39. THIRTY-NINE
THIRTY-NINE
The months after scattering his mom’s ashes were quieter than Kieran expected. As if some long-held grief had finally been put to rest, leaving room to breathe.
He and Rory found their rhythm. Not perfect. Not without stumbles. But steady. Healthy.
He was starting to belong here. Like he’d built something of his own—not just as Rory’s boyfriend, but as himself.
Rory kept busy too, deep in historical preservation work, fighting the good fight against developers who wanted to tear down anything with character.
And when they weren’t working, they were together. One night at Kieran’s place, one night at Rory’s. Toothbrushes migrated. Phone chargers multiplied. Half of Rory’s closet ended up in Kieran’s bedroom without either of them formally discussing it.
There were small arguments too. Stupid ones, mostly. Rory reorganized Kieran’s kitchen and Kieran couldn’t find the coffee filters for two days. The ongoing debate about whether Hank was allowed on the furniture.
And the towel thing.
Kieran had a tendency to shower and leave his wet towel on the bed. Not balled up in a heap, he wasn’t an animal, but draped across the comforter like it was drying on a clothesline.
The first time, Rory picked it up and hung it in the bathroom without saying anything.
The second time, he mentioned it casually. “Hey, can you not leave your towel on the bed?”
“Sorry,” Kieran had said. “Habit.”
The third time, Rory held the towel up like a piece of evidence. “Kieran. We live by the ocean.”
“I’m aware of where we live.”
“Everything grows mildew here. Everything. I’ve lost two pairs of shoes and a backpack to mildew since I moved into this house. I am not losing my comforter because you can’t walk ten extra feet to the bathroom.”
“It was still mostly dry…”
“It was damp. Damp is wet’s sneaky little cousin and I don’t want either of them on my bed.”
Kieran had apologized. Sincerely. And then done it again four days later.
They’d showered together, which had started as efficiency and turned into anything but, and Rory had gotten out first. By the time Kieran wandered into the bedroom, still dripping, towel tossed casually onto the comforter, Rory was already dressed and staring at it.
“In my defense,” Kieran started.
“You don’t have a defense.”
“I was going to move it.”
“When? You’re not even dressed yet.”
Rory picked up the towel. Kieran expected the lecture again, the mold speech, the ocean humidity speech, possibly a PowerPoint presentation about thread count and moisture retention.
Instead, Rory snapped the towel tight between his hands, wound up, and whipped it across Kieran’s bare ass.
The crack echoed off the bedroom walls.
“Jesus Christ!” Kieran yelped, both hands grabbing his left cheek. “What the fuck!”
“That’s your reminder,” Rory said calmly, towel slung over his shoulder. “Hang it up or it happens again.”
Kieran stared at him, naked, still wet, hands on his ass. “Did you just threaten me?”
“I tried asking nicely. Four times.”
“I’m naked!”
“Should burn more. Lesson learned.” Rory walked past him toward the kitchen. “You want coffee?”
Kieran rubbed the sting out, torn between outrage and the fact that he was fighting a smile.
He hung the towel up.
He never left it on the bed again.
One Friday night, Kieran was in the kitchen attempting stir-fry and failing spectacularly when Rory wandered over from the couch.
“I think you’re supposed to cook the vegetables before they turn to charcoal,” Rory said.
“I’m aware.” Kieran prodded at the smoking pan. “This is an evolving disaster.”
Rory nudged him aside gently and took over, adjusting the heat, adding soy sauce and garlic without measuring.
“Britt was the real cook,” Rory said, not looking up. “I picked up what I could from her.”
“Lucky for me,” Kieran said.
They ate on the couch, plates balanced on their laps, some action movie playing on mute.
Later, in bed, Kieran lay with his head on Rory’s chest, listening to the slow drum of his heartbeat.
“I’m happy,” Rory said into the darkness.
Kieran lifted his head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I didn’t think I would be again. Not like this.”
Kieran put his head back down. “You’re the first thing I ever wanted that didn’t make me want to run.”
Rory went still. Under Kieran’s ear, his heart picked up—that was the thing about lying on his chest. He couldn’t perform calm.
“Kieran…”
Kieran kissed his collarbone. “That’s all. I just needed you to know.”
They fell asleep together, Hank sprawled across the foot of the bed.
Most evenings before sunset, Rory would surf.
He’d come home from work, rinse off the dust, grab his board, and head to Swami’s or Pipes depending on the swell. The Labor Day competition was coming up, and he’d been training harder—longer sessions, sharper focus. Kieran could see the difference in him.
