They get back to Palos Verdes Estates just before nine, the last streaks of sunset fading out behind the palms. Sirius is totally passed out in the passenger seat, mouth open against the window, snoring. When they pull up in front of his parents’ house, Sirius gives Evan a lopsided grin, pulls him into a quick, one-armed hug—heavy and a little sweaty from the drive.
“Later, dude,” Sirius mumbles. “Don’t tell your sister I drooled on her car.”
Then he ambles off up the drive, yawning so hard he nearly trips over the curb. Evan jumps out and follows suit, flopping down on the couch in his parents living room and flicking on the tv. He channel-surfs, thumb skipping from Who Wants to Be a Millionaire (theme song inescapable all year), to a rerun of Charmed—Prue throwing someone across a room with a flick of her hand. A moment later, The Sopranos flashes up on HBO, Tony muttering about the cold cuts, but Evan isn’t really watching. He’s thinking about James, and about the day—the garden and the laughter, the edge in James’s voice he couldn’t quite place. Something had been off. That ease they’d had the first day, out surfing, had slipped away, replaced by something tighter, more careful. For some reason it makes him feel sort of sad, like he’s lost something.
Evan tries to distract himself in the flicker of the TV, but the feeling sticks: a sense of having missed something, of wanting to ask a question and not knowing how. In the hush of the house—just the low hum of the screen, the distant sound of waves outside—it feels bigger than it should.
Then, suddenly, a burst of static snaps him out of it. He startles as James’s voice comes through, crackly but unmistakable, from the walkie talkie sitting on the coffee table beneath his feet.
“Ev, you there?”
For a moment Evan just stares at it, half-convinced he’s conjured James out of thin air by thinking about him too hard. He hesitates, then grabs the walkie, thumb pressing the side button.
“Yeah, here.”
There’s a pause—just a little fizz of static—then James’s voice again. “You get home okay?”
“Yeah, Sirius fell asleep. Kept talking about pelicans in his sleep, think that second round of burgers did him in.”
A low laugh.
“Hey–” Evan says, “Look, I kind of got the feeling you weren’t expecting me. I’m sorry if I crashed. ”
“I wasn't but hey man, don’t apologise, it was good to see you.” A pause, and then; “I'm glad you came.”
Another, longer pause.
And then James, again— “Harry was talking about you all through bath time, think you might actually have to make a movie with him now. You won’t get any peace till you do, trust me when he makes up his mind on something it happens.”
“Oh yeah, it’s happening,” says Evan. “We had a pretty in-depth chat about plot points around the time the water melon came out.”
“I noticed that,” says James and Evan thinks it sounds like he’s smiling.
“Kid’s got a real vision,” Evan says. “Told me he wants lasers, but not Star Wars—something original. Said we’d get to work as soon as I’m done with this current job.”
James laughs, softer now, more himself. “How’s that going?”
Evan shifts, settling deeper into the couch. “I dunno, man. Some days I feel like there’s actually something there, like I might be able to make it into something halfway decent. Other days it’s just—” He shrugs, knowing James can’t see it, “—it’s just me being delusional, wasting time on a pile of utter garbage.”
“If anyone can do it, you can,” James says, without hesitation.
Evan snorts. “You might not say that if you’d read the book.”
“Nah. You’ve got crazy talent. I fully believe you could make something out of nothing.”
Evan regards the walkie, amused. “And you’re basing this on what, exactly?”
“I saw your film,” James says.
That catches Evan off guard. For a moment, he wonders if he’s misheard. If his memory serves James is more an action flick type of guy than queer indie art house cinema.
“You saw Half-Light?” Evan asks, just to be sure.
“Yeah,” James says. “It was good. Like, actually good. One of the best films I’ve seen.”
For a second, Evan can’t quite find a response, James’s words settle somewhere beneath Evan’s ribs, unexpected and warm.
“Thanks,” Evan says, voice quieter than before.
There’s another pause, then James goes on, “Bit surprised Rem didn’t totally freak out meeting you. He’s big into cinema—should’ve heard him after we saw your film. Called it a masterpiece.”
Evan smiles. “Don’t think it ever came up, to be honest.”
“Ah. That’d explain it, then.” James sounds amused, but there’s something else—an edge of hesitation in his voice that makes Evan pay attention. After a moment, James adds, “He, um… actually asked me for your number.”
“Did he?” Evan says, wondering suddenly if this is the purpose of the current conversation, a brief, unwelcome stab of disappointment rises at the thought.
“Told him I didn’t have it, but said I’d pass his along to you. You ready?”
“Sure,” says Evan, making no move to get a pen or even glance around for paper.
“It’s 548-7716.”
