Page 125 of We Are Just Us

The box didn’t answer, of course. But the fog outside was starting to lift.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Rory took them to Cardiff State Beach, which was smaller and usually less crowded than Moonlight Beach. They drove mostly in silence, except for Kieran humming along to the radio, holding tight to the decorative box in his lap.

They pulled into the parking lot, and Rory tossed his California State Parks pass onto the dash to avoid a ticket. He killed the engine, leaving his hands resting on the steering wheel as a heavy silence filled the cab.

Through the windshield, the ocean rolled dark and endless. The sun had already set, leaving behind streaks of purple and gold bleeding into gray.

“There’s something in the back,” Rory said.

Kieran turned and saw the wreath. White gardenias woven in a perfect circle, glowing even in the dim light.

“Rory.”

“I know you didn’t ask for it,” Rory said, still not looking at him. “But I thought…she deserved something. Something beautiful.”

Kieran’s hand tightened on the box. “Gardenias were her favorite.”

“I know. You told me.”

Kieran’s breath caught. He’d never even said his mom’s name to Rory. Not once. My mom or she, careful sidesteps around the syllables that hurt too much. And still, Rory had remembered. Had gone to a florist and ordered flowers for a woman he’d never meet.

“Thank you,” Kieran managed.

It wasn’t enough. Would never be enough. But it was all he could get out without his voice breaking.

Rory squeezed his shoulder once. “Come on.”

They got out. The evening air was cooler than Kieran expected, that specific coastal bite that meant the marine layer would roll in soon. He should’ve brought a sweatshirt. But he hadn’t been thinking clearly when he got dressed, just grabbed the first thing he found and tried not to think too hard about what he was about to do.

Rory retrieved the wreath from the back seat and carried it with quiet, careful reverence.

Kieran followed with the box, flip-flops crunching on gravel, then sinking into sand.

The beach opened up before them, vast and gray in the dying light. The waves were louder here, more insistent.

Kieran stopped above the tide line. Rory stood a few feet behind him, close enough that Kieran knew he was there, but far enough that he had space to breathe.

Kieran looked down at the box. Dark wood. Brass hinges. Such a small container for a whole life.

“She would’ve liked you,” Kieran said. The words came out rough. “She would’ve said you were too quiet. That she couldn’t read you. But she would’ve seen…” He paused. “She would’ve seen how good you are.”

Behind him, Rory was quiet.

“Her name was Diane,” Kieran continued. “Diane Marie Doyle. She was fifty-nine. She liked terrible reality TV and made the best banana bread and always sang off-key in the car.”

His voice cracked, slightly, but he steadied it.

“She had this way of dancing in the kitchen when she thought no one was watching. Just swaying. Like the music was playing inside her and she couldn’t help but move to it.”

The ocean answered with its endless rhythm.

Kieran closed his eyes. Saw her, not pale and diminished in that hospital bed, but radiant. The way she’d looked when she’d taken him to the beach as a kid, when she’d thrown her head back and laughed at nothing and everything.

That was the version he wanted to remember.

He opened his eyes. The sky was deepening to navy now. Stars beginning to emerge.