Evan wakes up with a dry mouth and the kind of headache that sits behind your eyes and pulses in time with your heartbeat. The light is sharp and golden, slicing through the half-open blinds. He shifts—and freezes.
There’s a mess of brown hair on the pillow beside him. Emmeline is curled under the covers, still asleep, wearing a borrowed T-shirt and a pair of his boxers. One arm flung out, mouth slightly open. Evan has never woken up next to a girl before. Funny, almost. A sitcom beat. He lets the thought pass and eases out of bed before he can sit with it too long.
It’s just before seven. The house is quiet, the air still cool from the night. In the kitchen, he downs a glass of water and stands there for a moment, trying to remember if Sirius actually confirmed that beach cookout for today, or if it was just tequila optimism doing the talking.
Either way, it’s hours off.
He grabs his keys and heads out, the Wrangler coughing and then settling into its familiar rumble. There’s a place down the road, a breakfast spot with a menu that reads like a manifesto, proudly advertising tofu and jackfruit like they’re daring you to argue. Evan stands there longer than he means to, squinting at the chalkboard before hedging his bets: a breakfast burrito, a green smoothie full of things that sound like they were pulled straight out of the dirt, a couple of donuts, and coffee. Something will work.
When he gets back, the door creaks open just as he sets the cups on the counter. Emmeline appears at the top of the stairs—ponytail up, last night’s eyeliner smudged, squinting like the light personally offended her. She clocks the spread and grins.
“See, why can’t straight guys do this? Breakfast, and I didn’t even have to put out.”
Evan laughs, shaking his head. “Pretty sure it’s not a gay thing. None of my hookups have ever brought me breakfast. Men just suck. Across the board.”
Emmeline snorts, already unscrewing the smoothie lid. “Now that’s the truth.”
They take everything out to the deck and drop into the sun-warmed chairs. The ocean’s just visible from here, a strip of blue beyond rooftops and palms. Evan watches with a mix of awe and mild concern as Emmeline absolutely drowns her burrito in hot sauce.
“Jesus,” he says. “You trying to kill your taste buds?”
She grins around a mouthful. “Don’t be such a pussy.”
He lobs a napkin at her; she kicks his chair in retaliation. Easy. Familiar. The kind of comfort that sneaks up on him when he’s not paying attention. It catches him off guard, how normal it feels. She reminds him a little of Dora—sharp-tongued and quick on the draw, and for a second he misses her with everything he’s got. It’s been a good two years since he’d seen his step sister, since the last time she’d come to visit him or he’d flown out to Miami. He pushes the thought away with the promise to himself that he’ll call her tomorrow, maybe even ask her to fly out California—spend the summer here with him.
Evan leans back, coffee warming his hands, lets the sun hit his face. For a moment, everything feels suspended. Not settled. Just… paused. Like the day hasn’t decided what it’s going to ask of him yet—it’s... new. Nice. Emmeline tells him a story about how she’d met Pete and Mac as they eat.
“So. Mac’s twenty-fifth birthday,” she says. “Which, obviously, means a boat. Because rich men physically cannot turn twenty-five without immediately acquiring a boat they should not be responsible for.”
Evan huffs a laugh. “That checks out.”
“I’m eighteen,” she continues. “Only there because Mac invited Mary, and Mary was like, ‘It’ll be chill. We get maybe three hours out, and the engine just—dies. Fully dies. Mac is totally trashed by this point, everyone is totally panicking—and then Pete is all like yo I’m gonna go down and take a look,” the story goes, Pete, a packet of extra hot doritos and a pocket knife, and then miraculously, somehow, Pete saving the day, and Evan is laughing more than he can remember laughing in a long time. And thinks that New York might have felt different if he’d met someone like Emmeline there. If he hadn’t just had Barty and Reg. And now that he’s thinking of them—
Reg would like her. He would think she’s funny. Quick.
Barty? Barty wouldn’t stand a chance. He can just imagine the sort of look she’d give his combat boots and ripped jeans. The kind of look that could strip a man down to his insecurities and leave him apologising for his very existence. The kind of look Valley girls turned it into an art form. The thought gives Evan a strange kind of satisfaction—low-level, private, a little smug. Not vindictive exactly, just... earned. Like a mental note you file away for future use.
