The alarm clock wakes me from a deep sleep. After hitting the snooze button, I turn around and notice my fiancé has already left for work. His side of the bed is empty and barely touched. He’s a heavy sleeper who never moves during the night. Like a ninja, he is quiet when he readies himself for the day. While I lay asleep in bed, he always plants a quick kiss on my forehead before whispering, “Have a great day. I love you,” and departs for work. For the past few years, Andrew has been a courteous roommate.

Although I’ve slept in late this morning, I find it difficult to leave my bed. I know it’s not from the rigorous sex because I didn’t partake in that last night. With the window wide open, the ocean breeze comes through. Yet, it is unable to energize my untouched body. Getting up and facing reality is always the hardest part. If I could only wake up and be somewhere else.

Be someone else.

Daily, I remind myself this state that Andrew and I are in is just temporary. He is in the middle of tenure, teaching several classes and trying to finish a book that he had started almost two years ago. Andrew loves me without a doubt. He has always been there for me. He has helped me through so much tragedy. He has never asked me for anything except to pack up my life and move to LA with him. This … all this … as I look around me … this is just a rough phase. Because we love each other, we’ll get through this.

What to do today? I emailed the final score for the movie I had been working on the past few months to the director and Roger late, last night after Andrew fell asleep. New York is another week away but what’s keeping me here?

I lie in bed for over an hour, watching an episode of The Fall on Netflix when my phone rings. Nothing deters me from salivating over the hottest on-screen serial killer. The unknown caller ID continues to pop up, interrupting my time with Paul Spector. Dammit. I finally answer the call with a sluggish, “Hello.”

“Lina? Lina James?” On the other end is a male with a British accent and the sexiest voice I have ever heard. It’s deep, raspy, and it has a certain tone that instantly wakes me.

Warily, I respond, “Yes, it’s Lina.”

“It’s Julian.”

I remain silent.

“Lina, it’s Julian,” he repeats.

“Julian?” It takes me a second to realize who it is on the other end. “Julian Caine?”

“Yes, I apologize if I’ve caught you off guard. How are you?” he asks casually as if he and I haven’t spoken in over a decade.

“I’m … I’m well. Julian,” I pause. “This is ... this is unexpected.”

“Is it a bad time?” he asks, maybe clueless to my surprised reaction.

“Well …” Umm, I was actually eye fucking Jamie Dornan and thought about playing with myself. I was left unsatisfied last night. “No, not at all. Again, I’m just surprised. It’s been a long time. I haven’t heard from you …” I am unable to finish the sentence.

“Yes, I understand. I’m embarrassed to say it has been several years.” Fourteen years to be exact. He pauses. “I would like to invite you to an intimate party for my father. He would only celebrate on one condition−that you join us. I know that it’s quite an imposition calling after all these years, but he misses you.”

I start to choke thinking about the Caines. Saddened at the thought of them, “I don’t know … Julian, it’s been so long.” And although I miss both him and Marcel, I can’t seem to shake off this lingering feeling. The guy on the other line left me. He left me without a word.

“Lina, he’s turning sixty-five and he hasn’t celebrated his birthday since Mum …” he says with a tinge of melancholy. “I’m quite embarrassed right now. But I pray that you’ll join us.”

Closing my eyes allows me to remember how close we used to be. An image of him napping next to me comes through. Now, we’re strangers. “I … I don’t know. I don’t have much time to make arrangements…”

“You don’t need to do anything except attend. It will be a small gathering this Saturday at his home in San Francisco. I know it’s a last-minute affair.”

I sigh, still unable to give him an answer.

“Lina,” he says in an unfamiliar tone. Even his voice is foreign. Of course, it is, the last time you heard it, he was a thirteen-year-old boy. “I know it must be … strange to hear from me … I’m sorry. I’ll let you go.”

Suddenly, I remember the boy who used to be my best friend. The boy who patiently listened to my teenage drama. The boy who would surprise me with cupcakes every time I was depressed. The boy who laid beside me on the floor as I wept for my dad. The boy who wanted nothing more from me than just my company.

I missed him. I still miss him.

“Julian, I’ll … I’ll go.”

I can actually hear him heave a sigh of relief on the other line. “Thank you. We can leave tomorrow together.”

“Together?” I ask, confused.

“Yes, I’m actually in LA and if you’re okay with it, we can travel together. It would allow us to catch up after all these years.”

“Do you live in LA?”

“No, I’m here on business, and I’ll be leaving tomorrow. If you decide to travel with me, we can leave on the jet. I know this is such an imposition. Please let me make traveling easier for you.”

“Well, if it’s not an inconvenience.”

“Not at all. Thank you, Lina.” Julian pauses for a brief second. “Father will be thrilled. Will you be inviting someone to join us?”

“You mean Andrew?”

“Andrew? Your high school boyfriend?” There’s no mistaking the surprised tone in his voice.

“Yes, he’s actually my fiancé now. But I don’t think he’ll be able to go.”

Another moment of silence hangs over us, and I wonder if I should go to the party now. This is weird. We used to talk like the world was ending. Our conversations were always easy. Fourteen years, I remind myself. “Julian, are you still there?” Did he hang up on me by mistake?

“I apologize. I’ll pick you up at eleven thirty tomorrow morning and we can fly out of Santa Monica Airport. If you need anything, please feel free to call this number.”

“Okay,” I say lamely before asking, “I’m curious. How did you find my number and don’t you need my address?”

“Father gave it to me.”

“Oh, of course.”

“And Lina.”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re coming,” he offers before our conversation ends.

Marcel and Elisa Caine were my parents’ best friends. My father and Marcel met at boarding school before attending London School of Economics together. Elisa had met my mother at an art gallery showing and became fast friends. It was the Caines who played matchmaker to my parents.

Julian was a creative boy. Hours at a time were spent in his bedroom, dissecting computers and cameras and working with modeling clay. When he wasn’t creating, he was a voracious reader, reading everything he could get his hands on.

Growing up, we were inseparable. Weekends were spent exploring the city, playing hacky sack at Sheep Meadow in Central Park, catching movies at the Angelica, museum hopping, attending shows, and just entertaining each other. Even though we were two and a half years apart, it was never awkward between us. We shared our dreams, our fears, and some of our deepest secrets.

I open the top drawer of my nightstand in search of a small manila envelope. It’s been years since I’ve opened it. An old photograph greets me.

It is a photo of me with Julian a few weeks before he left me. We are standing side by side, our arms wrapped around each other’s waist. I’m smiling, my face staring directly at the camera. His face held a grin as he looked at me. He was an inch taller than I was. His frame was thin and frail. The Police t-shirt he wore swallowed him at the time. The razor short black hair made him look edgier in contrast to his Harry Potter styled eyeglasses. The braces he wore to straighten his teeth were anything but flattering. I wonder what he looks like now.

Suddenly, Julian’s deep, raspy voice is in my head. It can’t possibly be him?