By the end of his third week back, Evan has a job—a trashy romance novel slated for adaptation into an even trashier rom-com. Not the kind of thing he’d usually touch with a ten-foot pole. But for some reason, something about it appeals to him, so he tells his agent he’ll take it.
Maybe it’s projection. Some asinine urge to prove that transformation is possible. That you can turn shit into gold. That leaving New York, that things ending with Barty, that letting go of the life he thought he was building—doesn’t have to mean failure. That not everything broken stays that way. Or maybe he’s just bored and wants to see if he can take bad source material—cardboard characters, tired tropes—and make it into something worth watching.
Evan spends most of Friday and Saturday in the garden, working through the novel with a pen between his teeth and a legal pad balanced on one knee. By Sunday, he needs out—he stands in the Black’s garage for several long minutes deliberating before settling on a decision, he throws Sirius’s longboard in the back of the Wrangler and makes the drive down to San Pedro—traffic is heavy and the usual twenty something minute drive is closer to thirty.
On the way, he stops at the 7-Eleven on Gaffey and grabs a lemon-lime Gatorade, a packet of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, and a king-size Twix. He adds a five-dollar scratcher for the hell of it and wins nothing. He parks at Cabrillo Beach— the beach is a sea of families on beach towels, kids with bodyboards, people grilling carne asada on a barbecue. The swell isn’t great. There’s a stiff onshore breeze throwing chop across the surface—nothing clean, nothing long. Mushy whitewater, blown-out lines. Not worth chasing, not really. But he’s not here to chase. He’s here to breathe—the sun’s already high, the sky is a flat, endless blue, like it’s been ironed smooth. He paddles out in board shorts, water cold against his bare skin, and lets the sea take him.
At the break, he sits straddling his board, the world falling away with each slow rise and fall beneath him.
After half an hour he heads in. The water hasn’t offered much, just a few soft shoulders, but still, he feels looser now, quieter inside. He plants the longboard nose-down in the sand, angles it so the shadow cuts across his towel, and drops beside it with the practised sprawl of someone raised by beaches.
He opens the Doritos—and pulls out the book.
Love on Sunset Bay.
The cover features a wind-swept woman in a back gown and a man with improbable abs walking shirtless out of a sunset framed by palm trees. Evan eyes it like it’s with a mix of amusement and resignation, then flips the dog-eared page and digs back in. It’s bad. There’s no way around it. Terrible prose. Cliched emotional beats. Chapter titles like Stars of Fire. But there’s something oddly meditative about it working through it, and beneath the fluff and melodrama, he can feel something—a shape forming in his mind. Something that might actually be decent. He shoves another chip in his mouth and scores out a sentence that includes the phrase “quivering with moonlit shame.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, but keeps reading as the heroine, Clarissa Bloom quits her job, and throws her engagement ring into the Hudson. She packs up her life in a frenzy of heartbreak (her words, not Evan’s) and drives cross-country to start over in California.
“The sun hit her windshield with all the warmth of new beginnings, the palm trees standing like pillars of hope along the boardwalk.”
Clarissa’s down on her luck, heartbroken, and apparently incapable of changing a tyre—so when her car dies in a small (fictional) coastal town called San Lirio, she’s rescued by Dante Morado, the tall, dark, and devastatingly handsome owner of the local auto shop. The writing’s atrocious—run-on sentences, metaphors that should be criminal—and yet he keeps going. Half-horrified, half-hooked. Maybe it’s the setting—New York to California, new beginnings, heartbreak—all a bit too relatable to Evan’s current situation. Evan finds himself feeling oddly protective over Clarissa and her broken heart, feeling like he owes her the opportunity to shed the chains of two-dimensional characterisation, like he wants to offer her the chance to be more than just a collection of tired tropes.
Something, or rather someone, drips onto his foot pulling Evan’s attention from the book and back to the beach. A boy—maybe six or seven at most—stands in front of him, sun-browned and barefoot, dripping seawater onto the sand. A red bodyboard rests against one hip. His dark curls are a riot of salt and wind, his brow furrowed in thoughtful disapproval as he eyes Evan’s book. The kid points a finger at the book, which at that precise moment is open to a page that reads, "Dante tasted like longing and unspoken promises."
“That’s a girl’s book,” says the boy.
Evan lifts an eyebrow. “You’re not wrong,” he agrees mildly. “It’s not a very good one either.”
The boy considers this, then grins. “Why are you reading a girl book if it’s not even good?”
“Well,” Evan replies, “it’s my job.”
This seems to intrigue him. He squints at Evan for a long second. “Your job is to read girl books?”
