2. TWO
TWO
When he got back to the duplex, his shirt clung to his back like regret. Both dogs were practically vibrating with the need to inspect their new territory, so he threw the back slider open and watched them storm into the yard.
He clicked the ceiling fan up to high and flopped onto the slightly faded couch that had come with the rental, Rory’s words still looping in his head.
“You’re not from here.” “Let me know.” “Depends on you.”
Was he imagining the vibe? Probably. Definitely. Rory was likely being neighborly in a rugged, emotionally unreadable, Encinitas kind of way. He probably made every single new transplant feel their flip-flops were too clean and their ocean phobias were perfectly valid.
Kieran groaned, letting his head drop back heavily against the cushions.
“I am not making this into a thing,” he told the spinning ceiling fan. “I’m not going to crush on the literal first guy who speaks to me. I’m thirty-four. I have two dogs. I own a collapsible wagon. I am evolved.”
The next few days passed in a heavy blur of unpacking cardboard boxes, walking the perimeter of the neighborhood, and trying desperately to pass for someone who belonged.
He discovered a local coffee shop down the street named FOAM, where a heavily tattooed barista called him “bud,” asked zero probing questions about his life, and successfully convinced him to invest in a massive, reusable cold-brew jug that looked like it belonged in a doomsday survival kit.
He tried his best not to think about Rory. Which, of course, meant he thought about him constantly.
He’d only caught sight of him once over the weekend—shirtless, barefoot, and meticulously washing an absurdly large paddleboard in his driveway. Kieran had been in the middle of walking Hank and Mabel at the time and nearly tripped over a broken curb trying to look anywhere else.
Rory had looked up anyway, catching his eye with a casual nod.
Kieran had raised a hand, waved awkwardly, and then—God help him—delivered a crisp salute.
A SALUTE.
What was he, reporting for duty? Kieran had immediately pretended he was scratching a rogue itch on his eyebrow, speeding up his pace down the sidewalk like he had an emergency Zoom call to attend, despite being willfully, blissfully unemployed.
Later that night, he replayed the moment while brushing his teeth and dry-heaved into the sink.
Four days after The Salute Incident, Kieran left the dogs resting in the AC and decided to walk down to the beach alone, jamming his headphones in and pretending he had incredibly important, deeply artistic things to ponder.
He sat on a weathered wooden bench overlooking the bluff, sipping an iced tea and staring out at the surf as if he actually understood the mechanics of it.
People drifted past his field of vision. Joggers. Serious surfers. Couples with matching minimalist tattoos. A guy wandering past barefoot, carrying a ukulele in one hand and a giant crystal on a string in the other.
Kieran closed his eyes, trying to breathe in the salt air and let it work whatever healing magic the tourism boards promised. But his brain refused to shut up.
What if I run into him again? What if I say something even dumber? What if this entire move was a massive, sun-soaked mistake and I end up broke, and talking to seaweed on the shore?
“Okay,” he muttered to himself, cutting the music on his phone. “Enough. You came here for peace. Inner calm. Ocean vibes. Not a man who looks like he can build a custom deck with his bare hands.”
Defeated, he opened a fresh page in his Notes app and furiously typed out a list:
Things I Should Focus On Instead of the Neighbor:
Find a remote writing gig.
Stop awkwardly saluting civilian strangers.
Try to make at least one human friend.
Eggs, bread, mayo, celery, red onion.
Resist searching GOOGLE for how to seduce your neighbor without seeming desperate.
He smacked the phone against his forehead.
“Absolutely pathetic.”
That evening, Kieran was out in his tiny backyard trying to rinse the salt and sand off the dogs’ paws, but the chore had quickly devolved into a high-stakes wrestling match with an uncooperative garden hose.
He’d finally managed to force the rubber into a chaotic coil when a deep voice called out over the property line.
“You’re making that look way harder than it needs to be.”
Kieran jumped, his foot slipping. The hose instantly kinked, snapping backward and smacking him squarely in the shin. “Jesus! You scared the hell out of me.”
“Sorry,” Rory said, his voice carrying an easy, amused rumble. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
Kieran turned sharply, wrestling the hose into something resembling dignity while pretending his face wasn’t on fire.
Rory was leaning over the wooden slats of the shared fence, his thick arms crossed over a faded gray tank top that looked like it had been through one too many wash cycles. His hair was damp, curling wildly at the ends as if he’d recently rinsed off after a long surf.
“Are you…offering hose-coiling lessons?” Kieran asked, struggling to keep his voice level.
