you drinking too much? It’s so easy to do that here, look at Ashton, and it’s not good for you. All that yeast running rampant in your body. It’s not healthy. You should be drinking a gallon of pure filtered water. You can add lemon to it for alkalinity. It’s important for your body to be alkaline, Julian, to heal properly. And you should go for a walk every day. Have you been getting any fresh air?”
“Oh, yes, Riley,” Julian said, patting her and struggling up. “That’s one thing I’ve been getting plenty of. Fresh air. Will you excuse me?”
***
Upstairs in the men’s where it was a little quieter, there was a sign above the mirror that said, “No wonder you’re going home alone.” Motionlessly Julian stared at his reflection.
As he was coming back through the second-floor gallery, he overheard them talking about him down below.
“He looks terrible,” Riley said. “I’ve never seen him like this, not even when it first happened.”
“He was in shock then,” Ashton said. “Now it’s worn off.”
“Ashton, he must’ve lost thirty pounds,” said Gwen.
Forty-seven, Julian wanted to correct her. Super featherweight.
“His eyes are bugging out of his head,” Gwen continued. “He’s sweating, and when he does speak, he sounds unhinged. He’s worse than ever, Ashton. What’s happening to him?”
“You know what’s happening to him.”
“But why isn’t he better?”
“I don’t think he’s been to a shrink,” said Zakiyyah.
“Well, it’s a National Health shrink,” Ashton said dryly.
“He needs more shock treatment, if you ask me,” Nigel said.
“No one’s asking you,” Ashton said.
“Jules should’ve never come here, Ashton,” Tristan said.
“Trist is right,” Dalton said. “Our mom’s upset with you, Ash. Why did you have to get him a job in London? He’d still be in L.A. if it weren’t for you.”
“Yeah, where he was doing great,” Ashton said impatiently. “Shrink, drink, drugs, leeching, cupping. London, L.A. It’s all the same. He just needs time.”
“But he’s had so much time!” said Gwen.
“Mia’s mom is not doing well either,” Zakiyyah said, in defense of Julian.
“But that’s her mom!” said Gwen. “No one expects a mother to be doing well.”
“He’s changed, Ashton,” Riley said. “He used to be such good company. Better than you in some ways. But there’s something wrong with him. We all see it, why can’t you?”
“You think I don’t see it?” said Ashton.
A heavy silence followed.
“He won’t get over her on his own,” Zakiyyah said. “He needs someone new.”
“I’m working on it,” said Ashton.
Another unhappy silence followed. “He doesn’t need you, Ashton,” Zakiyyah said. “He needs a woman.”
“Zakiyyah’s right, Tristan is right,” Riley said. “He should come home.”
“Should, ought to. Says who?” Ashton said. “He’s a grown man. He makes his own decisions.”
“Like you, big guy?” said Riley.
“Yes,” Ashton said. “Like me.”
“We all want to help him,” Zakiyyah said. “That’s why we came, that’s why we’re here.”
“Not me,” Nigel said. “I’m just here to drink.”
“Why don’t you help,” Ashton said, “by not talking to him loud and slow like he’s backward? Help him by acting normal. Act like everything’s okay.”
“How do we do that?” said Riley.
“How? You act. Hey, Julian, there you are! We wondered if you were redecorating in there.” Ashton threw Riley a withering look before sliding a freshly poured pint to Julian.
“Jules, Ashton has something to tell you,” Riley blurted before Julian even had a chance to sit down. “Oh, yes, he’s got some great news. Don’t give me your evil eye, Ashton. No sense in beating around the bush. Party’s almost over. Tell him already.”
“Tell me what?” Julian sat down, looking across the table at his brothers. “Tell Mom I’m doing fine,” he said to Tristan and Dalton. “Don’t worry her. She’s got enough on her plate. I’m an adult. I’ll figure it out.” He turned to Ashton. “Tell me what?”
Ashton drank half his pint before he spoke. “I’m moving.”
“Moving where?”
“To London.”
“To London?” That came out two octaves higher than Julian’s normal baritone.
“Preferably to Notting Hill. With you.”
“But I don’t live in Notting Hill,” Julian said dumbly.
“Not yet.” Ashton put on his best smile. “Look, you know I don’t feel right about you being here on your own. I’ve never felt right about it. Plus, like I told you, my old man needs help. Think of it as a father and son reunion.”
“Ashton, aww, are you coming to watch over Jules?” Nigel slurred his words, his narrow shoulders quaking. “Good luck with that. You’ll sack him yourself before the week’s out.”
“I’ll be sacking somebody,” Ashton said to Nigel, “but are you sure it’ll be Jules?” He faced Julian. “Dude, why do you look panicked like a nun in a penguin shooting gallery? I’m not moving here tomorrow. I have a few things to sort out first. And you and I need a place to live. The girls said they’d help us look this weekend, right, girls?”
The girls mumbled in reply.
“What about the Treasure Box?”
“It’s been taken care of. We’re not staying in London forever, are we? Just long enough to . . .” Ashton trailed off. As if he himself didn’t know how that sentence should end. Even Julian didn’t know how that sentence should end. Long enough to what?
“Bryce will run it, you remember him.” Ashton grinned. “Tristan and Dalton will help.” Julian’s brothers drunkenly nodded. “Your mom said she’ll do the inventory, your dad the books. Riley will work on Saturdays, Gwen and Zakiyyah on Sundays. Everyone will pitch in. It’ll be fine.”
But it wasn’t fine. No one could run that store for any length of time except Ashton, not even Julian, and everyone knew it. “Why would you leave L.A., Ash?” Julian said. “It’s your life.”
“It was your life, too,” Ashton said, the shine in his eyes dimming. “It was our life. And look what happened. Plus,” he added, “I want to move to London. Really. I’m sick of the sunshine and warm weather. I need a little rain in my life. Right, Riley? Right, Gwennie? Right, Z?”
The women tutted. “You’re moving to the wrong town for a little rain,” said Zakiyyah.
Julian wanted to back away, but there was nowhere to back away to. His chair was against the wall. “What about Riley?”
“Exactly, Julian!” Riley exclaimed in hearty agreement as to her own inconsequence. “That’s what I keep saying. What about me?”
“You’ll visit on the weekends,” Ashton said.
“It’ll cost me a week’s salary to fly out every weekend,” Riley said. “I’ll be broke and homeless.”
“Not every weekend,” Ashton said. “Maybe once a month. We talked about this. And I’ll come back once a month.”
“Ashton,” Julian said in a faltering voice, “Riley should move here, too.”
“What a great idea, Jules!” Riley said, with fake cheer. “What do you say, Ash?”
“Stop it.” He turned to Julian. “I’m not moving here for fun, Jules. I’m moving here for you.”
Awkwardly Julian excused himself again and back in the men’s room wondered if there was another way out of the pub. Could he climb out through the small window? Flee, leave the apartment, quit work, vanish. That was the only thing he wanted. To vanish off the face of the earth.
After splashing water on his gray face, Julian stood at the far end of the semi-circular bar, trying to block out the noise, holding on to the counter, contemplating his next move. He stared at the gold lights, the round tables, the happy drinking laughing people. Inside him was a churning void.
A gruff voice sounded next to him. “You’re looking for a miracle,” the voice said. “You won’t find it here.”