And maybe that’s what it is. A note. A small idea that lodges somewhere in the back of his mind and refuses to leave. If he ever ends up back in New York—if some script or studio or godforsaken loose end drags him across the country and into Barty’s orbit—he might just bring Emmeline with him.
If she’s up for it, of course.
He can already picture it. Sunglasses perched on he head, armed with fruit scented lip gloss and strawberry bubblegum, deeply unimpressed by the lack of waves. He grins into his coffee and doesn’t explain why. Emmeline switched topics, she’s now talking about the swell for the week ahead, something about wind direction and sandbars. He listens, lets her voice fill the space between them, and thinks maybe the morning’s already turning out better than it has any right to be.
They hit the beach around quarter to nine—a late start by all accounts. Most of the regulars have already come and gone, boards tucked under arms and salt still drying on skin, but a few stragglers linger at the shoreline. Families are starting to gather, teenagers trailing coolers and folding chairs, the first hints of sunscreen and barbecue smoke riding the breeze. Emmeline helps herself to one of Sirius’s boards without ceremony. He still hasn’t surfaced, and between them they’d decided—wordlessly, amicably—to leave Sirius and Mary to their own devices.
The water’s glassy, waves rolling slow and lazy under the morning sun. Not perfect, but not bad. He glances sideways as Emmeline adjusts the strap around her ankle and heads for the water like she owns the whole beach. They’re out for about two hours, until the wind shifts and the waves turn choppy.
They sit on the beach afterward, legs stretched out in the sand.
“So,” Emmeline says, brushing grit off her thigh with one lazy sweep, “you gonna go to that thing today? The cookout down in Pedro that Rem was talking about?”
Evan shrugs, squinting at the tide. “Maybe. Depends if Sirius is still going.”
“Even if he isn’t, there’ll be other people you know there, right?” she says, tone casual.
Evan considers the question. James would be there. Rem, too. Still, it feels weird to go without Sirius. “I guess,” he says finally.
“I think you should go.” Her tone is decisive.
He shoots her a look, one brow raised. “And why’s that?”
“I just do.”
“Cryptic,” he muses, half-curious, half-amused by her apparent desire to see him properly socialized.
She gets to her feet and holds out a hand. “Come on. We’ve gotta figure out what you’re wearing, and then you can drop me home on your way.”
Evan lets her pull him up. “Was planning on—you know. Clothes.”
She hums, tilting her head like she’s assessing him. “You should look nice.”
“You gonna tell me what this is about,” he asks, slinging his board under one arm, “or are you just looking for an excuse to play Barbie with me?”
She’s already a few steps up the sandy track, her voice drifting back over her shoulder as she replies. “Rem wasn’t the only one checking you out last night, is all.”
“What?” Evan asks, amused. “Who?”
“Hispanic dude. The one who left early. Tall, cute—killer smile.”
Evan frowns. “James?”
“Yeah.” Emmeline stops halfway up the gravelly trail, the incline putting her above him. She turns and grins down at him. “That’s the guy. Kept looking at you when he thought you wouldn’t catch him.”
“No way.”
Her grin sharpens. “Call it like I see it, dude.”
“He’s straight,” Evan says automatically.
Emmeline waits until he draws level with her before nudging him lightly with her shoulder. “You sure about that? He spent a lot of time staring at you—for a straight guy.”
Evan shakes his head. The whole conversation is ridiculous. James is straight. And even if he wasn’t—which, again, he is—he’s still James. That would be weird.
And yet—he thinks as he tosses his board into the back of the Wrangler, then lifts Emmeline’s borrowed one in after—the idea isn’t bad.
Not bad at all.
He shuts the tailgate a little harder than necessary, still turning it over in his head.
By the time he climbs into the driver’s seat, Emmeline’s already perched on the passenger side, one leg tucked beneath her, watching him with open amusement.
“Oh my God, you’re visibly spiraling,” she says, her voice light with laughter.
Evan bats at her as he starts the engine. “I am not. I’ve known him since I was, like, eight. Even if he was bi or something, there’s no way he’d see me like that. He thinks of me like a kid brother. It would be weird.”
Emmeline shoots him a toothy smile, all sharp edges and smugness. “You’re, like, totally into him, aren’t you?”
