NINETEEN
Sunday arrived before Kieran was ready for it.
Four minutes in, reality hit, literally, as he face-planted into a wave that couldn’t have been more than two feet tall.
He surfaced, sputtering, hair plastered to his forehead, and heard Rory’s laughter carrying across the water.
“You good?” Rory called, grinning, clearly enjoying himself like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week.
“Perfect,” Kieran shouted back, spitting salt water. “Living the dream.”
He climbed back onto the board, a process that involved significantly more flailing than he would’ve liked, and paddled out again.
Rory, meanwhile, caught another wave with the kind of effortlessness that should’ve been illegal. He rode it all the way in, carving smooth lines across the face, then kicked out at the end like it was nothing.
Kieran watched, equal parts impressed and annoyed.
“Show-off,” he muttered.
The next twenty minutes were a study in failure.
Kieran popped up too early, too late, not at all.
He clung to the board with barnacle-level desperation while waves rolled past him entirely.
His knees buckled, and he launched himself sideways into the water with all the grace of a distressed manatee.
“You’re overthinking it!” Rory called, paddling up beside him.
“I’m under-skilled!” Kieran shot back.
Rory laughed. “You’re doing fine.”
“I’ve stood up zero times, Rory. Zero.”
“Then you’re due.”
Kieran groaned and flopped forward onto the board, letting his arms dangle in the water. “I think the ocean hates me.”
“The ocean’s neutral,” Rory said. “You’re just...learning her language.”
“Her language is violence.”
Rory splashed him. “Come on. One more try. I’ll talk you through it.”
Kieran lifted his head. “You promise not to laugh if I fail again?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Great. Super supportive.”
But he paddled out anyway, because apparently self-preservation wasn’t his strong suit.
Five minutes later, Kieran achieved a grand total of one successful pop-up.
He stood for maybe three seconds before the board wobbled, his arms windmilled, and gravity won decisively.
But still. Three seconds.
Rory cheered like he’d just won an Olympic medal.
Now, as the sun started its slow descent toward the horizon, they sat side by side on their boards, legs dangling in the water, letting the swells rock them gently.
Kieran’s arms ached. His shoulders burned. His ego was bruised but still intact.
“That wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be,” he admitted.
“See?” Rory said. “Told you.”
“You caught like fifteen waves. I caught a mouthful of seaweed.”
“Quality over quantity.”
Kieran snorted. “That’s generous.”
They floated in comfortable silence, the water turning gold around them as the light shifted.
“You know about the green flash?” Rory asked.
Kieran glanced over. “The what?”
“The green flash. Sometimes, right when the sun sets, there’s this flash of green light on the horizon. Only lasts a second. Most people miss it.”
“Is that real or are you messing with me?”
“It’s real,” Rory said, smiling. “Rare, though. You have to catch it at the right moment. And it doesn’t happen every day.”
Kieran looked out toward the horizon, where the sun was sinking lower, painting the sky in shades of yellow and purple.
“Have you ever seen it?” he asked.
“Twice,” Rory said. “Once when I was a kid. Once a few years ago.”
“What’s it mean?”
Rory shrugged. “Some people say it’s good luck. Some say it’s physics. I think it’s just...a reminder to pay attention.”
Kieran smiled, watching the sun slip lower. “That was unexpectedly deep.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
They watched together, the water settling into glassy stillness, the sky deepening.
The sun touched the horizon.
Kieran held his breath.
“OW!” He yelped, jerking his leg out of the water. “Ow ow ow, FUCK—”
“What?” Rory spun toward him, board rocking. “What happened?”
“Something stung me!” Kieran’s voice pitched higher than he wanted to admit. “Oh my god, it STINGS!”
“Where?”
“My foot! My foot, Rory, it’s JESUS—”
Rory grabbed Kieran’s board to steady it, eyes scanning the water. “Okay, okay. Jellyfish probably. Can you paddle?”
“I don’t know! It hurts!”
“Then I’m towing you. Hold on.”
Rory grabbed the nose of Kieran’s board and started paddling hard toward shore, Kieran clutching the rails and whimpering.
“This is how I die,” Kieran said. “Killed by an aquatic blob.”
“You’re not dying.”
“It BURNS, Rory.”
“I know, just hold on, we’re almost there.”
They hit the shallows and Rory jumped off his board, dragging both of them onto the sand. Kieran hobbled after him, hopping on one foot, the other held up like it might explode.
“Okay, let me see.” Rory crouched down.
Kieran thrust his foot toward him. There, angry and red, were the telltale welts.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Kieran asked. “Am I going to lose the foot?”
“You’re not losing the foot.”
“Are you sure? Because it feels like it’s MELTING OFF.”
Rory tilted his head, clearly unconvinced. “You’re going to be fine.”
“You need to pee on it,” Kieran said suddenly.
Rory’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Pee on it. I saw it on Friends. It cancels out the sting.”
“Kieran.”
“Rory, I am BEGGING you.”
“That’s a myth.” Rory stood. “I’m not peeing on your foot.”
“RORY.”
“No.”
“I’ll pee on it myself then…”
“That won’t help either.” Rory jogged back to his truck, returning seconds later with a water bottle. He cracked it open and poured it over Kieran’s foot, rinsing away the sand and salt.
“There,” Rory said. “Better?”
Kieran paused, assessing. “Maybe?”
“Good. Now stop being so damn dramatic.”
“I’m WOUNDED.”
Rory shook his head, smiling. Then, without warning, he bent down and scooped Kieran up with stupid ease, one arm under his knees, the other behind his back.
Kieran yelped. “What are you—”
“You’re limping. I’m carrying you.”
“I can walk!”
“Badly.”
“Rory, I’m not a toddler—”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Rory was already heading toward the truck.
Kieran wanted to protest. But Rory’s arms were solid, his foot did still hurt, and there was something deeply, stupidly comforting about being carried.
So he gave up and let his head rest against Rory’s shoulder.
“This is humiliating,” he muttered.
“This is efficient,” Rory corrected.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Completely.”
Rory deposited him gently into the passenger seat of the Tacoma, then tossed the boards in the back.
Kieran strapped himself in, foot throbbing, pride wounded, watching Rory move with swift competence.
When Rory climbed into the driver’s seat, he glanced over.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Kieran said. “Thanks. For...not peeing on me.”
Rory’s laugh came out full and bright. “Anytime.”
He started the engine and pulled out onto the coast road, the last light of the sunset bleeding into darkness behind them.
Kieran looked down at his foot, red, angry, already starting to swell a little.
“Did we see the green flash?” he asked.
Rory glanced at him, shaking his head. “No. Got distracted.”
“By my suffering.”
“By your theatrics.” Rory reached over and squeezed Kieran’s knee, brief but grounding. “But there’s always next time.”
“Next time I’m wearing jellyfish repellent.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“Then I’m inventing it.”
Kieran settled back into his seat, watching the darkening coastline blur past. He’d been watching for one kind of moment, the perfect sunset, the rare flash, and instead got carried to safety by someone who gave a shit.