Ren rubs his knuckles over his jaw. “Just didn’t have time to shave before my flight this morning.”
“I bet you could totally rock a beard,” I say, holding my hands just away from his face like I’m styling him. “Or a mustache?” I straighten my index finger above his lip. “Love a mustache moment.”
He lowers my hand. “I’m shaving as soon as we get back to the hotel.”
We drop our things at the hotel, where Ren does indeed shave, and I change out of the wrap dress I wore to a pitch meeting this morning and into a black, denim overalls dress. We bought tickets for a music festival weeks ago when we realized it coincided with the wedding of a friend from the art school.
“A bummer Sasha and Alex don’t live here anymore,” I say as we wait in a line for beers. The heat of the late August day is just creeping out, replaced by a hint of crisp evening air. “How are they settling in in LA?” They moved there three months ago, when Sasha’s company decided to open a West Coast branch, to be closer to family, including the adorable baby girl Thad and Gemi adopted.
“Great, as far as I know,” Ren says, hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “Busy planning the wedding.”
“A New Year’s Eve wedding.” We inch forward in line. “How very Sasha.”
After Charlene’s wedding, I worried our friendship was forever changed. It had nagged at me intermittently growing up—that at some point, there was the possibility he and I wouldn’t be the sameuswe’d always been—but the idea never really stuck until it happened. I had built a life of my own in New York, knew that I could be okay without Ren by my side, and yet, I didn’twantthat. Life was better with him in it.
We still texted each other, but I’d begun to accept the distance between us for what it was. Growing up, maybe.
But then late one night, Ren called me out of the blue. He had texted a few weeks before to tell me he and Amanda had broken up,and he was fine, and we had continued on with our scattered texting, tiptoeing around the subject.
I’d been making boxed and mac and cheese when my phone rang.
“I see you’re still burning the candle at both ends,” he said, his voice filling in spots in my body I hadn’t realized were empty.
“Actually,” I’d said, turning off the burner, heart swelling at the sound of his voice. “I’m just getting home from an event.”
“An event?” Ren had said, like it was something I’d forgotten to tell him. Like we’d talked two days ago. “Wait,” he continued. “I didn’t say hi.”
A smile pricked my cheeks. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he said. I felt it down to my toes. “Tell me about this event.”
He called me the next night too, slightly earlier, and then we talked every night after that. Even when we were busy. Even when we were tired. On more than one occasion, when he could tell I was struggling to stay awake, he’d tell me stories from our lives, his perspective making them new for me, and I fell asleep with his voice in my ear.
A few months couldn’t erase a lifetime.
I head to one of the stages to claim a spot, respond to a text from my mom that yes, I am here safely, and another from Ramona about the meeting this morning about a new movie proposal.
Ren joins me, handing me a cup of beer. “Here,” he says, then reveals a baseball cap with the classic Red SoxBon it from under his arm. He works the brim before putting it on my head, settling a hand on top as if to make sure it’s on correctly.
“Where’s yours?” I ask. “It can’t be a trip souvenir if we’re not—”
He produces another from under his other arm, puts it on.
“—matching,” I finish, smile spreading. I reach up and flip his hat around so it sits backward. Some of his dark waves stick out, curling near his ears. “There you go,” I say. “Have to show off that handsome face of yours.”
He tugs the brim of my own hat down in response.
As the sound check continues and people fill in around us, I ask him the question I’ve been holding off on for the past eight months. Ren is always harder to read over FaceTime, so it felt like something that needed to be addressed in person, where I could try to gauge his real feelings, comfort him accordingly.
“Ren,” I say.
He turns to me, mimics my serious expression, drops his voice.“Joni.”
“How are you doing?”
He side-eyes me, a confused smile on his face. “Aren’t we a couple hours too late to be asking that?”
I wave away his question. “I mean Amanda. How are you doing?”
