December 22

CHELSEA IN THE MIDMORNING OVERCAST OF CHICAGO, RESTLESS...

R OAMING ABOUT R AMONA’S CONDO, C HELSEA WAS LOOKING AT the gray of winter outside but thinking very much in color. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the rich hues of the gallery, the deep browns, the regal blues, reds, and yellows, the abstract strokes, the canvas brush lines. And everything around her, she was starting to see it again as an artist would, how she’d been trained to do, to see the lines of definition, the shapes within the shapes, and the colors for dimension.

This morning she didn’t just ignore the apple on the kitchen counter, she saw a fruit bowl, or better yet a woman eating the fruit, hand dripping with juice, her expression of surprise and delight reflected just so. A viewer could themselves taste the ripeness of it, the crispness of the skin, the exact moment of biting into the flesh, the slight bitterness of apple peel crashing cleanly into the ecstasy of sweetness within. And she knew exactly how to paint it. This morning, she felt so capable, so alive. On this morning, Chelsea Flint was awake.

On this trip, she brought no paints, no pencils, no supplies. She had nothing on hand to extract any of the colors swirling within her. To capture the stardust from a streak of inspiration, Chelsea didn’t need much. A quick search on her phone showed an art supply store nearby. Why not? she thought. She could take a ten-minute rideshare, but for half the price, the map showed a direct route that required some walking and a two-stop ride on the Red Line L train. And besides, as she considered it, Chelsea was eager to reconnect to the heartbeat of the city. She wanted to walk, to bundle up in her coat, to feel the rumble beneath her on the train, to feel the cold even, just a bit of it, through her hot-pink mittens just before she stuffed her hands in the pockets of her coat. It was invigorating. She’d never need that coat in Malibu. There she couldn’t feel the elements the same way; she couldn’t feel much of anything. And starting today, that was no longer what she wanted—it was no longer enough.

Along the walk to the L train, the cold was so cold that it numbed her thinking brain, activated her survival instincts such that her mind had no room to wander. Stay warm... walk faster... huddle closer , her mind repeated. The wind ripped through the top of her hair, and she pulled her hat down lower and adjusted her hood. She reached the train platform minutes before she’d been just about ready to give up and look for a taxi. It wasn’t a cold you could stand still in. Even the tears the wind whipped from your eyes could freeze in minutes. Chelsea shivered a bit on the train platform and shifted her weight from side to side, just to keep moving, crushing the salt and fresh snow beneath her feet. The overnight snowfall remained, as there’d still been no sun yet to melt it. But, even with the overcast, Chelsea glowed inside with the small fire that had been lit by Carlos in the gallery.

As the doors of the train closed behind her and her body started to thaw, Chelsea remembered sitting next to him on the long ride to the south part of the city, to Bronzeville where the gallery was. She wished for that trip again, and for another reason to see him. Maybe the dog would need something else or run out of food. Maybe she’d have a leak in the condo, or a lightbulb would need replacing. Maybe, maybe he’d miss her? Maybe he’d find an excuse, any excuse, to see her before the twenty-fourth? Two days would be too long, she thought. A lifetime away.

Once through the doors of the art store, Chelsea felt instant familiarity. The inside of the store was almost exactly the same here as it was back home. Among the aisles of paint tubes, infinite types of papers for charcoals and watercolors, pre-stretched shrink-wrapped white canvases and some black ones also, pencils and brushes, she knew exactly where to go, what to ask for, how each of the tools could serve her. The art store was a wonderful invitation back to comfort, even in the heart of Chicago. A place where she could make all the same choices she usually made, with access to the same tubes of colors, the same brushes, the same canvases.

Would she paint, or would she draw? What colors would she need? The beauty of paint was, you could make almost any color with five simple pigments. Pencils, they didn’t blend in the same way she was used to. Chelsea loved knowing that with paint, if she picked the exact right red, the right yellow, and the perfect blue, along with a base white and a carbon black, she could paint almost anything she saw in the world, and anyone as well. Almost . The key word was almost . And for Chelsea, walking through the store, what she most wanted to paint, who she saw the most clearly, was Carlos, and almost was not enough. She found herself thinking toward what made him who she saw. What was the brown of his skin? Was it just some yellow, red, and black, or would she need a touch of ultramarine blue, a dash of white? Should she start with burnt umber as a base or dark brown? And then what about his hair? Could the color theory she’d once mastered mix a perfect dark chestnut to capture the curls atop his head? And what about his eyes, how would she paint the depths she’d found there, the pain, the purpose, the drive, the kindness? What color was enough?

Chelsea pulled six inexpensive paint tubes. A cadmium red and yellow, an ultramarine blue she wasn’t entirely satisfied with, the dark brown of burnt umber, and basic black and white. Since she had a full set of supplies back at home, and only a few more days in Chicago—this would do. Besides, she had so many images in her mind to pick from over the past few days—the view of the frozen lake, a delicious cheese-laden slice of pizza, a twirl of turquoise, her neon-pink mittens, even her own red hair—but the image that burned in her mind the most, the one that she could see no matter whether her eyes were open or closed, was Carlos. And she wanted to paint him in the way he saw her. The way he held her, how he didn’t judge, didn’t make her feel crazy even though she was being crazy. If she couldn’t see him for days, she would paint him. This was how she’d hold him close whether he was there or not.

She added on practice paper, a medium canvas, brushes, some thinner, and a few other small items. In total, her entire purchase was under a hundred dollars but filled her with immense happiness. She barely remembered a time she’d been so excited to create. Finally, she had the desire again to paint something that was just for her.

Hours later, back at Ramona’s condo, Chelsea had already laid the first layer of what she most wanted to render. She’d captured an image of Carlos that was indelibly imprinted in her mind, the face she saw, full of compassion in the moment she looked up at him in the gallery, her own face full of tears, just after he told her she wasn’t wrong to hope.

RAMONA, MORNING IN MALIBU...

