THIRTEEN
When Tuesday rolled around, Kieran had decided he was going.
He spent the afternoon walking downtown, browsing shops he didn’t need anything from, doing anything that wasn’t sitting in his house rehearsing conversation starters. Rory texted once, casually, around noon.
No punctuation. No emojis. No pressure.
At home, Kieran showered, then stood in front of the bathroom mirror and applied Rogaine to his hairline. Not because he was balding—he wasn’t, not really—but because his dermatologist said it was “preventative.”
The joys of being in your mid-thirties.
He pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, then changed shirts once, remembering Emory’s explicit instructions to wear something that made him look confident. He settled on a dark gray crewneck that hugged his shoulders—casual, but intentional.
Shoes. Keys. Phone.
He walked.
The eight blocks down Highway 101 to the Lumberyard stretched longer than they should have. The early evening air was warm, the sidewalks busy with people heading out for dinner, the coastal sun dipping low enough to cast long, gold shadows across the asphalt.
The sharp, savory smell of citrus-marinated meats and woodsmoke drifted toward him before the restaurant came into view.
Cocina de Barrio was packed.
The patio thrummed with voices, heavy glasses clinking, a vibrant, bass-heavy track pulsing from the outdoor speakers loud enough to drown out the frantic rhythm of Kieran’s brain. People stood shoulder to shoulder near the host stand, laughter spilling out onto the sidewalk.
Kieran slowed his pace, scanning the sea of faces under the string lights. He didn’t see Rory.
But Rory saw him.
Across the crowded patio, Rory lifted a hand, a smile breaking wide and unmistakable across his face, the kind that made it look as if he’d been tracking the entrance the whole time.
Relief hit so fast, Kieran almost laughed. Rory stood and threaded through the dense crowd toward him, navigating the tight spaces with a fluid confidence, looking infuriatingly good in a faded black tee that suggested he hadn’t agonized over his appearance for a single second.
“Hey,” Rory said, stepping close enough for his voice to clear the ambient roar of the patio.
“Hey,” Kieran replied.
“You made it,” Rory said, his eyes dipping briefly over Kieran’s outfit before meeting his gaze. He said it like it mattered.
“Yeah,” Kieran said, shifting his hands into his pockets. “I figured I’d check it out.”
Rory’s smile widened. “Good call. Come on, I grabbed a table early.”
They wove through the packed tables, Rory leading the way, and a sudden flicker of performance anxiety hit as their destination came into view.
Six people. Heavy glass margaritas were already sweating onto the wood, and a couple of baskets of chips were already half demolished. It was a relaxed, loud mix of men and women, clearly comfortable with one another.
“Hey everyone,” Rory said, resting a hand briefly against the small of Kieran’s back to guide him into the gap. “This is my neighbor, Kieran.”
The table looked up in unison, a welcoming chorus of hellos breaking out over the music.
Meg looked up from her drink and smiled, her expression warm and entirely open. She gave Kieran a quick, appreciative once-over, then nodded approvingly. “Nice,” she said, gesturing toward his shirt. “I like the fit.”
Heat rushed up Kieran’s neck that had nothing to do with the evening air. “Oh. Thanks.”
“Good to see you again,” Meg added, shifting her chair an inch to give him more room. “Sit. Grab the spot next to Rory.”
Kieran eased into the empty chair beside him, shaking hands with the people closest to him. Names flew past him faster than his anxious brain could catalog them—coworkers, weekend surf buddies, people who had years of history with the man sitting next to him.
Beneath the table, Kieran’s phone buzzed in his palm. He fished it out, tilting the screen from Rory’s line of sight with the stealth of a teenager hiding a text.
EMORY: Update on the neighbor situation?
KIERAN: Fine. Good. I haven’t done anything stupid yet.
Three dots appeared instantly.
EMORY: Yet. Night’s young. Did you show off the arms?
Kieran locked the screen and shoved the phone back into his pocket, his ears burning.
“You want something to drink?” Rory asked, leaning in slightly so Kieran could hear him.
“Yeah, a drink sounds perfect.”
Rory signaled a passing server.