“All sorts of books,” clarifies Evan. “Not just girl books.” He holds up the paperback. “See, I’m going to turn this very bad book into a very good movie.”
“Cool,” says the boy, eyes lighting up. Then, like he’s just had the best idea in the world, he asks, “will it have lightsabers in it?”
“Probably not,” Evan admits, smiling.
Further down the beach, a woman with a blonde ponytail and sun-kissed shoulders is making her way toward them, her expression somewhere between exasperated and amused. She gives Evan an apologetic smile as she reaches them.
“Sorry—I swear, every time I turn around, he’s made six new friends.” She ruffles the boy’s hair. “Come on, little guy. Food time.”
The boy nods but turns back before leaving. “You should put lightsabers in your movie. Lightsabers make everything cooler.”
Evan watches them go—the kid bounding across the sand, one hand curled around the woman’s. Something tugs low in his chest, a familiar ache that is tied up with Barty and all the things Evan had wanted, all the things Barty hadn’t wanted. He exhales, lets the feeling settle somewhere behind his ribs. Then he shifts in the sand, leans back beneath the longboard’s shadow, and turns back to Love on Sunset Bay.
“His eyes smouldered like twin embers in a fire stoked by destiny.”
Evan winces, thinks maybe the kid is right. Maybe Lightsabres would add something to the narrative. He finishes the chapter and then shoves the paperback into his bag, slings his towel over one shoulder, and hoists the longboard under his arm. Time to go. He’s walking to the car when he sees the kid and the blonde woman again, they’re making their way across the parking lot.
The kid waves at him, and Evan waves back. He unlocks the wrangler, throwing the board in the back and is just about to climb in when a voice stops him.
“Is that your car?”
He looks around, the boy is stood a few feet away staring at the wrangler with an awed expression.
Evan looks back at the car, and then smiles. “You like it?”
The boy nods, eyes fixed on the car, “that is the coolest car I’ve ever seen,” he says solemnly. He glances at Evan thoughtfully, as if he’s re-evaluating him.
“Don’t let the car fool you,” says Evan. “I peaked years ago.”
The boy tilts his head, green eyes curious. “When?”
Evan considers the question. “Probably around ten or eleven I’d say. Been down hill since then.”
“I’m seven in three months,” announces the boy.
Evan unlocks the driver's door, and then shoots the kid a grin. “Still got a couple good years left then.”
The kid grins back at him and then turns, running back towards his mum. Evan wonders what Dora would say if he told her that her taste in cars was approximate to a seven year old boy. The thought makes him smile as he drives. The wind whips through his hair, arm resting on the window, fingers tapping out a loose rhythm to the Red Hot Chili Peppers track playing on the radio. The drive back is quicker—sun dipping lower, traffic thinned—and before long he’s pulling into the Blacks’ drive. He pops the garage and lifts the longboard from the back of the Wrangler, padding inside with bare feet on cool concrete. He props the board against the back wall, then pauses, eyes catching on the board with the stencil spray-painted over. James’ board. He wonders if James still paints now.
Dust motes drift lazily through the garage, catching in the slice of evening light from a high window. Evan takes a slow lap, fingertips trailing across the hood of Sirius’s old Bonneville—still here, still shrouded under a tarp he doesn’t bother to lift.
On a shelf, a small trophy catches the light: South Bay Grom Jam – Regulus Black, 1st Place.
Evan smiles faintly. He remembers that day, remembers that competition— Evan had just turned Eleven, it had been freezing, the fog so thick it rolled off the beach like smoke. Reg had been over the moon at his win, clutching the trophy to his chest like it was the most precious thing in the world. Sirius had taken them, he’d crowed proudly about how great Reg had been the whole drive back, and when they’d gotten home he’d made them both hot chocolate piled high with mini marshmallows.
Something catches his eye. A walkie-talkie sits tucked behind the row of junior surf trophies, matte black casing dulled by a thin layer of dust. Industrial-grade—not the cheap plastic kind you bought as toys. The real deal.
A memory surfaces, unbidden.
The summer before Evan left for college. The summer Sirius turned twenty-one, a weekend trip up to Santa Barbara with Sirius and James—Sirius had complained about babysitting the whole drive up the coast, one arm draped out the window, hair whipping in the wind.
“May as well stick me in a minivan with the junior league,” he’d grumbled.
James had laughed, turning in the passenger seat to shoot a grin over his shoulder—eyes bright with amusement. “He’s only complaining because he wanted to see some action,” he’d said with a wink. “No respect for bros before hoes.”
