SEVENTEEN
Two days later, Kieran was at FOAM, trying and failing to finish a draft about the Del Mar Dog Beach.
The piece was supposed to be a straightforward thing about off-leash culture, the unspoken rules of dog beach etiquette, the way people formed these fragile little communities around their animals.
He had good material.
He’d been there yesterday with Hank and Mabel, watched a woman in head-to-toe Lululemon bury her golden retriever’s shit in the sand with her foot, like she was committing a crime in slow motion.
He’d watched a guy who let his off-leash husky terrorize a group of toddlers while he stood ankle-deep in the surf doing breathwork.
The older couple who brought matching lawn chairs and a full charcuterie board and watched the chaos like it was dinner theater.
Good material. But every time he started writing, his brain drifted. Not to anything specific, just a kind of ambient hum that made it hard to pin down a sentence.
His phone had been quiet. Two days now.
Which was fine.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
Kieran looked up. Devon was leaning against the counter, retying her apron, studying him with the unearned confidence of someone who’d memorized his coffee order on day three and been psychoanalyzing him ever since.
“What thing?”
“The thing where you stare at your laptop like it personally wronged you.”
She set a fresh oat milk latte in front of him. He hadn’t ordered it. “On the house. You look like you need it.”
“I didn’t—”
“You’re welcome.”
Kieran took a sip. Perfect, obviously. Devon had figured out his exact ratio of oat milk to espresso sometime during his first week in Encinitas and never once asked him to confirm it.
“You’re in a good mood,” he said.
“I’m in a regular mood. You’re the one who’s different.” She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “You look…relaxed. Which is new, because you never look relaxed. You usually look like someone who’s mentally rehearsing an apology for something that hasn’t happened yet.”
“That’s not—”
“It’s exactly what you look like.”
Kieran pressed his lips together. She wasn’t wrong.
“So?” Devon prompted. “What’s different?”
“Nothing’s different. I’m just…having a good week.”
Devon didn’t move. She had a gift for weaponized silence, standing there until the other person cracked. Kieran had seen her do it to a customer who tried to use an expired coupon. The man had eventually apologized for the coupon’s behavior.
Kieran held firm. Sipped his latte. Stared at his screen.
“Fine,” Devon said. “Keep your secrets.” She wiped down the counter next to him, not quite leaving. “You finish The Song of Achilles yet? Next book club is coming up fast.”
Kieran had finished it.
He’d read it twice before, once in his early twenties when he was still pretending he was reading it for the prose, and once last year when he finally admitted to himself why a love story between two men had wrecked him.
This reread was his third time through, and it hit differently than the others.
Closer to the bone.
“Finished it last night,” he said.
“And?”
Kieran considered his answer. He could say something smart. Something about grief, or mythology, or the way Miller wrote love from the inside out.
“It’s extremely hot.”
Devon’s eyebrows shot up. She glanced around the shop—two customers in the corner, neither paying attention—then leaned in, voice low and delighted.
“That’s your takeaway?”
“I mean…the writing. The way she writes about them together. It’s—” He was making it worse. He was making it worse. Actively. In real time. “It’s a…well-crafted book.”
“That happens to be hot.”
“That happens to have moments of intense emotional intimacy?”
Devon was biting her lip now, clearly trying not to laugh.
“Kieran. Are you blushing?”
“No.”
“You are absolutely blushing.”
“It’s hot in here. You should check your thermostat.”
“Patti’s going to lose her mind,” Devon said, shaking her head. “She’s been crying about the fig tree scene for a week. I can’t wait to tell her your primary literary analysis is that it’s…” She dropped her voice to a stage whisper. “Extremely hot.”
“Please don’t.”
“Oh, I absolutely will.” She straightened up, tossing the dish towel over her shoulder. “Wednesday. Six. Don’t be late. And for the record, you’re right. It is hot. But I’m not the one who admitted it in a coffee shop.”
She walked back behind the counter, and Kieran could hear her still laughing as she pulled shots for the next customer.
He sat there, face burning, coffee getting cold, the cursor still blinking on his draft.
He spent the next hour writing. The Del Mar piece came together once he stopped fighting it, less about the beach itself and more about the way people behaved when they thought no one was paying attention.
He liked the piece.
It was sharp but not mean. Observational without being superior. He scheduled it for Friday morning and closed his laptop.
His phone buzzed.
He picked it up, expecting Emory…she’d been texting every few hours still demanding details he was strategically withholding.
RORY NEIGHBOR: Hey. Sorry I’ve been quiet. Work’s been busy. How are you?
Kieran stared at the screen. Two days of silence, and the relief was embarrassing. Just a small, warm thing in his chest that said oh, there you are.
He typed back.
KIERAN: Good. Productive. Wrote a thousand words about questionable dog beach etiquette.
RORY NEIGHBOR: Sounds like a bestseller
KIERAN: It’s my magnum opus
RORY NEIGHBOR: Listen I owe you dinner. Are you free tonight?
Kieran looked at the message. Looked at the time. Looked at his reflection in the dark laptop screen, where a man with a terrible poker face was failing to play it cool.
KIERAN: I could eat
RORY NEIGHBOR: My place. Seven. I’ll cook.
KIERAN: You cook?
RORY NEIGHBOR: Mediocre. But with enthusiasm.
Kieran smiled at his phone. Then he caught Devon watching him from behind the espresso machine, one eyebrow raised.
He closed his phone and picked up his latte.
“Not a word,” he said.
Devon held up both hands. But she was smiling.