I T WASN’T THE THUMP OF MUSIC THAT WOKE R AMONA WITH A start, it was the feeling of apprehension. If she followed through with it, she had just one hour before she’d be standing in Jay’s class, or worse, possibly falling down, in front of a bunch of super-toned, veggie-powered, sun-kissed self-described athletes who could probably each teach the class themselves. It wasn’t that Ramona didn’t love her body and its dimples and curves, she just didn’t trust it to do certain things that were unfamiliar. In school, Ramona was more of a mathlete. She was never picked first in gym class and didn’t quite dodge the ball when it came barreling in her direction with that painful pounce of a slap against her arm or leg. To think about now asking her limbs to contort with grace and coordination within the confines of a tiny rectangle on the sand might have been asking too much.

Still, she managed to get herself up and moving around the bedroom and over to the window to widen the blinds, noting the morning overcast, the low-slung clouds that covered most of the sun. She had learned already that a slight chill lingered until they burned off around eleven. She rooted around the well-organized contents of her suitcase for the second set of exercise attire she’d packed. Usually, at the end of vacations, her workout clothes were the only items that had gone unworn. But this time, for the first time, she was actually going to wear what she’d packed.

She secured her breasts into her sports bra, shifting one, then the next toward the center of her body and using the fabric to hold her in. It was in stark contrast to the freedom of the evening, at least the early part of it when she was undisturbed, not having to feel restricted, or even watched, and especially not to be appropriate—the ultimate constraint even more constricting than the bra was. She practiced a deep breath, feeling the sides of her rib cage push against the tight elastic fabric, insisting on its give. As the final touch, she pulled her twists into a compact ponytail and admired the result. She was ready.

“There.” She said it aloud, to nobody at all, a pronouncement of her completed and extensive efforts, especially for what was starting to feel like a real vacation. Rather mummified in the contraption that was her workout gear, Ramona nonetheless congratulated herself for accomplishing the key feat of many a person’s tropical holiday, simply getting the exercise clothes on. She had time to grab another slice of the dwindling banana bread and a swig of the fresh-squeezed orange juice that she managed to snag for almost ten dollars at the fancy local market. The banana bread of course reminded her of Joan, and then Ramona debated having an extra slice as some kind of compensation for not only the intrusion of the previous night, but also the dinner obligation later that she still didn’t know how she’d manage.

Outside, it was brighter than Ramona expected. She squinted, walking out onto the beach, bringing her hand up to her eyes so she could survey clearly across the sand, all the way to the water. Chelsea’s place backed up close enough that all she really had to do was come out of the back door, step across the deck, and down the steps. The house was clearly older, as if it had been there much longer than its neighboring homes, including the long and elaborate multilevel expanse of what Ramona surmised was Joan’s place. Chelsea’s cottage was quaint, cute, small, and in need of some updates and repairs, but still a location that must have been worth a fortune. Ramona made a mental note to congratulate Latrice on such a lucky find. She wondered why a Chelsea, or a Helena—whoever’s home it was—would ever want to leave.

Down a bit on the beach, Ramona could see the group of people, mostly women, setting themselves up for Jay’s class. There were a few shirtless men, one in spandex shorts, another with the body of a soccer star wearing what looked like too-warm striped track pants. But with a physique like his, who would notice? The women were all cropped tops and bikinis, short shorts and even bikini bottoms, lean lines, and confidence. The fitness Ramona did on sporadic occasion, these people seemed to live as a religion. Feeling far out of place, she started to turn around. And she would have, but for catching a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of Jay’s wave beckoning for her to come closer. Her head shook gently from side to side as her body made a deep sigh of its own resignation.

The cool sand crunched under her feet, feeling a bit like a massage against her soles as the grains fell in between her toes, giving way against her steps. For more stability, she elongated her strides, reaching Jay in a matter of moments, as he adjusted one of the speakers facing the dozen or so early arrivals to his class. Where he stood, closer to the edge of the water, the sound of the rolling waves was much more insistent, a rhythmic roar in her ears that made her better understand why the music was so loud.

“Hey, you made it,” Jay said, smiling at Ramona as if he was genuinely happy to see her, if not a bit surprised. He reached out for her hand and came in to kiss her cheek with a greeting she’d seen him give a few others as she walked over. On the other side of them, people seemed to be arranging their mats on the sand, claiming what appeared to be familiar places, likely the hard-core closer to the front to better show off their mastery of whatever the class had in store. “You need a mat?” he asked, leading Ramona to realize that the beach towel she’d brought from Chelsea’s was making her look like an amateur.

“I do,” she admitted, reaching for the rolled foam in Jay’s hand. “Put it wherever?”

“Wherever you want,” Jay replied. He had such a vibe to him, so cool and assured. When he smiled at her, his way was so easy and open, Ramona felt herself relax a bit. He was standing before her as the most inoffensive embodiment of relax, I’ve got it all under control that she’d ever experienced.

“Cool,” Ramona said, smiling at him bigger than she wanted to, and then feeling embarrassed enough about it to turn quickly and shuffle with her new mat and old towel to an empty place on the sand within the loose pattern of other class attendees.

By the time the music started, that familiar thump-thump-thump , about forty people had shown up in total, clearly the equivalent of a fan club, with bright eyes and receptive dispositions, following along through the pronounced choreography of the warm-up sequence, seamlessly taking them up, down, and up again, on and off the mat. Ramona was familiar with some of the terms, her downward facing dog was a bit of a grunt as her boobs threatened to swing into her face, until she adjusted her positioning. And the plank down to a cobra position stretched her back and shoulders as she pushed her chin toward the sky and her upper body off the mat below her with palms against the shifting sand beneath.

“And ease into it...” Jay’s voice said through the speaker. “Not too much, not too little. We want to push it just right, get into that stretch. Feeeeeel it in your body. Let your body say yes.”

My body says yes... Ramona thought. She was enjoying the physicality of it. Parts of her body that were tense were releasing their tension. And the parts of her body that felt weak, Jay was giving constant permission to give them rest. The dance continued of stretch... tension... release... stretch... tension... release.

“Listen to your body,” he said. “Push only as far as it wants to go. Hold that, push that, feel that... one... two... three.”

