Page 43 of We Are Just Us

“Oh,” Kieran said, momentarily caught off guard by the blunt honesty. “Got it.”

Rory turned to answer a question from someone across the table, the moment passing seamlessly, as if Rory had just shared a preference for corn tortillas over flour. Kieran watched him for a beat, a small piece of the puzzle clicking into place in his mind.

He barely took his first sip of the salted rim before the table collectively turned their attention on Rory.

“Oh good,” one of the guys, a tall guy named Ben, said, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “You brought an adult. Finally.”

Rory sighed, reaching for a chip. “I am an adult.”

“You once tried to microwave a taco with the foil still on it,” the woman across the table chimed in. “We were genuinely concerned for your safety.”

“That was one time,” Rory defended, though a chuckle slipped out. “And the microwave survived.”

Kieran laughed, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to ease. “I’m learning a lot of critical information tonight.”

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” Ben said.

Meg leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Rory’s the guy who’ll give you the last taco and insist he’s not hungry, then complain about being starving for the next hour.”

“That’s called generosity, Meg.”

“It’s called martyrdom,” she corrected, her smile fond. “You do it every time.”

“Seriously though,” Ben said, turning his attention directly to Kieran. “If you ever need anything out here—a ride to the airport, a metric wrench, someone to watch your house—this guy’s your man.”

Rory waved a hand dismissively, though his cheeks darkened slightly. “I did not consent to a live character reference.”

“You’re the only person I know who’ll leave a party early because someone on a local forum might need help moving a couch,” another friend added.

“The guy had a bad back,” Rory said defensively.

“You didn’t even know him!”

Someone landed another joke at Rory’s expense about a surfboard and a parking meter, and the table roared. Rory laughed along with them, shaking his head, and beneath the wood of the table, his hand found Kieran’s knee.

A squeeze. Warm and absent, there and gone.

Kieran’s breath hitched in his throat. He looked over. But Rory was still turned toward Ben, mid-laugh—like he had no idea what he'd just done.

What was that? What the fuck was that?

Did friends do that out here? Was it a surfer thing? A Southern California thing? A Rory thing?

Kieran picked up his margarita with a hand that shook just enough to make the ice clink against the glass. He took a long swallow, the sour lime and sharp tequila burning his throat, but it did nothing to cool the sudden flush creeping up his collar. He tried to look normal, but he had no idea what his face was doing. Something rigid and terrified, probably.

Across the table, Meg was laughing, tossing a crumpled napkin at Ben. The patio speakers were pumping a low, bass-heavy track that seemed to vibrate right through the soles of Kieran’s shoes. The entire environment suddenly went too loud, too bright, the air thick with the scent of charred corn, onions, and heavy cilantro.

His entire nervous system had relocated to his leg.

He glanced down at his lap, the screen of his phone lighting up with another pending notification from Emory.

EMORY: Well? Any bathroom updates?

A sudden wave of claustrophobia hit him. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t sit six inches from Rory pretending he wasn’t losing his goddamn mind while a half-dozen strangers witnessed it.

“I’m gonna head out,” he said, the words cutting abruptly through a brief lull in the table’s laughter. He set his glass down a little too hard, the leftover salted rim spraying slightly across the dark wood.

There was a collective groan from the group.