THREE
Kieran spent most of the afternoon pretending to organize the garage of his rental. It wasn’t really a garage, more like a concrete box with bad lighting and a surfboard rack left behind by the last tenant.
He didn’t surf, but the rack sat there like a dare, as if the town itself were side-eyeing him, waiting for him to either assimilate or leave. Maybe he should take a lesson.
He hadn’t unpacked everything. The storage pod had arrived yesterday and it was barely half full. A few boxes of cookware, some art he didn’t have the heart to hang, and his mom’s worn leather armchair that still smelled like her perfume and peppermint. That was most of it.
He set the chair in the corner of the living room like a shrine. Every time he looked at it, he’d get a sharp stab of guilt for leaving her memory behind in their old city, and a strange relief that she wasn’t alive to watch him stumble through the awkward first steps of being out.
He didn’t want his coming out to become her project.
Encinitas wasn’t where he grew up, wasn’t where his mom had died, wasn’t where he’d had his first kiss or his first crush or his thousandth panic attack in the cereal aisle.
That was all behind him, somewhere north, somewhere with fog and cold and people who’d seen him flinch when someone said “gay” like it was an accusation.
Encinitas was supposed to be a blank page. Somewhere warm. Somewhere he could sweat out the past.
Instead, Encinitas came with Rory.
Rory, who lived in the same weathered duplex, with succulents in cracked ceramic pots, and a green Toyota Tacoma that had more dents than paint. Kieran had seen him twice that day, once at the beach, and again as Rory pulled into his driveway while Kieran was dragging trash cans to the curb.
They nodded at each other like guys do when neither wants to admit they’ve already made the other the main character in their 2 a.m. overthinking.
Oh, wait. That’s only my problem.
Kieran kept his eyes low, but he felt Rory watching him for a second too long.
That night, Kieran sat on the back step, hoodie pulled over his head, steeping ginger tea in a mug, as if ginger had ever fixed anyone’s shit.
They really weren’t wrong about the weather. It was almost midnight and seventy degrees.
His phone buzzed. A text from Emory.
EMORY: u kissed a boy yet?
KIERAN: not today
EMORY: loser
KIERAN: ur the one texting a loser at almost midnight
EMORY: just making sure ur still gay and alive. in that order.
Kieran smiled at the screen. He loved Emory for being casual about it. She was the first person he told, and the only one who hadn’t blinked.
She'd shrugged and said, “Duh. Your underwear drawer is arranged by color.”
But being out in theory and in practice were wildly different things. Here, in this town where no one knew him, he could be anyone. That also meant building himself from scratch.
KIERAN: both. barely.
EMORY: did you unpack yet
KIERAN: some
EMORY: some like most of it? or some like you opened one box and got overwhelmed
KIERAN: I unpacked the kitchen stuff and the dog stuff
EMORY: so the dogs are settled
KIERAN: the dogs are VERY settled
EMORY: and you?
KIERAN: I’m getting there
EMORY: are you though
KIERAN: what’s that supposed to mean
EMORY: nothing. I just know you. you’ll get the dogs sorted and find your little coffee spot and do everything except land somewhere
KIERAN: I’m here aren’t I
EMORY: that’s not what I mean and you know it
He stared at the screen for a minute.
KIERAN: I’m trying Em…
EMORY: I know you are. that’s why I’m not worried.
EMORY: eat something real tomorrow ok?
KIERAN: goodnight
EMORY: night babe
He locked the phone. Set it face-down on the step beside him.
The tea had gone cold. The yard was dark and still. Somewhere down the hill, he could hear the ocean—steady, rhythmic, indifferent to whatever crisis he was having.
You’ll get the dogs sorted and find your little coffee spot and do everything except land somewhere.
He sat with that for a while. Longer than he wanted to.
The next day, he decided to go back to FOAM. He loved that it was small, tucked behind a pottery studio, and always smelled like turmeric and something vaguely coconutty. They made good iced lattes and didn’t stare when he sat alone with a book and no plan.
But Rory was there. Because of course he was.
He sat outside at a corner table, earbuds in, sunglasses on, laptop open in a convincing imitation of work. For once, he was wearing more than board shorts—chinos, a button-up with the sleeves rolled and pushed up.
He typed away, though Kieran would’ve bet money the waves flickering on his screen had nothing to do with work.
Kieran tried to slip past unnoticed, but Mabel, ever the traitor, made a beeline straight for Rory, tail wagging like a banner of betrayal.
Rory looked up, lowered his sunglasses, and gave a half-smile that was more confusing than friendly. “Hey.”
Kieran stopped short, the leash pulling taut in his hand. “Hi,” he said, breath catching in that dumb way it did whenever Rory looked directly at him.
Rory closed the laptop. “Your dog’s got a thing for me.”
“I get it,” Kieran deadpanned. “You’re tall and mysterious and probably smell like cedar and power tools.”
Rory raised an eyebrow. “That’s oddly specific.”
Kieran mentally slapped himself. “Just saying what…Mabel might say. If she spoke English.”
“Right.” Rory smirked, then scratched behind her ears with unexpected gentleness. “You here to write your memoir?”