Ramona heard Jay’s commands, and her body obeyed.

“And now, we’re going to move into warrior two position,” Jay called out. In response, everyone took the stance of a surfer on their mats, facing the water, arms outstretched perpendicular to their bodies, reaching toward the sea. “Feel the sun... Feel the wind. Smell the salt of the ocean, absorb its energy...” Jay’s voice said over the music. Even the music seemed to obey. It was less thumpy now, instead much more melodic, full of chimes and woodwinds, haunting and light, a beautiful soundtrack to the feeling of being embraced by the breeze. For the very first time, Ramona wondered what it must be like, being out there on the water, balanced like this on a real board in the turquoise surf, sliding along on a cresting white wave.

While the breeze caressed her along her exposed shoulders, the sun was managing to break its way through the clouds in an announcement of concentrated warmth. Ramona had the feeling of exhilarating joy, the high of movement and accomplishment and the peace of finding, but not crossing, one’s limits.

“And... let’s move to child’s pose,” Jay said, after completing several more seamless combinations of the up-and-down, flat-to-standing motions of a surfer on their board. Ramona was breathy, sweating, ready to be done now. It’d been an invigorating class. “And bring your legs around, to lie flat for Shavasana...” Ramona heard and complied, following the instructions of Jay’s voice and the physical cues of the other class participants to find her way to lying flat on her back. “Bring yourself now... into the present,” Jay instructed. “Right now, you are exactly where you’re supposed to be... You’re already doing everything you need to do... You’re only responsible for what’s happening on your own mat... one rectangle of space. If it’s not going on here, it’s not of your concern... Releeeassse it.”

Release it , Ramona repeated to herself, echoing Jay’s lullaby. Letting her eyes close, she finally heard just the sounds of the ocean, the melody of the music, and felt the warm, warm caress of the sun, enough to drift out to sea, drift away, drift away, far away from everything.

“Ramona?” Jay’s voice speaking her name directly brought Ramona to quick attention. She took a breath, filling her lungs with air as if she’d been underwater. But she hadn’t been underwater. She’d been asleep. Evidently, for quite a while, as the beach where the class had taken place had all but completely cleared out now, save for a few stragglers still chatting with each other. The music had stopped, and Jay’s previously bare torso had a shirt covering it with a faded logo of what looked like a shark to Ramona’s still-blurry eyes.

“Shit,” Ramona said, sitting up quickly. Instinctively, she moved to pull the towel around her as she gained her bearings. “How long was I sleeping?”

“Not that long.” If it wasn’t for the strong assurance in Jay’s voice and its entire lack of judgment, Ramona wouldn’t have believed a word. But rather than be embarrassed, she decided to be satisfied with what she’d been told. After all, she was only responsible for what was on her mat.

“You... are good ,” Ramona said, realizing the fullness of relaxation Jay had delivered. “You’ve got me out here dreaming of being a Black girl surfing.” She laughed at the ridiculousness of it, thinking of her big brown body up on a surfboard, blowing her hair poof to oblivion, then of course falling with a splash into the freezing cold waters, deflating her hair and her pride just before she drowned.

“You can be,” Jay said. “Why not?”

Ramona’s face crinkled. Was it a rhetorical question? “Can you seriously imagine me? On a surfboard? I’m from the South Side of Chicago. We’re a real commonsense type of people. It’s nice to dream about though.”

“How about tomorrow?” Jay said.

“Tomorrow what?”

“Tomorrow, surfing. Real surfing. It’s my day off from class. I’ll take you out on a board.”

Ramona smiled but shook her head no. Definitely not.

“You’re shaking your head no, but are you saying no?” Jay was unfazed.

Ramona actually had to contemplate what he was asking. Her head was shaking no. Because that’s what she believed she should say. And just like everything else in her life, she was doing exactly what she thought she was supposed to do. Those kinds of decisions had landed her here. Hiding, lying, scared. That wasn’t who she wanted to be, and she could feel the pull to take a step outside of the box, to try something else. To be someone else. Maybe, finally, herself. And now, on vacation, she had time. She had time to place between her normal reactions and new choices, to examine not just what she wanted, but why she wanted it... or didn’t.

“I’m not saying yes either,” she said. “What if...”

“No experience required... I promise,” Jay said, anticipating the common objections.

“And you’re a teacher?”

“I can teach you ,” he said firmly.

“Can teach me to do what?”

“Paddle out to a wave. Stand up on your board. Ride your first wave in. You can swim, right?”

Ramona gave him a look of disbelief. She already knew how to swim from summers at the community center in her childhood, but surfing? It sounded so far-fetched she wanted to challenge him on it.

“I can swim, but how far out do we have to go from the beach?”

“If you can swim, you’ll be fine.” Jay smiled at her so assuredly it looked like a wink. “We won’t go far. But you’ll love it.”

“This is crazy.” Ramona stabbed at the sand in front of her with her toe, mainly to avoid looking at him. If he looked at her again like that, with that smile, it was over.

“Your this is crazy sounds a lot like you should be saying yes,” said Jay with an actual wink this time.

Was Jay flirting with her? Ramona couldn’t tell. But she liked having his attention, and his instruction, and his assurances that allowed her to suspend her healthy and well-conditioned skepticism. It also didn’t hurt that he was handsome and tall and so sturdy-looking. Already now, she believed that she was exactly where she was supposed to be, doing exactly what she was supposed to do. So why not float on just a little bit further out? She’d have something good to tell Latrice, Carlos would be proud, and, as long as she survived, there was no one else to worry because they would never know.

“Let’s do it,” Ramona said.

“Perfect,” Jay said. “You know what I always say, life’s too short to wait for next time.”

And just then, Ramona understood exactly what he meant.

JOAN IN MALIBU, ON HER UPPER DECK, OF COURSE...

J OAN WATCHED EVERY MINUTE OF J AY’S CLASS THAT MORNING with great interest. From her perch, she saw Ramona walk out across the sand with her beach towel. From the corner of her upper deck, slouched down in a (very expensive) all-weather striped canvas sofa, hidden from view, she scrutinized the class as it unfolded, with Jay’s faux-enlightened woo-woo ha-ha and platitudes, and even witnessed how he let Ramona (poor thing) lie there on the sand like a beached sea animal while everyone else scattered back into the rest of their lives.

