with women gleeful at their conquest of a bald peak. Not a single picture of her sister in any phase but Arizonan. Waxy drops rolled to the desk. The door swung wide and Julia turned to see Stephen. "Having fun?"
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Julia looked at him and said, "Oh yes. Tons."
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He closed the door and stretched out on the sofa, rumpled with Julia's sheets, and said, "What did you think of the canyon?"
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"Impressive." She gestured vaguely, hoping she'd lit on the right word.
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He wandered over to the wine and poured himself some more. "You never get used to it," he said. "You just feel sort of small out here all the time." It was the only thing he'd said yet that made her like him.
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"But Hannah loves it," Julia said and sat down at the desk.
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Stephen sat nearby and said nothing, which felt fine, not awkward. The whole-grain breakfasts had accustomed them to pauses. The floor rang with music. "Hold on," he said, and went to the living room. He came back with chips and guacamole. "I like this stuff."
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"Me, too," said Julia. She thought avocados were beautiful, their flesh sliding quietly from green to white at the pit. Even more, she liked mashing them for Henry, whose wife thought they were too fattening to have in the house. She had realized instantly, as the fork met the soft slices, that this was competition. "Henry likes it, too."
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"Complicated," said Stephen tranquilly.
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So Julia started to talk to Stephen, and it tumbled from her like gardener's twine unraveling from a badly wound ball. But listening to the story out loud for the first time, she was sad to hear how common it seemed, and she stopped. Partly it was how brittle
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