Page 27 of We Are Just Us

For a minute—a terrible, hopeful moment—he thought she was sleeping.

Then the truth arrived, heavy and immediate.

He called nine-one-one. He performed the steps he’d memorized years ago. He answered questions. He stayed upright.

He was thirty-two.

What he didn’t do was say goodbye.

That came later, in fragments.

In dreams. In mornings like this. In peppermint-scented rooms. In the chair that still held her shape. In the box by the fireplace with the painted sunset.

Kieran stopped walking and stood at the edge of the water. The tide slid out again, exposing rock and seaweed and things that usually stayed hidden. He wondered sometimes—often—if she would have approved.

Not of him being gay. He didn’t think she would have hated that. But approved, fully, enthusiastically, with the kind of uncomplicated joy he’d wanted.

He wondered if she would have worried. If she would have tried to protect him from things she didn’t understand. If she would have told him to be careful, to keep his heart intact, to not make his life harder than it needed to be.

He wondered if he’d been wrong to stay silent. If he’d underestimated her strength. If he’d robbed both of them of something honest.

Mostly, he wondered why grief still felt like a negotiation.

Kieran turned back toward home eventually, sand clinging to his shoes, the day warming around him.

He carried the memories with him. Complicated, flawed, imperfect love. Memories that didn’t disappear because the body did.

And as he climbed the stairs back toward the house, he allowed himself—briefly—to imagine a version of the world where he’d told her everything.

Where she’d listened.

Where she’d say, If I can’t, then I just want you to live.

He knew this version wasn’t real.

But he let himself hold it anyway.

NINE

Afew weeks later, Kieran had finally started learning how to live in Encinitas without hovering at the edges of it.

The Substack had given his days some shape. After Emory’s relentless encouragement—and the unexpected response to his drunk blog post—he committed to doing it. Honestly? San Diego went live two weeks ago, and to his surprise, people were reading it.

Sure, he only had twelve subscribers, mostly friends he knew, but it was enough to make him show up.

So he started attending things. Checking out places Reddit recommended—and a few it warned him about.

One night, he caught a small concert at the Encinitas Library, sitting in a room full of people old enough to remember vinyl the first time around, while a trio played gentle, earnest music that made the sky feel closer.

Another night, he squeezed into Belly Up Tavern in Solana Beach, beer in hand, shoulder to shoulder with regulars who had clearly been coming there since the nineties and intended to keep doing so forever.

He learned which taco shop stayed open late, which breakfast place didn’t rush, and which corners of town smelled like salt and eucalyptus at dusk.

He’d even started chatting with Devon, the barista at his usual coffee spot, FOAM, the one who called him “bud” and never asked invasive questions. Turned out Devon ran a monthly book club at the Cardiff-by-the-Sea Library.

“It’s mostly locals,” she said, wiping down the espresso machine. “We pick all sorts of shit. Last month was a memoir about competitive cheese-making. You’d fit right in.”

“That’s either a compliment or an insult,” Kieran said.