A real shame , Joan thought, that Ramona would get caught up with someone like Jay so quickly. From Joan’s perspective, men like Jay were common to the beach. She associated him with the stories that she heard from friends, stories so vibrant and cautionary that they seemed to suffice as a proper substitute for real-life interaction. Joan assigned no extra credit for the fact that he showed up faithfully on all his class days—she just knew that, based on the odds, he was up to no good, no good at all.

And because she didn’t feel that she could trust Jay, Joan had never attended any of his classes on the sand. In fact, when her private yoga instructor arrived on Tuesdays and Thursdays, they’d both question the standard sequence of poses he’d announce. “West Hollywood yoga” is what they’d say and then exchange a knowing glance between them as if only they were in on the secret. Joan’s yoga instructor was triple certified in Hatha yoga, Bikram yoga, and, of course, Ashtanga, because everyone knew that she had been the backup instructor to Madonna in the best days of her sinewy physique. Or maybe she was the backup backup, or the instructor to Gwyneth? Anyway, it was no matter. Joan paid her $400 an hour twice a week to help her use her body to still her mind and to feel good about the fact that her ex’s alimony payments were being put to good use for her maintenance.

Now, partially satisfied at having set dinner plans with Ramona, Joan started to feel even more hopeful that the past could be bypassed, buried, and forgotten about. Let’s just move on , Joan thought. Going forward, she’d take responsibility for Ramona and ensure she enjoyed herself. From now on (notwithstanding the events of that first night), Ramona would feel welcome and accepted in Malibu—Joan would see to it.

So, for Joan’s absolution, all that was left was the matter of their friendly rapport to solidify. Yesterday, in their exchange, Joan could sense Ramona’s lingering suspicion. Tonight, Geoffrey’s stunning location and Joan’s first-class treatment would provide the perfect anesthesia for remaining doubt. Joan could imagine the conversations that she and Ramona would have—facilitated by Joan’s overwhelming kindness and generosity—laughing, sharing their dreams, confiding their embarrassments. The promise of it brought to mind Joan’s own daughter and the closeness she still hoped for. But both of her children had moved so far away, so terribly far, too far from the reach of Joan’s loving arms of protection and attentive care. Joan was thus left with plenty of extra room in her mind and time on her schedule to obsess over, but not examine, her other relationships, measured in what others thought of her but, mostly, what she thought of them.

Seeing Ramona talking with Jay was an unanticipated complication to carefully crafted plans. At first, she thought she was going to tear her hair out, follicle by precision-dyed follicle. She counted how long they lingered, the minutes passing by like eons. There were too many smiles, Joan thought. What was he saying? Joan wanted to know what made Ramona laugh like that, to set her at ease. Like Joan didn’t realize with David when she’d just gotten started in her career, men in this town, they pluck you before you get your feet firmly set. Make you experience everything through their access. And when they wanted to move on, they did. You were left with the scraps, scrambling to hold on to a pedestal so high it made you forget that you’d been anybody before. Jay’s going to take advantage of her , Joan told herself, just like he did with the rotation of women who came to his classes each week, there looking for something, buying his promise of being a good guy, his companionship, charm, and good looks. His pseudo-inspiration was soaking into their ears, burrowing into their brains, making them silly fools, flopping to his instructions with the boppity bop of that chaotic, loud music every day.

In her home, as the sun made its arc through the afternoon, Joan paced across lush hand-knotted silk-tufted area rugs. Deciding it was time to get ready, she headed into the suite of rooms comprising her personal quarters—a bedroom and two studio apartment–size closets, chandeliered and full of light and mirrors. One of those closets used to be David’s. She’d since remodeled to remove all traces of his influence. Open French doors showcased a boutique’s worth of clothing—shoes, scarves, and handbags of every designer in nearly every color, neatly organized in racks, rows of shelving, and a marble- covered center-island display case. Even though dinner was still hours away, Joan thought about what she’d wear—it was an important evening with important goals to accomplish. They’d go to Geoffrey’s for the sunset, of course , where without a reservation she’d secure her usual table with the best view, facing due west. She was enough of a regular that there’d be no way they’d not accommodate her, even on a Saturday night. Ramona would feel truly special, and Joan would be happy to extend her privilege, of course . Joan imagined that they’d talk and share just like good girlfriends do, right at the peak hour of people-watching and drink-sipping, picking and pecking at her usual salad or the entrée special.

Beyond the scene at Geoffrey’s, there was so much for Joan to show Ramona of Malibu—the Malibu Country Mart and all its boutiques where Joan was known by name, and the very private estates of a few close friends who’d happily open their clandestine gates to allow them access for the day. Joan smiled and felt giddy. Already there seemed to be a new layer of life in the small world to which she’d become accustomed. She envisioned clinking champagne glasses at Duke’s and slurping sunset oysters at Moonshadows. Last night had been just a fluke. And today, Jay was just a blip. Hers were the much better options. Soon enough, Ramona would see that for herself. They’d become friends, and Joan would see to it that everything, absolutely everything, would be just fine.

RAMONA, IN THE AFTERNOON, IN MALIBU...

A BSOLUTELY BUZZING WITH EXCITEMENT AND A LITTLE BIT OF nerves, Ramona pulled out her phone to text not just Latrice but Carlos as well. She couldn’t believe what she was about to experience.

RAMONA: Guess who’s going surfing!

Ramona was happy enough to send the message twice, once to each of her closest confidants. She debated sending Malik a message as well, as if he’d care. She hadn’t heard from him in weeks, not even to check on her or to say he missed her or to ask silly questions about life logistics that he was seemingly now handling on his own. But Ramona was here now, in what looked like the early stages of her “See, I’m thriving” era.