Kieran would park himself on the bluff at Swami’s, trying to spot Rory among the surfers who looked like ants bobbing in the water. Sometimes he could pick him out. Other times he watched the ocean and pretended.
He’d write random things. Bullet points. Observations. Sunset at 6:47. Guy with the yellow board ate shit. Rory’s been out there for forty minutes.
One evening, a man with gray hair pulled into a messy bun sat down next to him on the bench.
“My wife’s the one on the longboard,” he said, pointing vaguely at the water. “I still can’t tell which one she is half the time.”
Kieran smiled. “How long have you been coming out here to watch?”
“Oh, forever. Since before we were married, so over thirty years. I bring a book but I never open it.” He held up a paperback. “Honestly I like sitting here.”
“What do you do instead?”
“Sit. Think. Eavesdrop on people’s phone conversations,” he said, grinning. “You’d be amazed what people say when they think the ocean’s drowning them out.”
Kieran laughed.
“You waiting on someone too?” he asked, nodding toward Kieran’s notebook. “Or are you just here for the sunset?”
“My boyfriend’s out there somewhere,” Kieran said. The words came out easily. No hesitation, no calculation, no checking the man’s face for a reaction. A fact. “He’s training for the Labor Day competition.”
“Nice. Is he any good?”
“Yeah,” Kieran said. “He’s amazing.”
“Then you'll be out here a lot. Fair warning, surf-watching's basically a part-time job once they start competing.” He held up his paperback. “I've owned this book for four years. I'm on page nine.” The man laughed. “I’m Gene, by the way.”
“Kieran.”
“Well, Kieran, the trick is to bring a blanket and a thermos. And don’t wear white, the gulls will find you.”
They sat together for a while, Gene pointing out the different breaks, telling him which surfers were regulars and which were tourists about to get humbled. He knew the water the way Vera knew the town, from decades of watching, a quiet authority earned by showing up.
When Rory finally came up from the beach, wetsuit peeled down to his waist, board under his arm, hair dripping salt water, Kieran closed the notebook.
“How was it?”
“Good. Clean.” Rory sat down next to him, still catching his breath. “Crowded though.”
“Pizza for dinner?”
Rory nodded. “No pineapple.”
They waited a few more minutes, watching the sky turn orange and pink. Then they packed up and headed home.
The email came on a Tuesday.
Kieran almost missed it in his spam folder, probably because of the corporate signature. But the subject line caught his eye.
NBC 7 San Diego—Interview Request
He clicked it open.
Mr. Doyle,
My name is Lauren Chen and I’m a reporter with NBC 7 San Diego. We’re working on a story about a resolution currently being considered by the San Diego City Council that would ban nudity at Black’s Beach.
During our research, we came across your Substack newsletter—specifically your piece about your first visit to Black’s Beach. We found it was a thoughtful, funny, and honest representation of what the beach means to the community.
Would you be willing to provide a quote for our story? We’d also like to link to your article as an example of the positive perspective on the beach’s culture.
Please let me know if you’re interested. We’re on a tight deadline—the Council vote is in two weeks.
Best, Lauren Chen
NBC 7 San Diego
Kieran read it twice. Then a third time.
NBC 7. Actual television news. Wanting to quote him. Link to his article.
His first instinct was to say no. To stay small. To not put himself out there where people could see him.
But then he thought about that first day at Black’s Beach. The panic. The awkwardness. The unexpected freedom of it all. And how writing about it had been the first thing in months that was fully his.
He thought about Rory beside him that day. How he’d laughed and stripped down and waded into the water like it was nothing. How watching him exist so comfortably in his own skin had made Kieran want to be braver.
He thought about his mom. About letting go. About being allowed to live.
He typed a reply.
Hi Lauren,
Thanks for reaching out. I’d be happy to provide a quote and have you link the article.
Let me know what you need.
Kind Regards, Kieran Doyle
He hit send before he could overthink it. Then he stared at the screen, heart beating a little too fast.
When Rory got home that night, Kieran told him.
Rory’s face broke into a slow grin. “Look at you. Famous.”
“I’m not famous. They’re just linking an article.”
“About your naked beach experience.”
“It’s more nuanced than that.”
“Sure it is.” Rory pulled him in and kissed him. “I’m proud of you.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Yes. It is.”
Kieran let himself be held. They embraced for a while, not saying anything.