* * *
Justin had a way of making everything feel like an adventure. We’d meet at the coffee shop, the park, or the mall and hang out on a bench or a table for two and talk for hours. But he was constantly in motion. He couldn’t sit for long stretches without hopping up to pace or run around. If we were at Aromatique, he’d jump up and make a latte out of the blue. If we were at the park, he’d insist on bringing along some form of entertainment—guitars, a Frisbee, or skateboards. He’d apologize sometimes for what he called his “spacey brain,” but I thought it was pretty genius that he knew himself so well. And if his quest for activity got me on a skateboard for the first time in a decade, it couldn’t be a bad thing.
He freaked out when he found my old skateboard collection in a closet in the pool house…once he got over the shock that I actually knew how to ride one pretty well.
“When did you learn how to ride a skateboard?”
“Sixteen, maybe? I don’t remember. It looked fun and mildly rebellious. My parents didn’t approve, so I wanted it more.” I flipped my board upright, then spun it before hopping on and taking a quick ride around the pool area.
“What did they have against skateboards? It’s better than getting high every day. Or did you do that too?”
“No. I didn’t rock the boat much. I topped out at skateboards and cigarettes. They disapproved of both. The skateboard was understandable. I could fall off a board, break my wrist, and end my budding music career. Smoking was just me being an asshole. My dad quit when I was a kid. I thought it was hypocritical of him to preach about health concerns when he’d done it his whole life. But my teenage perspective was limited. When Charlie was growing up, I made it a point to be more honest and open. I hated the “Do as I say, not as I do” rhetoric from my childhood.”
Justin froze and then lowered his Ray Bans. Sunlight glistened on his smooth torso and accentuated his toned abs. He wore a pair of navy-striped board shorts and nothing else. Except a “What the fuck?” look. “When Charlie was growing up? You make it sound like you raised him.”
“I was around a lot. Charlie’s mom wasn’t in the picture, and Seb’s my best friend. I helped out. Took him to preschool, taught him how to ride a bike…that kind of stuff,” I said with a shrug.
“Dad stuff.”
“Godfather stuff,” I corrected. “That’s who I am.”
He fixed me with a thoughtful stare. “He’s lucky.”
Justin switched topics and didn’t bring up Charlie again until he mentioned a gig he’d landed for them downtown in late April. I thought about clarifying my relationship with Seb and Charlie, but then what? If he asked me, I’d tell him. But it seemed pointless to dig up old skeletons and frankly, I didn’t feel like talking about the past. Not when the present was infinitely more exciting.
After he found my skateboards, we started bringing them with us on daily jaunts to the park after his shift at Aromatique and before Zero practiced. We rode from the car to our favorite bench with to-go cups in hand one afternoon. Spring had been fickle so far—chilly and overcast one day and seventy degrees and sunny the next. Today was flat-out cold. No doubt we’d do more skateboarding than people-watching after we finished our coffees.
We sat a little closer than usual for body warmth, cradling warm drinks as we people-watched. This particular park had become one of our go-to spots because it was within walking distance of the coffee shop and a short drive to my house. We’d sit on a bench under a huge oak tree in the middle of a grassy knoll equidistant between a playground and a basketball court. It was a good spot to observe humans in the wild. As much as I looked forward to getting naked and horizontal with him, I came to love our “research dates” and my writing partner’s random topics of conversation.
I’d learned to read him fairly well over the past couple of months. He was a deep thinker with frenetic energy. When he sat quietly for a long stretch, I could practically see the wheels turning in his brain as he gathered data. But he tended to process everything aloud. And while music might be his favorite subject, the guy could talk about anything. We had serious discussions about topics I wouldn’t have thought were debate-worthy, like where to find the best sushi in LA or the merits of kombucha.
“That stuff is fucking disgusting,” he huffed, sipping his coffee.
“What’s wrong with kombucha?”
“It tastes nasty and that glob of gunk on the bottom of the bottle looks like phlegm,” he replied.