Plus, Ramona’s excitement needed no response from others to build. In less than a full day, she’d be doing something she never imagined, breaking a barrier of an activity that was certainly not on the Black girl bingo card, one that combined open water, a floating piece of Styrofoam, and potential exposure to sharks, but she was here for it. There was something about Jay that made her feel relaxed, noticed, protected even, enough that she managed to doze off right on the beach. And no doubt that some of this was a result of being away from work and, in part, also being alone on this trip, keeping her own company. She had so much space to hear her own thoughts. And to slow down enough to feel—strangely, something she often did not allow, as she was usually desensitized to her fatigue, her pain, and even her pleasure. His words, about her not worrying about anything that wasn’t in her immediate control—she was ready now to try extending them to all of Malibu. Ramona felt unusually free and happy for the moment, thinking grand thoughts of adventure, bolstered by the ocean breeze making its way through Chelsea’s efficient space.

A noise on her phone signaled Latrice’s message back.

LATRICE: Whhaaatt?! Get someone to take pictures!

And moments later, Carlos sent his own reply

CARLOS: Get your Nique Miller on, Moe! Proud of you!

Both comments made Ramona smile, as she was feeling proud of herself; one, for taking a risk, but also in that special way of breaking through a barrier holding Black people apart from joys they weren’t welcome to experience. Yet, here she was, having somehow slipped through the gates.

On an explorer’s high, she didn’t even mind so much that she was preparing for a Saturday-night dinner with a woman she barely knew and rightly didn’t trust, even though the banana bread hadn’t killed her and was now nothing more than crumbs. The reluctance was not that Ramona was usually unfriendly, or even less than personable. She was easily cordial and could get along with almost anyone. But she knew instinctually when a certain person bore watching. It was an ability honed by years and years of climbing the ladder in corporate America—especially working in finance where the common culture of exacting number crunching and attention to detail superseded natural interactions. She knew how to smile and laugh at jokes that weren’t that funny and even some that were borderline offensive. She was a pro at making small talk, about the news but not politics, culture but not race, holidays but not religion, which left mainly chatting about vacations, or Beyoncé, or the latest celebrity hookup or breakup, or the antics of the realest housewife franchise. And other than with Latrice, she knew to hold her trust tightly to her chest and keep the truest parts of herself covered.

Without the events of the Sentry Patrol when she first arrived, Ramona might have taken a different view of this dinner invitation. Had she been able to maintain her innocence, her positive expectation, her clean and fresh view of a new place, Ramona would not be left wondering in the back of her mind who it was nearby who viewed her as suspicious, enough to call an intruder of a different nature to her home. She wouldn’t be left with concern about her neighbors, the great mystery that remained for her about who called, who was watching her, and how much of her enjoyment was subject to being patrolled. So, against this background, what was unknown and unexpected, Ramona’s experience had shaped her expectation—and that was definitely not to have a great time. She expected to smile and bear it, look forward to surfing the next day, and wait out the rest of the week until she could go home to Chicago.

She’d barely had a chance to put the finishing touches on her makeup when she heard the doorbell ring twice at precisely four fifteen. Ramona slipped on her shoes and took a look out at the water through Chelsea’s living room windows. The sun was starting to slip lower in the sky. Hopefully, the shortest day of the year would not turn into the longest night of her life.

Ramona opened the door to a smiling and effortlessly elegant Joan, dressed casually in a sleeveless black linen romper belted by a tan Hermès leather band around a very tiny waist. Her perma-tanned arms were enviably toned, with perfect contours, as if sculpted to be worn bare. Joan should never wear sleeves , Ramona thought with a tinge of awe. She could also see the hint of her perfectly made-up eyes behind tinted aviator shades underneath a black-banded wide-brim straw sunhat, placed carefully atop blond-streaked brown beach waves.

Joan looked fantastic, like a magazine spread come to life—windblown and yet still perfectly put together—an embodiment of how Malibu was supposed to look, if there was such a thing. Based on her experience so far, Ramona was sure there was.

“Ready?” Joan said. “The car’s pulling up—” She gestured behind her to a spit-shined black Suburban, complete with livery decals on its bumper. The driver jumped out to circle around the vehicle, not at all in the casual wear of a typical rideshare host, but instead in black pants and a crisp white shirt, as if this was actually his main job, not a side hustle.

Ramona smiled widely as the door was pulled open. If only Latrice and Carlos could see her now. And her mother and father too, for that matter. A pang of guilt hit her gut as she remembered that in spite of the unbelievable turn of events so far, she was here under the falsest of pretenses. If her mother knew, she’d be hurt. Normally, at a new frontier, she’d bring her family with her somehow, her community, her friends. It was just normal for her, what she learned that you do, just as her mother shared her travels with all of the neighborhood, encouraged everyone to get a passport, no matter how much it cost.

“Wow, Joan, this is...” Ramona’s lack of words said far more than any she might have found to say could have. It was the silence of awe, of being impressed. Ramona nearly skipped forward to the open car door. Joan crossed just in front of her, billowing a trail of the delicate headspace scent of white flowers. Gorgeous and subtle, the faint breeze of intoxicating aroma stopped Ramona briefly in her tracks, just so that she could take a deeper waft of it. Joan smells amazing , she thought, while settling into the soft, crinkling leather of a luxury ride.

Ramona and Joan’s arrival at Geoffrey’s was only minutes later, a short drive up the coast on the PCH, just past the point where the ocean view became obscured by the much larger estates and gated enclaves that claimed their monopoly on the shoreline. It wasn’t until they decamped from the car and reached the restaurant’s hostess desk that Ramona had her next glimpse of the water. It wasn’t the same view as from Chelsea’s windows. This time, they were higher up, on the rocks, looking out farther onto the seemingly endless carpeting of waves, alive and undulating with ripples and disappearing whitecaps of foam. The sun was getting much closer to the horizon line now, washing the sky with ombre peach tones and the blue parts slipping into lavender.

Joan’s laugh from the hostess stand sharpened Ramona’s focus. “But that’s impossible,” she said, laughing again. “I come here aaaaall the time. Everyone here knows that’s my table.”

