Page 15 of We Are Just Us

Only in California.

Thursday night, he went to the Rady Shell, one of those outdoor concert venues that looked like a giant contact lens dropped on the edge of the bay.

The Symphony was playing strings, lush and sweeping—like longing without desperation. Kieran sat on the lawn with a sixteen-dollar plastic cup of wine and let the music wash over him.

The bay stretched out behind the stage, lights flickering on as the sky darkened. Boats drifted in the distance, indifferent to everything happening onshore.

It felt good. Being here. Watching the city exist around him while he took it in.

On Friday morning, he walked the harbor before the city fully woke up.

The boats creaked against the docks. The air smelled clean and metallic, like rope and salt and early starts. Joggers nodded at him like they were all members of the same quiet club. Fishermen ignored him entirely.

Kieran stopped near the water and took a selfie.

It was unflattering in the way all honest selfies were—sun in his eyes, hair doing whatever it wanted, hoodie zipped halfway. Behind him, boats blurred like he was trying to sell a lifestyle.

He sent it to Emory.

KIERAN: Behold. My new personality

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

EMORY: oh my god you look like you’re selling boat timeshares.

KIERAN: this is my rebrand. emotionally stable man with maritime accessories.

EMORY: downtown San Diego? are you having a moment?

Kieran watched a sailboat drift by as he typed.

KIERAN: I’m being a tourist.

EMORY: look at you. main character energy.

KIERAN: I contain multitudes.

EMORY: you contain multitudes of neuroses in a single tote bag.

Kieran laughed too loud, startling a passing runner.

Friday night came quietly.

Kieran showered longer than usual, changed shoes twice, then told himself to stop being ridiculous. He was going to the hotel bar to eat fried food and drink something aggressively adult. That was it.

The bar was dim and polished, the kind of place where the lighting forgave you for existing. He ordered a dirty vodka martini with extra olives, a tower of onion rings, and a plate of calamari that arrived hot and indulgent and unapologetically expensive.

He ate. Drank deliberately. Let himself enjoy the fact that no one needed anything from him.

Halfway through the martini, his shoulders dropped. By the second, he was loose. Pleasantly unguarded.

He went back to his room tipsy and aware of how nice the quiet was.

Kieran sat on the edge of the bed, laptop balanced on his knees, and stared at the blank screen.

He was at the exact level of drunk where observations felt urgent.

Or in this case, worth writing down.