I shake my head. "No. Never." The admission has we wondering how many other important things in life I've glossed over.
"How does a person grow to be twenty-something years old and never watch a sunset? Were you raised in a cave, or underground? It's one of the finer spectacles mother nature has to offer, and it happens every night." He widens his teasing eyes for effect. "Every damn night."
I want to laugh, but I sigh instead and it still sounds like I'm amused because I can't hide it. "I know. I grew up in New York—"
He interrupts me with a smirk, "Ah, I was right, a cave. That also explains the accent."
I just stare at him.
He stares back.
And then we both laugh. It feels good, so I go with it.
"I love New York, but yeah, not a lot of opportunity for things like sunsets. Lots of tall buildings and not a lot of horizon."
He nods. "Do you miss it?"
"Sometimes. Usually not."
"Do you like it here? San Diego, I mean?" The way he's looking at me would be unnerving if he wasn't listening so intently. He wants to hear the answer. Most people I've dealt with in life talk but they don't listen. Even those closest to me. People have their own issues that keep them from devoting their full attention to me when we're together. That's fine. I understand. It's what I do, too. I listen with half my brain and focus on everything else that's going on with the other half. It's how I multi-task. How I take everything in. Gustov doesn't. He gives whatever he's doing his full attention.
I can't look away when I answer him. "I do. The people are different. No one's in a hurry. People talk a lot more. It's kind of hard to get used to, but I like it."
"That's because San Diego's the real deal." He winks at me before he lights another cigarette. After that first long drag, he looks at it thoughtfully. "How come you never complain about my smoking? I mean, you don't smoke and you take really good care of yourself. I know you probably don't like it."
I shrug. "It's not my place. I used to smoke. I know how hard it is to quit." It's as simple as that.
He's still looking at the cigarette in his hand, regarding it like it's a burden. "I need to quit." His voice lowers. "I know I do. But I can't. I've tried so many times." He looks at me like he needs me to console him or tell him it's okay.
"You'll figure it out. When the time's right it'll happen. You have to want it though. No one can do it for you."
He nods solemnly and silence settles between us.
I take that as my chance to ask, "Who are Gracie and Kate?"
He smiles again. It's small and loving. The same smile he wore inside. The same smile I wish he wore all the time now that I've seen it, because it transforms him. "My best friends," he answers.
It makes me smile. "Looks like you've known them your whole life."
He nods, but he's still smiling.
"Where are they?" I ask hesitantly, and that eerie feeling creeps back in.
His gaze drifts upward, toward the sky. "Heaven, I suppose. Gracie went first and I sure as hell know Bright Side would've beat down the goddamn door to get in if she knew her sister was inside. They're together, I have no doubt."
A chill runs through me. "I'm sorry."
He looks at me and though the smile is still in place the joy has drained from his eyes. "Yeah. It's fucked up. Today would've been Gracie's twenty-second birthday. Three days ago would've been Bright Side's twenty-first."
"They were so young," I say in disbelief.
He nods again. "Old souls. Young bodies. Gracie got sick and died almost a year and a half ago. It took us all by surprise. And cancer stole Bright Side from us in January." The smile has faded completely, replaced with glistening eyes.
I don't know what to say, so I say again what I've already said. "I'm sorry."
He's still nodding, the repetitive gesture of someone lost in thought. "Yeah."
I want to hug him, which I never have the urge to do with anyone other than Paxton and Jane. I want to comfort him, but I feel removed from the situation, suddenly like an intruder. "I'm sorry," I echo. I hope he hears the comfort in my words. I'm not good at showing my feelings.
His eyes turn to me, still shiny with grief. "What's the story with Michael?"
I'm caught off guard. "What?"
"You know what I mean, what's your history?" He's talking quietly, but loud enough that I can hear him. He's not demanding information from me, he's just asking.
"Old boyfriend." I answer and that's where I leave it.
"Sorry, I don't mean to dredge up the past ... or the present," he adds. He's asking, without asking, if we're together.
I shake my head. "No. It's fine. I'm glad it's over ..." I trail off.
"But you still love him?" he asks softly. Goddamn, I wish he didn't read me so well.
I shrug. "I do, but I don't. It's complicated." I decide now's as good a time as any and ask, "What about the woman who you went out with a couple weeks ago? Girlfriend?"
He looks confused for a few seconds. "Clare? Hell no. Cool girl. Now. But, no. Definitely no."
I don't know why, but that lightens my heart.
He sighs and returns to our conversation, but he shifts it. I felt it. This is about pain now. "Love's a pisser."
I drop my head back against the cushion and roll it to look at him. He's staring at me again. His eyes are open, a gateway. He's honest, and he's kind, and most importantly he's not judging me. I nod in agreement. "Yeah, it sure as hell is." I don't know how I know, but I know his heart is broken, too. "Have you ever been in love?"
He hasn't blinked. "Once."
"How long did it last?"
Looking back up to the sky, he answers. "Twenty-one years ... and three days."
It hits me hard. Kate. He's talking about Kate. His Bright Side. No wonder he's walking around like a shell of a man. He lost the love of his life. Instead of fighting the urge, I don't hesitate this time. I slide my legs off the lounge chair and place them on the deck between our chairs and shift my weight from mine over onto his. I sit there on the edge of his seat against his hip and I just look at him. I guess I'm asking for permission. I don't usually do things like this. I don't usually offer comfort. He balls up my shirt just above my hip in his fist. His eyes are pleading now—begging for friendship, comfort, and consolation. He needs to let this out. I could analyze this. I could overthink it until I talk myself out of it. But I don't, instead I lean down slowly until my head's resting on his chest and slide my hands underneath his back until I'm squeezing him. Until I feel his warmth against me. And when his big arms wrap around me, I realize in this moment that I've never really been hugged. This is a hug. This is what human contact is supposed to feel like. It's supposed to feel ... human. Distilled until it's nothing but one human being transferring support to another human being in the form of touch that's unselfish and pure in intention. And I know he feels it, too, because his chest rises in a few stuttered breaths and he lets the tears go. I just hold him until his breathing evens out, at which point he pulls me up until my head is resting on the cushion next to his and the front of my body is molded to the side of his. Our arms are still wrapped around each other and I feel pressure from both sides, which tells me neither one of us wants to let go.