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Fox,” the very flustered hostess replied, starting to show desperation in her typing on the computer in front of her. “We have a very lovely table that’s available now, just on the other side of the patio.”

Joan’s face reddened and her mouth opened, seemingly to protest. Then, suddenly she turned to Ramona. “It’s not my usual table. But do you mind? We could wait, but then we’d miss the sunset. And honestly, why come here if not for the sunset?”

Ramona nodded, because of course she didn’t mind and really couldn’t understand the problem. There was nothing but an incredible view in nearly every inch of the restaurant, which was already packed with people. That they had a table at all seemed like a minor miracle. But ahead of her, following the hostess, Joan was all grumbles.

Almost as soon as they were seated, a server appeared with two glistening flutes of champagne. “Compliments of the manager, Ms. Fox. We’re terribly sorry about the inconvenience.”

What inconvenience? Ramona wondered. Already, she was impressed by Joan’s influence. They were at a glorious table, right at the edge of the tiled patio area, with an unobstructed view of the water from there to eternity, as the sun was kissing the lip of the horizon. And the fact that her host had become accustomed to something even better, that somehow this was insufficient, baffled Ramona. She wondered what it was like to be Joan, with both a tinge of envy and a sense of relief. Taking a sip of the effervescent liquid apology, she inhaled the air and enjoyed the flawless coastline scenery.

That first drink for both Joan and Ramona was bubbles and small talk, the basics of making acquaintance that told Ramona nothing important about why she was sitting there at the edge of the world with someone like Joan, who had such a fabulous life. She learned that Joan was an empty nester, that she baked vegan paleo keto sugar-free cookies every Halloween for trick-or-treaters so their parents would approve, she raised money for Black Lives Matter, and her family had established a scholarship for writers at USC. Joan had managed to also make it evident that she knew almost everyone who was anyone who actually lived in Malibu. Also, according to Joan, all the celebrities went to Nobu, farther south, but here tonight was where the real Malibu glamorati gathered, to see and be seen. Otherwise, like rare animals in the zoo, they sheltered much more privately behind their gates and along their own patches of shoreline.

Ramona also learned that several of the television shows that she’d grown up watching, shows in syndication now, whose names everyone would know, were products of Joan’s ex-husband’s media kingdom, the fruits of which would be paying for their dinner. “So now his new child is the same age as a grandchild would be, but nobody’s filming that—” Joan gave a tight smile and then punctuated it by finishing off the last swig of champagne that remained in her glass and waved her carefully manicured hand in the air to signal another round. Strangely, another round appeared near instantly. When Ramona told Joan that she was excited to go surfing, and that Jay had invited her for a lesson, Joan wasted no time telling Ramona about the nature of Jay’s yoga classes and how they were always filled with women, the same women every day, dressed in their athletic wear, hoping for some extra attention. “But I can’t speak to his private surf lessons,” Joan said. “Who knows what happens when he gets women alone...”

Nothing’s gonna happen with me , Ramona thought. She found it all interesting, but harmless because, after all, she was only recently (and perhaps temporarily) unengaged. With Jay, it had all happened so organically, naturally. And Joan had just appeared, crashing wave after wave of generosity upon Ramona, overwhelming her with strange and seemingly unwarranted attention. For her part, Joan didn’t just spend all the time talking. By dinner, she’d asked Ramona about herself and her family, her job, and if she was involved with anyone, questions that Ramona answered, and she reluctantly disclosed her breakup. And so in return, Ramona had a question of her own.

“You wouldn’t have any idea who could have called the Sentry Patrol, would you? Any of the neighbors when I arrived?” she asked. “I just can’t shake this feeling that I’m being watched.”

It was hard to gauge any reaction from Joan other than a slight clearing of her throat before she sipped her flute of champagne. “Watched?” Joan said, as if Ramona had asked her about aliens. “You feel like you’re being watched ? By whom?”

Ramona shrugged. “Dunno. I’d just feel better if I knew who it was, I guess, so I can stop looking over my shoulder.”

Joan reached over and patted her hand. “The only person in Malibu that you need to worry about is, what’s his name, Jay?”

“Well, Vijay, but Jay.”

“Right, him ,” Joan emphasized. I’m just saying... be careful.”

But Ramona was already careful, as life had taught her to be. She would follow her gut about Jay and resolved that she might never know who’d originally called the patrol, who was a threat, or who strangely viewed her as one. But it was no matter now anyway.

Just before the sun set fully, Ramona took two pictures. One of the landscape to send to her mother. The other of just her, with her back to the ocean, looking delicious, draped in a sky of pastels, cranberry, and deepening violet, capturing the dance of the sun and the moon trading places.

“Perfect vacation photo,” Joan said as she tapped the screen of Ramona’s phone once again and then gingerly placed the phone back on the table.

Just perfect , Ramona thought. She smiled at Joan, thinking much less at that moment of how she’d originally been greeted by Malibu, how she’d originally felt, or how much she’d wanted to go home. She’d almost stopped wondering who it was that had called the patrol on her, stopped looking over her shoulder, and almost stopped feeling uninvited. She also quickly dismissed her own just very brief suspicion at Joan’s clear disdain for Jay, or her insistence about planning their next outing, which Ramona skirted committing to. Now instead, she wondered how she’d become so lucky, how someone so great, so glamorous, and so open as Joan had found her interesting enough to befriend, and how, in the moment, the evening she’d dreaded was turning into a most wonderful time.

CHELSEA IN CHICAGO...

C HELSEA SPENT THE EARLY PART OF HER EVENING HAPPILY painting. Happily , because there was something new to paint and a feeling that had been sparked alive, especially when she was thinking of Carlos. And Chelsea’s way of visualizing always started with what she noticed most, which meant she’d started the painting with his eyes. She’d taken care to spread scratch paper across Ramona’s tasteful dining table now turned makeshift studio. She’d pulled her hair into a fiery swoop of ponytail and was deep in concentration over the making of something she’d call her own. A piece of someone, the part she could capture and hold on to. When her parents passed, she’d painted their portraits until she could no more. For every memory she wanted to keep, for every photograph she didn’t have of every moment that now meant so much—because there would be no more of them—she painted it. When she ran out of things to paint, of times to remember, she started clinging to the house, trying to squeeze out of it all that it held, of maybe just one more drop of memory if she stayed long enough. For the first time in a long time, she desired to hold on to something new, something alive, someone else.