Evan rolls his eyes. “No. Just drop it, would you?”
She shrugs, leans forward, pops open the glove box, and starts flipping through Dora’s CD wallet. She selects a scratched copy of Sweet Kisses and slides it into the dash. Pop warbles through the speakers as she returns to inspecting the glove box’s contents.
She pulls out a tube of lip gloss and raises a brow. “Didn’t take you for a Juicy Tubes man. I’m impressed.”
“It’s my sister’s car,” Evan says dryly. And then—against his better judgment—asks, “You really think he was looking?”
Emmeline pops the cap on the gloss and leans toward the side mirror, swiping it on with practiced ease. Then she turns back, one brow arched in that way that makes Evan feel instantly, irritatingly seen.
“Thought you wanted to drop it,” she says, more than a little smug.
Evan clears his throat, focusing on the road ahead.
Emmeline snorts. “Totally looking.”
Neither of them says anything else until they pull into the drive and Evan cuts the engine. Emmeline hops out of the Wrangler barefoot and makes a beeline up the drive toward the house.
Evan follows her as she detours through the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge, then heads straight for his bedroom, flopping down on the bed like she’s been doing it for years.
“Okaaay,” she says, drawing out the word. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”
Evan, who is rapidly realizing he might’ve gotten himself into more than he bargained for with this friendship, gives her a long-suffering look before opening his closet and pulling out clothes.
She watches him with hawk-like focus, propped on her elbows and sipping from the bottle like she’s judging a Fashion Week casting. He’s made to try on three pairs of jeans before she settles—decisively—on a worn-in pair of faded blue Levi’s.
“Those,” she declares. “Those are the ones.”
Evan stands shirtless, mildly exasperated, arms folded, while she rifles through his shirts. A green one is tried and vetoed, followed by white, gray, and an unfortunate band tee he doesn’t remember buying.
“Just pick one,” he grumbles, tugging off yet another rejected T-shirt. “I’m starting to feel like I’m on one of those reality shows where they dye your hair and throw out all your stuff.”
She hums, then perks up with a victorious grin, pulling out a soft navy cotton button-down.
He eyes it warily. “A shirt? Bit formal, isn’t it?”
“Not with jeans,” she says, in a tone that makes it clear there will be no arguing.
He sighs and pulls it on, only for her to immediately start fussing with the buttons.
“Three undone,” she says firmly.
“Two,” he counters, swatting at her hand.
“Three,” she insists, undoing the third herself.
They glare at each other in mock battle for several seconds before he relents and lets her do it.
She steps back and gives him a satisfied look, then circles him once—slow and deliberate—like a predator appraising prey. She stops in front of him, arms folded, far too pleased with herself.
“Perfect,” she declares. “Those jeans make your ass look fantastic, and blue’s totally your color. Brings out your eyes. I’d absolutely fuck you.”
“Thanks,” Evan says flatly. “I feel wildly objectified. Is this what it’s like being a woman?”
“More or less,” she says breezily. “Welcome to the club.”
“You’re terrifying. You know that?”
“And you’re cute,” she says brightly, already heading for the door. “Now go fix your hair and then you can chauffeur me home.”
Sirius is in the kitchen when Evan comes downstairs, poking through the pantry with a half-eaten pack of Twizzlers in one hand. He looks up when Evan and Emmeline enter.
“Hey. Ready to bounce?” he asks.
“Yeah. Just gonna drop Em home first,” Evan says, and Sirius nods.
“I’ll ride with,” Sirius adds. “You owe me designated driver rights—”
The three of them pile into the Wrangler, Emmeline and Sirius immediately arguing over shotgun, Emmeline coming out victorious. Sirius grumbles about loyalty and bros before hoes from the back seat the entire ride, even as Evan points out that, given his own sexual orientation, Emmeline is more bro than ho in this situation. The argument falls on deaf ears.
They drop Emmeline off just before two, Sirius sliding into the passenger seat with the smug satisfaction of someone settling an old score.
“So,” Evan says, shifting into reverse, “how was your night, Casanova?”
Sirius stretches, grinning. “Let’s just say if I die tomorrow, it won’t be with regrets.”
Evan snorts. “You realize you’re probably gonna have to see her again, right? I’m sort of friends with her best friend. Hard to pull your usual disappearing act.”
