"What if she did? Wouldn't that bother you?" she asks.
"Does it bother you?"
"Yes. It's scary. Why couldn't she tell me?"
"Do you really need me to answer that?"
"Right. Your sister is dead. Mine is here. I'm an immature asshole."
"You're scared. It's okay."
"What if she did?" Julie asks. "Would you stay with her?"
"Who would break up with someone over that?"
"Don't be naive."
That's true. The guy I used to be would have run from a disclosure like that. "It would scare me, sure, but I would still love her."
"You love her?"
"I haven't said it yet."
"I won't tell her." She walks past the pink and green matcha shop and rolls her eyes. "How can people act like matcha is this trendy new superfood? It's been drunk in Japan for two thousand years. White people. No offense."
"None taken."
"Did she tell you what happened?"
"You trying to trick me?" I ask.
"Is it working?"
I shake my head.
"Will you talk to her, for me?"
"Yeah, but it's better if you talk to her."
"Stop being mature."
"Okay. Then tell me about your girlfriend."
"You're trying to distract me."
"Tell me anyway," I say.
She does.
We make it to the beach, then halfway to Santa Monica, before Julie decides to text Imogen to let her know we're okay.
"Do you want to do the honors? Or should I?" I ask.
"We both can." She pulls out her cell, reads the message, taps a text.
I do the same.
Imogen: Hey! No rush, but let me know if Julie is okay.