Evan still remembers Reg’s exaggerated gagging noise, Dora’s giggle, the way Sirius had flipped James off without even looking. Still, he’d bought them beer when they got there. That was always the way with Sirius—he’d put on a show, but he’d never actually say no. He was always there for the important moments. Grinning proudly at every surf comp, cheering the loudest from the front row at Reg’s school plays and debates, showing up for every single thing his brother set his mind to—as if he could make up for the absence of parents by being twice as loud, twice as present.
Evan knew Reg was grateful; they all were. Because Sirius’s love didn’t stop with Reg—it spilled out onto Evan and Dora too. He used to think, back when he was a kid, that his mum and stepdad moving in next door to the Blacks was probably the best thing that ever happened to him and Dora, thinks now as an adult—that maybe he still believes that.
They’d sat out on the sand that night, the surf a hush in the dark, fire flickering low, the smell of salt and smoke caught in their clothes.
Evan remembers, remembers the glow of it in his chest, not from the alcohol, but from the moment: sitting between Dora and James, toes dug into the sand, dizzy certainty that life, just then, was exactly what it should be. He remembered firelight in James’s eyes, the way he’d leaned back on his elbows, beer bottle balanced against one knee, and said something Evan didn’t quite catch over the sound of the tide—but he’d laughed anyway, because James was laughing, and that was enough.
Later, Sirius had brought out a set of walkie-talkies—insisting they put them to the test. They’d split up: Reg with Sirius, Dora and Evan with James. The four of them had walked out to the point in the dark, looking down at the waves crashing below, the whitewater turned silver under the moon.
Then Sirius’s voice had crackled through the static—loud, teasing, familiar. James’s laugh followed, bright and easy through the noise.
The memory tugs something loose in Evan’s chest and he picks the walkie up. It’s heavier than he expects. His thumb finds the power switch, and with a soft click, the red light flares—steady, alive.
“Well, shit,” he mutters, surprised the thing still works. A smile pulls at one corner of his mouth before he slides the walkie into his pocket.
Outside, the light has gone golden, softening into dusk. The Pacific glows in the distance—molten and endless. He grabs a beer from the mini-fridge and drops into one of the teak recliners on the patio. He flips through Love on Sunset Bay, one foot propped on the low table, the sky shifting from pink to fiery red.
After an hour or so, he sets the book down and pulls the walkie from his pocket. Flips it back on.
“Breaker, breaker,” he says. “This is Major Disappointment, reporting live from P.V.E. Mission update: Love on Sunset Bay. Clarissa has finally surrendered to her feelings. She’s just confessed to Dante that she can’t live another day without his smouldering brown eyes or his monosyllabic brooding. Personally, I think she could do better—but the heart wants what the heart wants. It seems a happy ending is imminent. Over.”
Evan grins to himself, amused. He imagines Clarissa answering him over the walkie—she’d probably tell him that Dante had hidden depths, and he’d tell her no, those were just abs, and to go find a man actually capable of holding a conversation.
He takes a swig of his beer—and then nearly chokes as the walkie flares back to life with a crackle so loud it jolts in his hand.
“What the hell, dude?” comes a familiar voice, thick with static but unmistakably amused.
Evan stares at the walkie in surprise. Mild horror blooming behind his eyes.
Then, quietly: “Jamie?” he asks.
“Yeah man, it’s me.”
Evan stares at the walkie, blinking. “You’re picking this up in Pedro?”
James’ voice crackles through the speaker. “These things can reach Catalina on a good day.” There’s a beat of silence. Then James asks, “who are Dante and Clarissa?”
“Characters in my book,” says Evan, and then adds. “Didn’t think anyone was on the other end—”
James laughs. “You got caught bro, must be a pretty good book if it’s got you talking to fictional characters.”
“It’s not,” said Evan, “but I'm working on making it better, adapting it for a screen play.”
“What’s it about?” asks James, and Evan tells him—gets caught up in it and before he realises it the light has gone and he’s halfway through a heartfelt explanation of why he thinks Clarissa should ditch Dante and start her own florist business instead of chasing after a man who has all the emotional depth of a paddling pool—he stops, winces, embarrassed.
“Sorry man—” says Evan, “I’ve had my head in this all weekend, guess it’s sort of taken over my brain.”
James laughs, “don’t apologise. It’s cool. It’s nice hearing you talk about what you do, I like it. And I get it, the urge to turn something shitty into something worthwhile.”
Evan thinks he hears something in James’ voice, something almost sad—but then talkie crackles and he thinks maybe it’s just static.
