Several minutes pass before the heavy drumming of the first song on the Beatles’ White Album reaches me in the kitchen. I finish up the dishes, dry my hands, and grab my glass of wine before heading into the living room.

Ezra is sitting at the coffee table. “Did May take these?” He holds up one of May’s photos. I unintentionally left them out on the coffee table.

I nod. “I found them last night.”

He holds up the one of us kissing. “My first kiss,” he says.

“Mine too.”

“And if I remember correctly, it was you who initiated it.”

I scoff loudly. “It was so not. You leaned in.”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Totally you.”

I go over and pull the photo from his hands. “Whatever. We kissed. End of story.”

He goes back to the photos, picking up the one of his mother, and suddenly his smile fades and his face gets a fixed, serious quality to it. He’s quiet while he takes in the details, examines the look she’s sending his father and my mother. “A picture really does speak a thousand words,” he finally says. Tossing the photo onto the pile, he gets up. “I think I need another drink.”

While he’s gone, I gather the photos up and slide them back into the envelope. It’s obvious that Ezra is still very much affected by that time in our lives. No matter how long ago it was.

“Wanna smoke a joint?” he asks from the doorway.

I haven’t smoked weed in about a million years, so I’m surprised to hear myself answer, “Sure.”

It’s dark out on the verandah except for a thin sliver of white moonlight. Lighting the joint, he inhales, then passes it to me.

“I read your book.” The statement catches me off guard, and I cough out a puff of smoke. Not very smooth at all. He laughs and pats me on the back. “You okay there?”

I swat his hand away. “I’m fine.” Taking another hit, I pass it back to him.

He holds the glowing joint in his hand. “I’ve actually read it multiple times.” He puts it to his lips, his eyes squinting against the smoke.

The weed works fast and suddenly everything zooms into one tiny speck of existence, just me and Ezra. I’m light-headed and feel as though if I look out into the darkness, I’ll get sucked up into the night sky and disappear forever.

He holds the joint out to me. “I thought it was great. Really well written. And profound. Like crazy profound.”

“Thanks.” I take the joint so that I have an excuse for my one-word answer.

“You haven’t written another.”

“Nope.” I exhale the word along with the smoke.

“You don’t like to talk about it.”

“Nope.” I pass the joint back to him.