“Simply offering an observation,” Rory replied. “But if you need lessons, I charge hourly.”
“I can pay in overcooked quinoa and emotional baggage.”
That got a chuckle. A genuine one. Rory’s smile was quick and crooked, and it slipped right under Kieran’s ribs.
“You get settled in okay?” Rory asked, his gaze drifting over the small yard.
“Mostly. Still hunting for a pet store that doesn’t require a highway map. Hank chewed through his leash somewhere around Bakersfield.”
“There’s a good independent shop off the 101,” Rory said. “Fair warning, though…the woman who runs it will try to sell you a hand-knit sweater for your dog.”
“Honestly, he’d look great in argyle.”
Rory’s eyes dropped briefly, tracking down Kieran’s legs. “And maybe a new pair of socks for the owner.”
Kieran looked down. He was wearing mismatched socks. One was plain gray; the other was covered in tiny, cartoon sushi rolls. “Noted,” he muttered, pulling his toes back.
Rory’s eyes lingered for a beat before he looked back up. “You ever surf?”
Kieran laughed, a short, breathless sound. “Do I look like I surf?”
“You look like you watch documentaries about surfing.”
“Wow. Is brutal your middle name? First the flip-flops, now the film history.”
“Just saying. You should try it sometime.”
Kieran opened his mouth to make another quick joke—something self-deprecating about how his center of gravity was tragic and he’d once gotten winded using a kayak in a swimming pool—but he stopped.
Rory wasn’t teasing him. He was direct, clear, and steady.
The way people who lived on the water seemed to be.
“I’m terrified of large bodies of water,” Kieran admitted quietly, the honesty surprising even himself.
Rory’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Really?”
“Yeah. I like looking at the ocean. From a safe, dry, coffee-drinking distance.”
“That’s fair.” Rory paused, his hand tracing a groove in the wooden fence post. “Offer stands, though. If you change your mind.”
“Maybe I’ll take a beginner lesson. Eventually.”
“Sure you will,” Rory said sarcastically, yet there was no malice in it, just the quiet, patient confidence of a guy who’d likely heard a hundred cautious transplants say the exact same thing.
Kieran smiled, nodding as the silence stretched out between them. The Southern California sky behind Rory was bleeding from a brilliant peach into a soft, deep twilight blue.
“You wanna come over for a drink?” Rory asked suddenly. “Pups can come too.”
“Uh…tonight?”
Rory shrugged, unbothered. “No pressure. Figured it’s better than talking over a fence.”
Better than talking over a fence, Kieran’s brain echoed. Better than talking to a Notes app. His body gave one unhelpful little jolt—fear, probably. Or excitement.
“Yeah,” Kieran said, clearing his throat. “Sure. I mean…yeah, that sounds good.”
Rory nodded once. “Cool. Come around to the front in like ten.”
The moment Rory’s head disappeared from view, Kieran turned and stared at Hank and Mabel. The two spaniels were lounging blissfully in the damp grass, indifferent to the fact that their human had agreed to his most terrifying social interaction in two years.
“I’m going to die,” Kieran whispered to them.
Hank gnawed on a back paw. Mabel let out an audible fart.
Kieran had exactly nine minutes and thirty seconds to pull himself together. In that frantic window of time, he managed to change his shirt, ultimately putting the first one back on because it looked the most “accidentally effortless.”
He briefly opened Google to type what do hot masculine men drink before slamming the tab shut in shame. He lit a candle to mask the distinct aroma of wet dog, and told himself to stop spiraling four separate times.
He finally leashed Mabel, hoping Hank would stay close without one.
The older dog did, trotting reliably beside them as they made the short walk around the shared gravel driveway, Kieran’s heart hammering against his ribs as if he was heading toward a high-stakes second date with someone who didn’t even know they were on a first one.
Rory’s side of the duplex had a wide, weathered front porch that looked like it had hosted decades of late-night bonfires. The front door was propped wide open, the soft, analog sound of old Fleetwood Mac drifting out into the evening air.
Kieran hovered at the screen door for a second before stepping into the small kitchen.
It was clean, sparse, and smelled incredibly good—citrus and some expensive cleaning spray with a label like Ocean & Sage.
Surfboards leaned in the corners, books were piled unevenly on a low shelf, and a canvas hammock chair swung gently near the front window.
Through the back glass, he spotted Rory out on a covered wooden patio, barefoot, sipping a bottle of beer while adjusting a small Bluetooth speaker.
“Thought you ghosted me,” Rory called out when he heard the screen door click.
“No, no. I was just…negotiating with Hank about wearing a collar.”