“Cool, thanks.”
Evan isn’t going to call Rem. He likes him well enough, sure—and the guy is cute but Evan’s not interested, he’s not sure why exactly, maybe it’s Barty—maybe he’s just not ready—or maybe, a treacherous whispers somewhere in the back of his brain, maybe it’s got nothing to do with Barty and something to do with why you keep thinking about the guy currently on the other end of the walkie talkie.
James, as if reading his mind says. “You’re not going to call him are you?”
“No.”
James laughs, low and genuine. “Did you even write the number down?”
“I did not,” Evan admits.
“You could’ve just said you weren’t interested,” James teases, voice light, amused.
“Didn’t want to be rude. He’s your friend, and he’s a cool guy. Just not really my thing.”
There’s a pause, softer now, and then James asks, “so, uh… what is your thing?” His tone is curious, like he really wants to know.
“Oh, you know. I like them tall, dark, and likely to break my heart.”
James snorts, the sound warm through the static. “Poetic.”
“I try.”
There’s a beat, and then neither of them says anything for a moment. The TV flickers, muted and forgotten, the sound of the ocean drifting through the open window.
James’s voice comes again, softer now, hesitant but real. “Did he—your ex, did he break your heart?”
Evan considers the question, feeling the shape of it. He lets out a slow breath, gaze fixed on the blue light shifting across the ceiling. “I think I broke it myself, to be honest. But he definitely helped.”
The walkie crackles quietly in his hand, the silence between them suddenly full of meaning. There’s no answer for a moment, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable—just honest.
Finally, James says, quietly, “I’m sorry.”
Evan smiles to himself. “Don’t be. I’m actually happier now—or at least getting there. Didn’t even realise how miserable I was until it was over. Sort of still realising now.”
He lets out a small laugh, not bitter, just honest.
“It’s weird, you know? You get so used to something being heavy that you forget that it doesn’t have to be that way.”
James is quiet for a moment, then says, “Yeah. I do know.”
“What about you?” asked Evan, “what’s your deal?”
“My deal?” asks James, sounding amused.
“Yeah,” says Evan, “I spent half the day thinking you and Marls were a thing—only realised I was wrong when Fab showed up.”
“Yeah, nah.” James’ words are careful, like he’s choosing them with care. “I was having some legal issues—custody stuff. Things got pretty ugly for a while and money was tight. Marls let me move in and then, I dunno, it just… stuck. I keep offering to move out, especially now she’s with Fab. Figure they’ll want the place to themselves eventually, start their own thing. But every time I bring it up she just tells me to shut up.”
Evan wants to ask—about what James means by custody stuff, about Harry’s mom, about why things got ugly—but he doesn’t want to pry, not really. So instead, he goes for something lighter.
“Any girlfriends in the picture?”
James snorts. “You kidding? College dropout with a kid? Not exactly most people’s idea of Mr. Right.”
Evan clocks the ‘college dropout’ detail, he hadn’t know that. James had been in college when he’d left—CalArts, if he remembers right—he wants to ask, but there’s something in James’s voice that makes him think maybe he shouldn’t, so he files it away for later.
He shifts into his best Sirius impression—overblown surfer drawl and all—“No way, man, you’re selling yourself short. That’s the golden ticket—smokin’ hot dad, cute kid—dude, chicks eat that up.”
It works. James laughs—warm and unguarded—and it makes something in Evan’s chest go tight. He likes making James laugh, and that is, well that’s something he’s not going to unpack right now is what it is.
He clears his throat, tries to keep it light. “Or so I hear, anyway. But hey, there are guys out there who are into it, so I assume it works for girls too.”
There’s a pause, and then a crackle of static and James says, “good to know.” There’s a beat and Evan thinks he hears James sigh, and then he says, “I should go. I’m on breakfast shift tomorrow. Six a.m. start.”
“Brutal,” Evan replies. He hesitates a second, then adds, “Hey—if you’ve got time, you wanna hit the waves some day this week?”
There’s another pause—and then James answers, softer, “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”
“Cool,” Evan says.
James yawns. “I’m off at twelve tomorrow. We could see how the waves are—unless you’re busy?”
“Tomorrow sounds good. Where do you work? I’ll bring your board down.”
“You know the diner off Western—Harbor View?”
“Think so,” says Evan.
“It’s got a surfboard with a bite taken out for a sign, can’t miss it.”
“Okay—guess I’ll see you tomorrow then,” says Even.
“See you tomorrow,” echoes James, and then adds, “goodnight Ev.”
The walkie goes quiet. Evan considered redoubling his effort to watch TV, but gives up and just goes to bed. He falls asleep quickly, and he dreams about Barty.
