Page 11 of We Are Just Us

“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.