She picked up the small metal tube and squeezed a viscous dollop more of a rich, dark-brown pigment onto the plastic palette. It had been a good idea after all to make that splurge of just one more color—the burnt umber. She needed to match this brown—the brown of Carlos’s eyes. They were the color of iced coffee in sunlight. The highlights were the tint of clouds in the sky after a rainstorm. She imagined him, holding the image of him in her mind from when he sat across from her the day prior, and especially when he held her. Yes, that was it. That moment. She wanted the exact second that he looked down at her when her eyes were still wet with tears. The moment that he had awakened a hunger within her and a desire that she feared might have faded. The desire was there, glowing now with its own energy, and she was deeply, deeply invested in capturing every single detail of how it had happened.

So engrossed was she in the fine brushstrokes of eyebrows over what was turning into a near-perfect rendering of Carlos’s left eye, Chelsea almost missed the sound of her phone registering a text message from the actual Carlos.

CARLOS: Wanna step out?

Chelsea read it twice just to make sure it said what she thought it said. Of course she did, wherever, and she didn’t hesitate to make that known. When he said he’d pick her up in twenty minutes, she rushed off to find something to wear, yank the rubber tie down the length of her hair, and scruff the top of it into a style.

On the ride over, Chelsea watched the lines of the city morph again, from brightly lit streets and tall buildings to lower-slung brick row houses, to warehouses, as they finally pulled up to their destination. It was cold, freezing, especially in the pitch dark of night, and just the short walk to the door ahead made Chelsea’s fingertips feel stiff, even in the insulation of her hot-pink mittens. It was a nondescript building, long and low, made of brick and wood. A barn door marked the entrance for Chelsea to step inside and once again partake of warmth. Carlos guided her along, his hand on the small of her back, into a place that was a surprise of an open display of antiques, and furniture, and old signs with half of their marquee lights missing. Along the floor there was a trail of candles, marking a path through the mess of dusty items that covered nearly every inch of floor space.

“What is this?” she heard herself say aloud. She turned back to look at Carlos.

“You could just walk along to find out,” he replied. “Or do you want me to tell you what’s thirty feet ahead and ruin the surprise?” His smile was mischievous. He was testing her. Curiosity burned, so she turned around again to follow the trail of lights, now leading up a flight of steps, then another, and then finally opening into another very large room. In spite of herself Chelsea gasped.

There in the darkness, the path of candles had led to even more candles, a room of candles everywhere, just enough to lift the darkness. There was an arrangement of chairs, people seated in careful rows all facing a stage with instruments like those in a jazz quartet. Carlos ushered them to two open seats near an aisle as Chelsea turned to survey her surroundings, which she still couldn’t believe.

“We’re a little late,” Carlos whispered coarsely. He sat down and pulled off his jacket.

Chelsea did the same, still wondering if he was going to tell her where they were and, perhaps more important to her now, why they were here. There was no good way for her to ask if this was a date, and if so, why he’d asked her so last minute, or if this was his notion of romance. Regardless, it was unmistakably romantic and became more so as the band started to play its opening notes.

“I’ll be right back,” Carlos said and asked her what she wanted to drink before disappearing to the bar along the back of the room. She let herself get carried away with a cover of José Feliciano’s all-instrumental version of “Jingle Bells” that she’d never heard before but made her body sway in the seat nonetheless.

By the time Carlos returned, holding four plastic cups full of dark wine, a soloist was performing a rendition of “Silent Night” in both English and Spanish that brought tears into her eyes. There was an unmistakable tropical feeling to the music, and it was too gorgeous not to know what the performance was called. Chelsea decided to ask about that.

“Latin Christmas, by candlelight.” Carlos grinned.

Chelsea memorized the look of his face, this time illuminated by a hundred tiny flames. She noted the new shadows, how the light reflected in his eyes looked like a night sky full of stars. Later, she would paint this too.

“The next song, we can dance if you want—” Sure enough, as the haunting ballad was ending, one of the band members announced their next number and encouraged the crowd to leave their seats in favor of a small dance floor in the corner.

“I can’t dance,” Chelsea admitted.

“I’ll dance. You can just sway to the music.” Carlos gave her a wink. Chelsea wondered if he’d seen her earlier. Had he been watching her from the bar? She looked into his eyes for an answer, but in the dark of the room all she saw was candlelight flickering there. She wanted to be closer to him, to know him more intimately. The thought of their bodies swaying together was the perfect ideal worth trying for. She nodded, and he took her hand, lifting her with a gentle tug. It was the first time she’d felt the direct warmth of his skin on hers; and the softness of his hands, that surprised her. He directed them to the compact dancing space that had started to fill with other couples. The others stepped together, turned, stepped apart, came in close, and some never touched at all. But with Carlos, Chelsea was close enough to breathe the heat of him emanating from his body pressed close to hers. To smell him in leather and evergreen scents, the mix she remembered from the gallery. She closed her eyes to inhale the intoxicating smell of him, to let herself sway with him, to release herself to him, following his synchronization with the music. She let his hips brush against her while his arms gently guided her where to go. While their feet barely moved, she felt so much closer to him, with the sounds of Christmas, the words Feliz and Navidad , making beats to dance to. She didn’t understand all the lyrics, but she felt their meaning through Carlos. He sang along, and she experienced his joy, and quite deeply, her own.

Within a single night, there’d been the two drinks and then another each, the dancing, the gorgeous music, and the ethereal candlelight. In the car on the way back, Chelsea leaned into Carlos, and he allowed her to rest her hand on his thigh. His arm draped loosely over her other side. That’s not nothing , she thought, while still wondering if there was enough attraction between them to act upon.