Sirius’s grin only widens. “For Mary Macdonald, I may consider breaking the one-night rule. Bro, she does this thing with her tongue—closest I’ve come to a religious experience.”
“And they say romance is dead,” Evan says, smiling.
Sirius ignores him, fiddling with the stereo instead. The Jessica Simpson CD Emmeline put in earlier blares through the truck speakers, filling the cab with breathy vocals and sugary pop.
“I get it, dude,” Sirius says. “You’re gay.”
Evan rolls his eyes. “Em’s pick. We went surfing this morning while you were at church, enjoying Sunday service.”
Sirius smirks. “What can I say? I’ve always been a spiritual man.”
Evan laughs, effortless and light. And he realizes that this—this is what a Sunday should be. The kind he likes. Driving down the 110 heading south, windows down, sea air pouring through. A morning of hungover breakfast and surfing with Emmeline. Shit-talking with Sirius. A Sunday should mean laughing without trying. It should be easy.
When he first moved to New York, Sundays meant wandering through whatever gallery or bookstore Reg was infatuated with that week. Evan hadn’t minded. Reg was always good-natured enough to laugh when Evan poked fun at the pretentious bullshit masquerading as modern art, and afterward they’d go home with wine and greasy takeout, sprawling across the floor of their apartment.
But at some point, those Sundays disappeared. Reg met Barty, and two became three. Then Evan and Barty got together—and Sundays changed. Underground film screenings where nothing happened. Poetry readings where everyone wore black and nobody clapped. Evan sat through it all, smiling when he was supposed to, laughing when Barty shot him that look that meant play nice. But it wasn’t his world. It wasn’t even Barty’s—not really. For all his talk about the evils of capitalism, Barty’s dad was a state senator with presidential ambitions, and Evan knew for a fact that Barty’s vintage leather jacket collection cost more than most people made in six months.
Somewhere along the way, without him really noticing, Sundays became another thing Evan didn’t recognize. Another space where he didn’t quite fit. Another thing he did because it made Barty happy.
“Talked to Reg this morning,” Sirius says, cutting through his thoughts. “Said to tell you he misses you.”
“I miss him too.”
There’s a brief pause—not awkward, just quiet—before Sirius says, “We should get him out here. Get him to come for the summer. It’d be like old times.”
Evan shakes his head. “Yeah. Good luck with that.”
“You’re here. I’m here.” Sirius grins, then lifts a brow. “If that’s not enough, we could call in the big guns.”
Evan groans. “You’re not seriously suggesting we get my sister involved, are you?”
“Why not? Reg’s terrified of her. If anyone can get him to haul ass out here, it’s Dora. One phone call and he’ll be halfway to LAX.”
“Terrified’s a bit much.”
“He once apologized to her for sneezing too loud near her.”
Evan snorts. “You might actually be onto something. I’ll call her next week—I owe her one anyway. See if she’s in the mood to terrorize a Black.”
“When is she not? It’s basically her favorite sport,” Sirius mutters.
The truck eases to a stop at a light. Evan drums his fingers against the wheel while he waits. “Where are we going, by the way?” he asks as it turns amber.
“Marlene and James’s place,” Sirius says. “Out past Cabrillo—you know where the aquarium is?”
“Right.” Evan makes the turn.
The name Marlene tugs at something from the night before. Marls, then. The girlfriend. James’s kid’s mom. He pushes down a brief—and surprising—stab of disappointment. It’s stupid. It’s not like he actually believed Emmeline when she said James had been looking. That would be ridiculous. He’d just gone along with it. Let her pick out his clothes because he liked her, because she was a little scary—and because likes surfing with her. Likes her directness. It makes him comfortable, and she makes him laugh. That’s all it is. That’s why he went along with it. Not because he likes James. That would be crazy. A teenage crush is one thing but he’s an adult now, and he knows James isn’t an option.
Sirius rattles off directions once they pass the aquarium, and a few minutes later they pull into the car-lined drive of a low-slung, one-story house with a faded swing set out front. Evan parks between a battered Honda Civic and a dusty old Nissan, someone having drawn a smiley face in the grime on its back window. The cherry-red Wrangler sticks out among the faded paint and cracked bumpers. Evan winces as he locks it, then follows Sirius up the path, trying not to feel like he’s shown up in costume to a party he’s not sure he was invited to.
