frame, she stood beside him, beautiful, blond, with a neat, clean smile and fingernails painted pink. But that picture had disappeared completely: there was no Sandrine, there was no gold frame, there was no life as he’d previously imagined it. There was only Joe alone surrounded by sea and sky.
And into this space came Luna. Joe held no picture in his head of their life together. Every day Luna became something different, something altogether unexpected. She didn’t care what he’d done, the good or bad of it; she knew him only now, in this moment of drift. She was drifting, too, he could see it, and yet when he stood beside her, he felt anchored, secure. Even on the days they were at their worst, the days he saw them both as weak, he felt there was more to them than the weakness. Luna made him feel a potential. Hope was too sentimental a word for it. Faith was too sanctimonious. But it was something like that. Something grand.
He wanted to explain all of this to Fiona. Of his three sisters, he always felt the most comfortable with her. But she was writing a sex blog now, not poetry, and sleeping with dozens of men, describing their weaknesses and flaws, all the things they’d done wrong. How was that empowering? he wondered. How was that art? It tore people down. It was Caroline who sent him the link, no comment, just the word Fiona. He’d felt a jolt of happy surprise to hear from his sister, swiftly undercut by the contents of the blog. The Last Romantic.
And so, two days after the e-mail arrived from Caroline, Joe picked up the phone and called Fiona. She was surprised to hear from him, she said, but glad he had called. For a spell he considered telling Fiona about Luna, but no. He wasn’t ready to share her. His sisters had judged Sandrine so harshly; he didn’t want to subject Luna to their scrutiny, not yet.
Joe had always liked the lilt of Fiona’s voice, the way she told a story, and so he listened for a bit to updates on her job, her revolving cast of housemates. Then he asked:
“Fiona, have you heard of The Last Romantic?”
“Sure. I’ve heard of it. New feminism. I read it every week.” Fiona’s voice had shifted. Now she was carefully casual, on guard, and immediately Joe knew it was true.
“Who do you think writes it?” he asked.
“It’s anonymous. Who knows? It could be anyone.”
“I think I know who it is.”
“Yeah?”
“I think I know her pretty well.”
Silence from Fiona. Joe knew that at this moment his sister was twisting a curl around an index finger. When she was a kid, the hair twist happened in any circumstance of stress or discomfort. Scary movie, fight between Caroline and Noni, studying for a math test. The memories washed over him all at once, a composite picture that made his chest contract. But Fiona was not a kid anymore.
Joe said, “Fiona, why are you doing this blog?”
“Me?”
“I hope you’re being careful.” A surge of his old protective impulse, a need to shield Fiona, to help her, came rushing back. He hadn’t felt it in years.
A pause. “Who told you?” she asked.
Joe decided not to give Caroline up; it would hurt Fiona to know. “Those guys don’t know what you’re doing,” he said instead.
“Of course they don’t. That’s the point.”
“It seems unfair. They trust you.”
“Trust? I’m the one at risk! I’m trusting them.” And then she said, “I trusted you. You kept secrets from me. The knee injury, Sierra, Ace. Remember?”
“Come on, that’s different.”
“Not really.”
“Fiona, the whole thing is cheap, taking cheap shots at these guys.” Joe paused. “People make mistakes. It’s not right to punish them like this.”
“I’m not punishing anybody. I’m just telling the truth.”
“Well, I think it cheapens you.”
“You don’t understand the project.”
“I don’t need to.”
“How’s the coke habit, Joe?” Fiona asked with ice in her voice.
A hot flush of shame came down on him. He didn’t want to tell Fiona the truth, but he couldn’t lie to her, not anymore.
“I just want you to find someone you love,” he said.
“Love? What would you know about it?” Fiona laughed. “I can’t talk about this with you, Joe. Good-bye.” And then she hung up.
Luna was watching Joe as he spoke on the phone. It was midmorning, a Sunday. Newspapers and sunshine on the bed. She heard the name Fiona, she knew the significance of Joe speaking to his sister after