“What can I get you?” she asked, tossing her carrying tray under her arm.
“House margarita please, light salt,” Kieran said.
“Can I see your ID?”
“Oh—yeah. Sure.” He fumbled his wallet out of his back pocket and handed over his license, acutely aware of six strangers watching him produce his ID like a teenager at a college bar.
The server handed it back without ceremony and moved on.
Rory was watching him with quiet amusement. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.”
Rory’s mouth curved. “Huh.”
“Don’t,” Kieran said.
Rory held up both hands, the picture of innocence, and said nothing. Which was somehow worse.
Kieran noticed the heavy, condensation-ringed glass already sitting in front of Rory—clear sparkling water with a lonely lime wedge, entirely untouched.
“You’re not having one?” Kieran asked, gesturing to the drink menu.
Rory shook his head, his tone entirely matter-of-fact. “I don’t drink. Quit three years ago. Wasn’t good for me.”
“Oh,” Kieran said, momentarily caught off guard by the blunt honesty. “Got it.”
Rory turned to answer a question from someone across the table, the moment passing seamlessly, as if Rory had just shared a preference for corn tortillas over flour. Kieran watched him for a beat, a small piece of the puzzle clicking into place in his mind.
He barely took his first sip of the salted rim before the table collectively turned their attention on Rory.
“Oh good,” one of the guys, a tall guy named Ben, said, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “You brought an adult. Finally.”
Rory sighed, reaching for a chip. “I am an adult.”
“You once tried to microwave a taco with the foil still on it,” the woman across the table chimed in. “We were genuinely concerned for your safety.”
“That was one time,” Rory defended, though a chuckle slipped out. “And the microwave survived.”
Kieran laughed, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to ease. “I’m learning a lot of critical information tonight.”
“Oh, we’re just getting started,” Ben said.
Meg leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Rory’s the guy who’ll give you the last taco and insist he’s not hungry, then complain about being starving for the next hour.”
“That’s called generosity, Meg.”
“It’s called martyrdom,” she corrected, her smile fond. “You do it every time.”
“Seriously though,” Ben said, turning his attention directly to Kieran. “If you ever need anything out here—a ride to the airport, a metric wrench, someone to watch your house—this guy’s your man.”
Rory waved a hand dismissively, though his cheeks darkened slightly. “I did not consent to a live character reference.”
“You’re the only person I know who’ll leave a party early because someone on a local forum might need help moving a couch,” another friend added.
“The guy had a bad back,” Rory said defensively.
“You didn’t even know him!”
Someone landed another joke at Rory’s expense about a surfboard and a parking meter, and the table roared. Rory laughed along with them, shaking his head, and beneath the wood of the table, his hand found Kieran’s knee.
A squeeze. Warm and absent, there and gone.
Kieran’s breath hitched in his throat. He looked over. But Rory was still turned toward Ben, mid-laugh—like he had no idea what he'd just done.
What was that? What the fuck was that?
Did friends do that out here? Was it a surfer thing? A Southern California thing? A Rory thing?
Kieran picked up his margarita with a hand that shook just enough to make the ice clink against the glass.
He took a long swallow, the sour lime and sharp tequila burning his throat, but it did nothing to cool the sudden flush creeping up his collar.
He tried to look normal, but he had no idea what his face was doing.
Something rigid and terrified, probably.
Across the table, Meg was laughing, tossing a crumpled napkin at Ben.
The patio speakers were pumping a low, bass-heavy track that seemed to vibrate right through the soles of Kieran’s shoes.
The entire environment suddenly went too loud, too bright, the air thick with the scent of charred corn, onions, and heavy cilantro.
His entire nervous system had relocated to his leg.
He glanced down at his lap, the screen of his phone lighting up with another pending notification from Emory.
EMORY: Well? Any bathroom updates?
A sudden wave of claustrophobia hit him. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t sit six inches from Rory pretending he wasn’t losing his goddamn mind while a half-dozen strangers witnessed it.
“I’m gonna head out,” he said, the words cutting abruptly through a brief lull in the table’s laughter. He set his glass down a little too hard, the leftover salted rim spraying slightly across the dark wood.
