Page 127 of We Are Just Us

When they finally made their way back to the truck, Kieran’s hand found Rory’s. Their fingers laced together.

“Thank you,” Kieran said as they reached the parking lot. “For…all of it.”

Rory nodded.

Kieran found himself smiling.

They got in the truck. Rory started the engine, and the radio came back to life, a soft and familiar song that neither of them reached to change.

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Kieran looked back once at the beach, at the dark water that now held his mom.

“Goodbye, Diane,” he whispered.

And this time, saying her name didn’t hurt quite so much.

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.

Days were busy. Kieran bounced around North County—Oceanside, San Marcos, Escondido, down to Del Mar. Meeting new people at coffee shops and co-working spaces, writing his newsletter, and waiting to hear back from MiraCosta College about an adjunct position teaching Communications 101.

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.”