“Hey, where’d you find this thing anyway?” asks James.
“In the Blacks’ small garage,” says Evan, “I was poking around in there earlier.”
James chuckles. “Me and Sirius stayed up all night talking on these the summer he finished college, he moved back in with his folks for a bit, hated it. We’d spend hours talking shit over these most nights. Used to call them Hush Talkies because Brian gave them to Sirius as a bribe to take Reg away for the weekend so he could screw his secretary in peace while Will was on some retreat.”
“Santa Barbara right?” says Evan, “I remember that trip. Thinking about it earlier actually.”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” Even thinks he can hear the grin in James’s voice even through the static. “All Sirius wanted was to hit the waves, then go get trashed and instead he ended up babysitting a drunk spewing Reg.”
Evan laughs. “You know. Reg still can’t hack his booze to this day. Had him and his then boyfriend over for dinner maybe a year ago—Reg got hammered and threw up in my cheese plant when his boyfriend wasn’t looking.” Evan grins at the memory, shakes his head and goes on. “Reg had just started seeing this guy—Jason, I think his name was? Most pretentious guy you’ve ever met but Reg really liked him. Thought he was sophisticated, anyway—this guy is really into wine, he brought about three bottles Reg has a solid bottle to himself and he’s smashed—we had this big potted cheese plant in the hall outside the bathroom, practically a small tree—anyway Reg tries to make it to toilet but doesn’t get there in time. Ends up spewing in the cheese plant. Didn’t know about it at the time not until Reg’s boyfriend comes up to me as he’s leaving and tells me there’s spew in my plant pot, thing is there’s only three of us there, my ex was away that weekend, so it’s just me, Reg and his boring boyfriend, realise pretty quickly what must have happened and had to think of something on the spot. Told him it was probably the cat, that he had stomach problems. The thing is, I didn’t have a cat.”
James is laughing—low, warm and unguarded even through the static.
Evan grins, shakes his head. “Guy kept asking about the damn cat every time I saw him after that. Genuinely concerned. Gave me a number for a specialist vet. Good thing they broke up a few months later. I started to think I was going to have to get a cat just to keep the lie going.”
“Can’t picture you with a cat,” James says, and this time Evan can hear the grin in his voice. “Then again, can’t really picture you owning a cheese plant or hosting dinner parties either.”
Evan takes a swig of his beer, settles back into the recliner. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent cook, and I throw great dinner parties, spew filled plants aside.”
“Yeah, see—that’s the weird part,” says James. “You, being a functioning adult who cooks real meals? Feels like a glitch in the freaking matrix.”
“You’re like four years older than me. It’s not that weird.”
“Five,” James corrects. “I’m thirty in a couple months. And yeah, it is. Last time I saw you, you were still a scrappy seventeen-year-old.”
“Lies” Evan replies. “I was eighteen. And I’ve never been scrappy. You’re thinking of Reg.”
Another snort. “Maybe.” A pause and then, James—voice quieter. “You always seemed older though. Used to forget you were the same age as Reg sometimes.”
“That’s just being an older brother—you have to be the one to grow up quicker,” Evan smiles into the dark.
“Nah man,” says James. “You had your shit together—even as a kid.”
Evan snorts. “I don’t think I’ve ever had my shit together. Not then. Definitely not now—I don’t have an apartment, a car, and I spent the last five years waiting for someone who told me from the start not to.”
The bit about Barty slipped out without Evan meaning for it to, he swallowed, feeling awkward and over exposed, hoping James couldn’t hear the echo of pain in his voice, he cleared his throat and added in an attempt to cover the slip, “and to top it off my, right now my career consists of trying to figure out how to turn…” He flips open Love on Sunset Bay, finds a random page, and reads aloud:
“Her eyes were like twin galaxies, and he was a lone astronaut, honourably going where no man had gone before. He crushed his lips to hers with the knowledge that he would make home among her stars.”
He closes the book with a snap.
“—into something that doesn’t freaking suck.”
“A home among her stars?” repeats James. “I think my ears might be bleeding dude.”
Evan chuckles, relieved.
“Told you it was bad.”
There’s a long pause, and then; James says, quiet now, softer through the static: “hey look, having your shit together is mostly an attitude. All that stuff you mentioned—apartment, car, whatever—that’s just circumstance. It changes. Sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re down.” A pause, then: “And hoping someone will change isn’t dumb, man. That’s just love.” A beat. “It gets all of us, sooner or later, what matters is how you come back from it. How you get back up and you have always gotten back up after you wiped out. That's what it’s really about—that’s having your shit together.”