Page 129 of We Are Just Us

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,