a wanderer if you travel alone. When there are two of you, it’s not called wandering. It’s called an adventure. And you and your girl are on an extraordinary adventure.”
“Were on an adventure.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“And Ashton is not alone. He’s with Riley.”
“Tell me more about this Riley,” Devi said. “Is she living here in London with him?”
Damn that Devi! “Even so, he’s still not alone. I’m here with him.”
“Are you, Julian?”
It was really time to go.
“When is he moving back to L.A.?” Devi asked. “I don’t see the harp or the lamb with him. I see the smoke of torment. I see woe in the street.”
“Can you stop it? I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you see?”
“Not much. I told you, I feel things. Things that aren’t good.”
“How many more things that aren’t good can happen to me, Devi?”
“Not to you,” Devi said. “To him.”
Grimly Julian stared at the shaman. Julian hated to be reminded of their conversation the previous year. What are you prepared to give up, Julian, to live as you want? Julian hated to have been proven wrong, hated to have failed. His blood was boiling. “Well, I’m never going back again,” he said, grabbing his coat. “So we’re good.”
After that day, he stopped visiting Devi.
Almost all Julian did until the end of the year was work and box and swim.
Except for the weekends when Ashton was away either back in L.A. or somewhere unspecified, or when Julian was at the pool or the gym, the two men hardly left each other’s side. They shopped together, went to work together, drank together, sparred together, played video games together. On rainy Notting Hill weekend afternoons, they scoped the streets, checking out garage sales, open markets, art galleries, pretty girls. They rode bikes through Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, they hiked through Holland Park, they had long liquid brunches at quaint London pubs—like the Silver Cross—and got dressed up in fitted bespoke suits to go out on Saturday nights, when the class of women they chatted up increased geometrically with the price of their silk ties from Jermyn Street. Ashton tried, you had to give him that. No matter what Devi said, Ashton did his best.
Julian, too.
“Let me ask you a question, Jules,” Ashton said one night, late on the Central Line, as they were heading home thoroughly inebriated after last rounds at the Counting House.
“You’re in no state to question me, especially in that tone of voice,” Julian said, “and I’m certainly in no state to answer you.”
“In other words, the perfect time to have a serious conversation—when we’re both three sheets to the wind. Let me ask you: when you meet this girl, does she know who you are?”
“Why would she? How could she?”
“Uh-huh. But at the very least her name is Josephine, right?”
“No—because it wasn’t her name,” Julian said. “Her name was Mia.”
“Wait, so, a derivative of the most common name in the English language?”
“She falls in love with me!”
“Don’t shout, we’re on the tube,” Ashton said. “People will think we’re drunk.”
“We are drunk.”
After they got off at Notting Hill Gate and were staggering home, Ashton resumed. “Jules, have you considered the possibility that it’s just a random girl?”
“You think I’m on the receiving end of some cosmic prank? Go to hell.”
“Oh, sure, I mean, what are the chances of finding a nipply, lusty, brown-haired, brown-eyed chick named Mary who falls for you?”
“I’m done listening to you.”
But Ashton was on a roll. “You think you’re falling in love with Josephine, but it’s just some murdering broad named Mallory.”
“Am I listening?”
“You hook up with her in a brothel of all places—where naturally all true love begins—and she goes all doe-eyed on you, tells you you’re her one and only john, starts killing and stealing, and your first thought is—Josephine!”
“I’m not only not listening, I’m no longer your friend.” Julian tried to speed up, but drunk Ashton was a faster and more coherent man than drunk Julian.
“Are you pissed off because you know I’m right?”
“Why are you still speaking?” Julian said. “You think I travel through time so I can hook up with a stranger? What about her feelings for me?”
Ashton’s smile was from one side of the street to the other. “Jules, that’s my other point. Can we get real for a sec?”
“No.”
“We roomed together and lived together, lest you forgot.”
“I wish I forgot.”
“In our sophomore year, your bed was separated from mine by a thin sheet we hung up for fake privacy. Do you remember? Did you think this sheet was soundproof?”
“Go to hell.”
“I know all about you. Plus Gwen used to brag to Riley, who would then scold me—oh, and thanks for that, too, by the way. Julian does this, and Julian does that. Fuck you, buddy.” A grinning Ashton hooked his long arm around Julian’s neck as they zigzagged down the sidewalk. Julian tried to get away, but Ashton wouldn’t let him.
“Your point?”
“My point is,” Ashton said, “that any girl would be happy to biblically acquaint herself with you.”
“Get off me.”
“During foreplay you could ask her if she’s the one, and I promise you, promise you, by the time you get to the afterglow, she’ll be chirping yes! Yes, I’m the one, Jules! Wait, no, it’s me, I’m the one!”
Julian pushed Ashton off him. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But am I wrong?”
“Both ridiculous and wrong.”
“Here’s my final point,” Ashton said, grabbing Julian again. “Why do you have to spelunk, box, swim, bust up your body? Why can’t you find them and seduce them right here in London, in the comfort of your own home, in your tiny, woefully inadequate bed?”
“I’m moving out.”
“I promise to set you up only with brown-eyed girls named Maria. I know about a dozen off the top of my head.”
“I’m packing my shit as soon as we get home.”
“I’m not saying love again. I’m saying …”
“Shut up.”
Ashton was laughing, his arm around Julian’s neck. “You’ve tried it your way, Jules. You’ve tried it your way twice. Come on, buddy. Now let’s try it Ashton’s way.”
And Julian said okay. “I’ll try it Ashton’s way, said the barmaid to the bishop.”
Julian didn’t know how his friend