Page 4 of We Are Just Us

The next few days passed in a heavy blur of unpacking cardboard boxes, walking the perimeter of the neighborhood, and trying desperately to pass for someone who belonged.

He discovered a local coffee shop down the street named FOAM, where a heavily tattooed barista called him “bud,” asked zero probing questions about his life, and successfully convinced him to invest in a massive, reusable cold-brew jug that looked like it belonged in a doomsday survival kit.

He tried his best not to think about Rory. Which, of course, meant he thought about him constantly.

He’d only caught sight of him once over the weekend—shirtless, barefoot, and meticulously washing an absurdly large paddleboard in his driveway. Kieran had been in the middle of walking Hank and Mabel at the time and nearly tripped over a broken curb trying to look anywhere else.

Rory had looked up anyway, catching his eye with a casual nod.

Kieran had raised a hand, waved awkwardly, and then—God help him—delivered a crisp salute.

A SALUTE.

What was he, reporting for duty? Kieran had immediately pretended he was scratching a rogue itch on his eyebrow, speeding up his pace down the sidewalk like he had an emergency Zoom call to attend, despite being willfully, blissfully unemployed.

Later that night, he replayed the moment while brushing his teeth and dry-heaved into the sink.

Four days after The Salute Incident, Kieran left the dogs resting in the AC and decided to walk down to the beach alone, jamming his headphones in and pretending he had incredibly important, deeply artistic things to ponder.

He sat on a weathered wooden bench overlooking the bluff, sipping an iced tea and staring out at the surf as if he actually understood the mechanics of it.

People drifted past his field of vision. Joggers. Serious surfers. Couples with matching minimalist tattoos. A guy wandering past barefoot, carrying a ukulele in one hand and a giant crystal on a string in the other.

Kieran closed his eyes, trying to breathe in the salt air and let it work whatever healing magic the tourism boards promised. But his brain refused to shut up.

What if I run into him again? What if I say something even dumber? What if this entire move was a massive, sun-soaked mistake and I end up broke, and talking to seaweed on the shore?

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, cutting the music on his phone. “Enough. You came here for peace. Inner calm. Ocean vibes. Not a man who looks like he can build a custom deck with his bare hands.”

Defeated, he opened a fresh page in his Notes app and furiously typed out a list:

Things I Should Focus On Instead of the Neighbor:

Find a remote writing gig.

Stop awkwardly saluting civilian strangers.

Try to make at least one human friend.

Eggs, bread, mayo, celery, red onion.

Resist searching GOOGLE for how to seduce your neighbor without seeming desperate.

He smacked the phone against his forehead.

“Absolutely pathetic.”

That evening, Kieran was out in his tiny backyard trying to rinse the salt and sand off the dogs’ paws, but the chore had quickly devolved into a high-stakes wrestling match with an uncooperative garden hose. He’d finally managed to force the rubber into a chaotic coil when a deep voice called out over the property line.

“You’re making that look way harder than it needs to be.”

Kieran jumped, his foot slipping. The hose instantly kinked, snapping backward and smacking him squarely in the shin. “Jesus! You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry,” Rory said, his voice carrying an easy, amused rumble. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

Kieran turned sharply, wrestling the hose into something resembling dignity while pretending his face wasn’t on fire.

Rory was leaning over the wooden slats of the shared fence, his thick arms crossed over a faded gray tank top that looked like it had been through one too many wash cycles. His hair was damp, curling wildly at the ends as if he’d recently rinsed off after a long surf.