There was a collective groan from the group.
“Already?”
“We just ordered churros!”
Rory turned to him, his brow furrowing with sudden curiosity. Or understanding. “You okay?” he asked, his voice dropping to a quieter, private register.
“Yeah,” Kieran said, forcing a curt smile. “It was a long day of writing. I should get back to the dogs.”
It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the truth either.
He stood, slinging his jacket over his shoulder, acutely aware of Rory’s eyes tracking his every movement.
“Good meeting you, Kieran!”
“Come back anytime, man!”
Meg smiled gently up at him. “See you around, neighbor.”
He threw forty dollars on the table—way more than his share of a single drink, but math required a level of brainpower he currently couldn’t access. He managed a vague wave and made for the patio exit before his face could betray him completely.
Outside, the night air was cooler, quieter, cutting through the tequila buzz. He was already a few steps down the sidewalk when he heard voices calling out from the patio behind him.
“Yeah, I know.” Rory’s voice carried over the ambient noise. “Dawn patrol tomorrow. I’m beat.”
A chorus of good-natured disbelief followed him. “You say that every time!”
“Bring him some churros!”
The voices faded. Kieran kept walking, his pulse hammering in his ears, completely unsure of whether he wanted Rory to follow him or leave him alone.
“Hey, wait up.”
Rory caught up to him in a few quick strides, his longer legs easily bridging the distance. “Can I walk with you?”
Kieran glanced back, his pace slowing. “You’re leaving? Because of me?”
“I’ve been around those nerds all day,” Rory said, falling into step beside him. “I was already looking for an excuse to bounce.”
Kieran nodded, staring straight ahead at the sidewalk.
“Thanks for coming,” Rory said quietly. “They’re a lot to handle all at once.”
“They’re great,” Kieran said honestly. “They’re clearly huge fans of yours.”
Rory snorted, shoving his hands into his pockets. “That’s highly debatable.”
Kieran smiled, the fresh air finally clearing the fog in his head. “It’s really not.”
They walked in a heavy quiet for a block or two, the noise of the highway fading into the background. Houses slid past, their porch lights casting long yellow blocks across the pavement. The smell of salt water and damp night air began to replace the scent of the restaurant.
Finally, Kieran’s brain completely lost its filter.
“You know I’m gay, right?”
Rory didn’t miss a beat. He didn’t stumble. He just glanced over, his expression calm. “Okay.”
Kieran stopped walking, waiting for the rest of the sentence. Nothing came. “That’s it? Just okay?”
Rory stopped too, turning to face him. He was smiling now, a small, genuine thing. “Okay,” he said again, his voice soft. “Thanks for telling me.”
Kieran exhaled a breath he’d apparently been holding since five o’clock. “I just...I didn’t want to assume anything. Or make it weird.”
“It’s not weird.”
“Okay.” Kieran nodded, restarting his stride. “Good.”
They kept walking, their footsteps falling back into a synchronized rhythm without either of them trying. Every now and then, Rory would glance over—a quick, silent check-in. Kieran pretended to look at the dark houses, but he noticed. Every single time.
“Glad you came tonight,” Rory said as they approached their street. “Even if you almost bolted.”
Kieran huffed. “I didn’t almost bolt.”
“Kieran, you threw forty bucks on the table like the building was actively on fire.”
“That was strategic generosity.”
Rory smiled, a low sound escaping him. “Sure it was.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the crumpled cash, and pressed it firmly into Kieran’s hand. “I covered you.”
Kieran stared down at the cash. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
They turned into their shared driveway, their paces slowing down without either of them making a conscious decision to do so.
Rory stopped near his walkway. “Well. See you around.”
“Yeah,” Kieran said, his heart doing that familiar hiccup. “Night, Rory.”
Rory smiled, quick and entirely unarmored, and headed toward his front door. Kieran watched him go, waiting until the porch light clicked off a few seconds later.
He stopped in the dark driveway for a long moment, listening to the ocean in the distance. Then he turned, unlocked his own door, and stepped into the quiet house.