Sirius doesn’t stop at the front door. He veers toward a gate at the side of the house, and Evan follows, guessing it leads to the backyard. Low music drifts on the breeze. Voices rise and fall. Glass clinks.
The yard is bigger than he expects—trees casting patches of shade, a playset in one corner, a half-inflated kiddie pool in the other. A child’s bike leans against the fence. A cluster of people stands near the grill, drinks in hand.
And then—
“SIRIUUUUUS!”
A small boy—six or seven, maybe—charges across the grass and launches himself at Sirius like a missile. Sirius laughs and catches him, lifting him up and tossing him into the air like it’s something they’ve done a hundred times.
“Hey, little dude,” Sirius says, grinning. “How’s my favorite godson?”
“I’m your only godson,” the kid shoots back.
“Still my favorite.”
Sirius sets him down and grins at Evan. “This little shithead is Harry. Shithead—meet Ev.”
Harry studies Evan with wide green eyes and a mop of dark curls. Recognition hits all at once—it’s the kid from the beach. The one who told him, with absolute seriousness, that his book was for girls. He grins now, dimples flashing.
“Hi.”
“Hey,” Evan says.
Now that he’s looking, the resemblance is obvious. James’s nose. That ridiculous mess of curls. The same sunny grin. He should’ve seen it sooner.
“Where’s your dad?” Sirius asks.
“Grilling,” Harry says.
“A man of taste,” Sirius replies. “Come on. I could eat a horse.”
“That’s gross,” Harry says.
Sirius gives him a shove toward the grill. “You’re gross.”
James stands there with a beer in one hand and tongs in the other, wearing Spider-Man board shorts, a white, and a striped apron emblazoned with Too Hot to Handle in pink cursive. He looks up, face breaking into a grin when he sees Sirius.
Then his eyes land on Evan.
The smile falters—just for a second. A flicker of surprise. Something else. He looks down at the grill, and something in Evan’s stomach twists. A sharper stab of disappointment, followed by unease. The immediate, unwelcome thought that James doesn’t look happy to see him.
Then James looks back up and smiles again—wide and easy, all warmth—as if the moment never happened. He sets the tongs aside, pulls Sirius into a quick one-armed hug, then claps Evan on the back.
Rem sits in a deck chair talking to a blonde woman. He gives Evan his lopsided smile and raises a hand. Evan wanders over, the unease still itching faintly at the base of his spine—the sense that he’s intruded on something, something James didn’t want him part of.
The woman turns, smiling. Evan recognizes her too—the same woman from the beach.
Rem makes introductions. This is Marls.
“Hello again,” she says.
“Hey. Nice to see you again.”
“You’ve met?” Rem asks.
“Harry accosted him on the beach last week,” Marls says fondly, then adds to Evan, “You made quite an impression. Apparently you own—and I quote—the coolest car in the whole world. It was the topic of conversation the entire ride home.”
Evan chuckles. “I wasn’t sure he remembered me.”
“Oh, he remembers,” Marls says. “He’s just playing it cool. I give it ten minutes before he cracks.”
Rem smiles over the top of his sunglasses. “You guys make it home in one piece last night? Sirius isn’t exactly famous for his designated driver skills.”
Evan snorts. “Yeah. I think he remembered he was supposed to be driving around his seventh beer. Thankfully Mary had her head screwed on—took one for the team. Good thing, too, because Em and I were about half a bottle of tequila in.”
“They seemed cool,” Rem says. “Friends of yours?”
Evan considers the question longer than it probably deserves. Then he nods. Emmeline had said they were friends.
The thought feels warm.
It’s not that he doesn’t have friends. He does. But this feels different. Most of his friendships came through someone else—Reg’s brother, Sirius’s best friend, Barty’s circle. In New York, everyone belonged to someone before they belonged to him.
But Emmeline? He met her on his own. Not because she liked Reg. Not because she knew Barty.
Just because she liked him.
The only other person who ever did that was Reg—and that was when they were kids. This feels good. Silly, maybe. He shouldn’t feel proud for making a friend; people do it every day. It’s just that he isn’t people, and he doesn’t make friends—not often at least.