When the car stopped in front of Ramona’s building and it was time for Chelsea and Carlos to part ways, Chelsea’s brain was on overdrive thinking of how to avoid that conclusion to the evening. Kiss me , she willed. Tipsy, she leaned forward with eyes closed, running her tongue over her lips, biting the now-moistened lower one. Her heart was beating a mile a minute, and a hollow silence filled her ears. Her breathing staggered, and the energy of her desire filled the car of its own accord.

She imagined him gripping the back of her hair, the gentle tug at the nape of her neck pulling her head back so that he could reach her. So that he could put his lips on her neck, her face, her lips. And she felt the warmth of him draw closer, and then he was so close she could feel the moist heat of his breath on her ear. She couldn’t take it anymore, and she turned her face to meet him there, with an audience, the car running, the ride unstopped. She didn’t care who saw, whether it was the driver or anyone passing by. She was in the carelessness of want in the clutches of a desire beyond desire, one that had waited too long and was reckless now. She pushed against the generous softness of his lips together and then as they opened. She took his top lip in her mouth and then the bottom one with teeth and suction. When she felt his tongue push across her lips, she met him with her own, intertwining, yes , dancing like they had before, yes , softness, yes , the friction, yes , the smell of him. Yes, please come upstairs with me , Chelsea pleaded with everything but words.

“I could come up,” he said, his voice low, seductive, his words slow and determined.

“Yes.” Chelsea was so sure that this is what she wanted.

“But...” Carlos hesitated, looking genuinely pained. “Maybe it’s not going to mean what you want it to mean.”

“I don’t want it to mean anything.” Chelsea busied herself with his lips again. “I just don’t want tonight to end here. Come upstairs.”

In a rush of swirling feelings and frantic yearning, Chelsea and Carlos exited the car to the certain relief of the driver. But Chelsea didn’t care so much about having an audience. It was easy to forget that anyone else was there. She didn’t think about the drinks she’d had or how her emotions were elevated by the alcohol that also dulled any logical objections. In a few days, she’d be leaving. What difference did it make? And so what if she never saw him again? Did she need to see him again to have a good time tonight? Maybe she just needed this . Maybe she just needed him now, for this moment.

In the elevator, on the trip of twelve floors, they kissed. It was enough time to be pressed against the wall together, for hands to roam under clothes, weave through layers, to touch goose-bumped skin. It was enough time to for Chelsea to feel Carlos’s leg between hers and to rub against it, awakening her body further and driving her deeper into pure unbridled want. Twelve floors were enough for Carlos’s body to respond too. With her back at the wall, she felt his arousal pressed against her thigh, her pelvis, her stomach. Her body tingled along the line his lips traced down her neck.

“And you’ll be fine if I can’t stay?” he said, with his lips just a breath away from her collarbone.

“You mean like stay the night?” Chelsea really didn’t want to waste time talking. Her body was past that. It felt too good to just let go. Nothing mattered—just what was now, right in front of her. She didn’t care about anything else.

“Yes.” Carlos pulled back, he stopped the kissing, the feeling, the exploring. He waited until Chelsea’s eyes met his. There was meaning there. So much so that Chelsea briefly sobered.

“What, are you married or something?”

“Nah.” Carlos’s face scrunched briefly with pure confusion as if he couldn’t believe the question. “Definitely not married. Tonight... I was supposed to be on a date. I just don’t want you to think...” Chelsea understood immediately what he meant. Carlos didn’t want her to think this night was intentional. He didn’t want her to believe that it had been for her, about her. And anything that happened next wasn’t about meaning, it was about the rush of lust, which they could both give in to if they so wished. An offer of his body for hers, but not his heart. He was giving her a choice.

Chelsea was too far past logic. She didn’t want to think. She was feeling, finally. She was concentrated in the lower half of her body, throbbing with its own heartbeat now. “Let’s go inside,” she said.

When the door closed, there was nothing left to hold back. She couldn’t pull his coat off fast enough, right there in the doorway. Her sweater hit the floor. His hands wrapped around the sides of her breasts with a soft squeeze and then his fingers gripped her bra, pulling it down in a swift motion, exposing her nipples and their sensitivity to the air in the room. His mouth was so much warmer. He suckled her and he bit her. It hurt and then it didn’t hurt, and she wanted so much more. Her head was spinning, swirling, boozy, free, uninhibited. Her body was ready.

Moving in one mass together, arms around each other, hands exploring, groping, squeezing hard, soft, hard again. Chelsea felt Carlos’s firm body flex against hers, and then the softness of the bed beneath her as she lay down underneath him. He pulled back.

“Turn over.” He was instructing her to lie on her stomach, naked, almost fully naked, only her panties remaining. But she did as he said and turned over. There was nothing at first, just her breasts, so sensitive now, pressed into the sheets beneath her. The palms of her hands feeling the texture of the bedding, gripping it tightly. She channeled her nervous anticipation of what he would do; she couldn’t see him other than as a shadow in the window in front of them, the outline of his body standing above her as she was exposed beneath him. Her breath was rapid, shallow as she waited for him to take what he was going to of her. By reflex her shoulder blades tensed, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck came to stand at attention, waiting... Suddenly, he was there, leaned down now over her; she felt the heat of him on her back. Kissing her down the length of her spine. Those same lips that she’d held in her mouth making a trail of hot and cold down her skin. Everywhere he’d been she could feel. His teeth caught the top of her underwear and pulled down. The fabric slid against her skin, past her butt cheeks, down the top of her thighs, pulling away from the crevice between her legs. She felt every millimeter of it. She was all feeling, all sensation, all arousal, all desire, all impatience. And then his hands slipped underneath her thighs, as he lifted her up to meet him, and Chelsea made no resistance to it, her body pleasured and loose. It was only her anticipation and curiosity that brought her the slightest feeling of trepidation, of danger of not knowing what would happen to her. What he would choose to do next.

But it was his mouth on her again, her softest part. His tongue where it was most sensitive. With deftness and precision, he delivered her to her first release, rich swirls and waves of the ocean inside her, the high tide cresting on the shoreline, she melted herself into him, into the bed, into the whole world.