“What?”
“You keep staring into the distance like you’ve got secrets. Emotional baggage.” He air-quoted.
“I mean…you’re not wrong.”
Rory shrugged, thrown for a half second by the honesty, and leaned back in his chair. “Well, this is a good town for starting over. People move here to lose something. Or find it.”
Kieran stared at him, heart thudding.
Rory caught the look and dropped his eyes to his drink. Then he said, “You want to sit? I’m having a working lunch instead of staring at four walls.”
Kieran hesitated. “Are you gonna roast my sandals again?”
“No promises.”
Kieran sat anyway.
They sat in silence for the first minute. Kieran stirred his coffee like it held answers. Rory scrolled through his phone, sunglasses back on, unreadable again.
The patio buzzed with afternoon life—dogs panting, ceramic mugs clinking, a woman laughing too loudly at her toddler. Kieran tried not to stare at Rory but failed in five-second intervals.
Kieran took too big a sip and nearly gave himself a brain freeze.
“So,” Rory said finally, not looking up. “How long are you in town for?”
“Here for now.”
“Oh.”
Kieran waited for a follow-up. Anything.
Instead, Rory drank from his thermos and went back to typing.
“You’re really good at this,” Kieran said.
Rory’s fingers paused on the keyboard. “At what?”
“Conversation.”
“I’m working.”
“Right. And I’m drinking.” Kieran held up his cup. “Multitasking.”
Rory’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “I don’t do small talk.”
“What about medium talk?”
“What’s medium talk?”
“I don’t know. I made it up.” Kieran took another sip. “Seems like it’d be easier than big talk, though.”
Rory looked at him then. Just for a second. “You’re weird.”
“I prefer charming,” Kieran responded, slightly offended.
“I’m sure you do. Sacramento energy for sure.”
Kieran grinned. He couldn’t help it. This was dangerously close to banter. Maybe even progress.
Rory went back to his screen, but his posture had shifted. Less rigid. Maybe Kieran’s presence wasn’t painful anymore.
Kieran picked at a hangnail, watching Rory’s face tighten as he scrolled. “Bad day at work?”
“Every day’s a bad day at work lately.”
“What do you do?”
“Historic preservation,” Rory said, the words bitter in his mouth. “Or I try to. Mostly, I write reports, attend neighborhood meetings, and sit through hours-long city council meetings. All so developers can ignore me.”
“Developers are ignoring you right now?”
“One in particular.” Rory’s jaw worked. “Wants to knock down the Maxton Building downtown. You know it?”
Kieran shook his head.
“Makes sense. 1920s Spanish Colonial Revival. One of the last original structures from downtown Carlsbad’s early tourism boom.
Beautiful tile work, hand-carved beams, the whole thing.
” Rory’s hands moved as he talked, like he could see it.
“And this guy wants to replace it with luxury condos that’ll start at two million and sit empty half the year while actual residents get priced out. ”
“Can they do that?”
“If I can’t prove it meets the criteria for landmark status, yeah.” Rory turned back to his laptop. “So I’m writing a polite report that basically says fuck you in bureaucratic language.”
Kieran tried not to smile. “How’s that going?”
“Slowly. Turns out ‘this building matters’ isn’t enough. I need architectural significance, historical context, community impact...” He rubbed his face. “And the developer’s lawyer is already poking holes in everything.”
“Sounds like you care about it,” Kieran said.
Rory glanced at him, his face closing off.
“It’s my job.”
“You can still care about something…even if it’s a job.”
Rory set down his coffee, his mouth twisting.
“Sure. I care. And then I lose anyway. They don’t want history—they want square footage.
Out with the old, in with the penthouses.
” He ran a hand through his hair. “Sometimes I think the only reason they hire me is so they can say they tried to preserve something before they knock it down.”
Kieran let it sit. They were quiet for another moment, stillness settling between them, Rory typing again, Kieran swirling the straw in his coffee.
Rory looked at his watch and stood.
“I should go,” he said, smoothing the wrinkles out of his slacks. “I’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes.”
Kieran stood too, awkwardly holding his coffee in front of himself like a middle school textbook. “Right, yeah. Me too. Stuff. Got stuff to do.”
Rory smirked faintly. “You’re not good at pretending to be casual.”
“Not even a little bit.”
Rory paused, then said, “That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving Kieran with too many feelings and a half-melted iced latte.
Later that afternoon, Kieran tried to focus on applying for some freelance gigs, but his mind kept drifting back to Rory.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing.
“Kieran Doyle, you are a delusional loser. Fuck!” He rolled his eyes as he reprimanded himself.
That night, he lay in bed listening to the ocean through the cracked window, Mabel curled against his legs, Hank snoring softly from the floor.
He opened his phone. Scrolled Instagram. Looked up Rory Kline. Encinitas. Historic Preservation.
Nothing.
Rory Kline. Surfer, Southern California.
No account. No tags. No selfies. As if he didn’t exist on social media.
Kieran tossed the phone onto the nightstand and covered his face with both hands.
The dogs sighed in unison like they were judging him.
And maybe they were.