They’re in the kitchen of their old New York apartment, except the windows look out over the Pedro coastline—blue haze, sun-bleached rooftops, nothing fitting together the way it should. Barty’s sitting at the table, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers, the ashtray just out of reach.
He doesn’t say anything, just watches Evan with that look—part challenge, part question. The walkie is sitting on the table next to him, “Are you really happier without me, Rosie?” Barty’s voice asks, cracked with static, as it comes not from him but from the walkie in Evans hand. Evan wakes with a start—uneasy.
The early morning sun streams through the window, sharp and golden. Evan gets up, makes coffee, and takes it out into the garden, sipping it while he leans on the fence at the back of the property. Below, the cliffs drop steep to the rocks, and the Pacific crashes and pulls, steady as breath. He watches the waves and tries to shake off the remnants of the dream, but Barty’s question hangs in the edges of his mind, ghostlike.
Yes I am. He thinks. Or at least, I think I will be.
Eventually, he heads back inside, boots up his laptop, and gets to work. He manages a solid four hours of writing—real progress for once—before showering and heading down to Pedro just after eleven.
He finds the diner without too much trouble—a squat chrome-sided building with a battered surfboard over the door and a neon sign buzzing weakly against the daylight. He’s early, by about fifteen minutes, so he wanders in, takes a seat at the counter, and orders a coffee.
The place smells like bacon grease and toast and the decor looks unchanged since the sixties: red vinyl booths, a jukebox, sun-faded photos of surfers and fishing boats taped to the walls.
Through the gap in the service window, he spots James at the pass, loading plates onto the ledge—apron tied haphazard. James glances up, catches Evan’s eye, and grins, lifting a hand in greeting before ducking back out of view.
One of the waitresses—a girl maybe nineteen, or twenty ponytail bobbing, lip gloss shining and a name tag that reads Beth—saunters over with the coffee. She sets it down, shoots Evan a flirty look.
“So, you local?” she asks, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Haven’t seen you in here before.”
“Nah, I live over in PVE. Just here to see my friend—” Evan nods toward the kitchen.
Her eyes light up. “You know James?” she asks. “He’s, like, the best guy.”
“He is,” Evan agrees amiably.
“I’m Beth, by the way,” she says, giving him a dazzling smile—one that, if he were even remotely interested in women, probably would’ve worked a treat. “What’s your name?”
“Evan,” he says.
Beth leans in, elbows on the counter. “So, Evan, you surf too? James is, like, totally obsessed.”
“I do,” says Evan.
“That is so cool, I love surfers. Maybe you could teach me some time,” she says, batting her eyes at him with a practiced flutter.
“Um, yeah, maybe—” he says, he’s starting to regret not just waiting for James in the parking lot.
Beth beams, leaning even closer, giving Evan a truly spectacular view of her cleavage—which he tries, with all the awkward grace of a gay man at a high school dance, not to look at despite it being more or less eye level. He stares into his mug, takes a sip (dire, obviously), and hopes James isn’t going to be much longer.
A hand lands on his shoulder—James, smelling slightly of fryer oil but grinning at him. Evan tries to keep the relief off his face as he pulls a five bucks from his wallet, pushes it across the counter, and manages, “Keep the change.”
Beth flashes him another megawatt smile, practically batting her lashes off. “See you, Evan!” she says brightly.
James gets a wave too, which he returns.
Evan lets out a low breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Friendly girl.”
James snorts. “Not tall, dark and deadly enough for you?”
“That….” agrees Evan, “and just not male enough.”
James chuckles and Evan pulls out his keys and clicks the unlock button, the lights on the Wrangler flashing in welcome. James raises his eyebrows, half-grinning as Evan opens the driver’s door.
“Damn, that’s a ride.”
Evan grimaces. “It’s Dora’s.” He gives James a sidelong look. “Don’t tell Harry, though—I’m not ready to lose my ‘coolest grown-up’ status.”
“Hey, your secret’s safe with me man. He thought I was cool till about a year ago, still stings. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Evan rolls them out of the lot and into the sun and salt air. By the time they park above the stretch of sand, it’s gone half twelve—the sun high, the water glittering. They unload the boards and strip down. Evan tucks the keys into his shoe, runs a hand through his hair, and glances sideways at James who grins back at him. And it’s just like it was that first day, as if no time at all has passed, the hint of odd tension from the day before is gone. They jog down to the water, boards under their arms, and the world narrows to sun and salt and the rush of cold Pacific on bare skin.
They haul themselves out of the water an hour later, salt-streaked and half-blind from sun and spray. James collapses onto the sand, board half-buried, hair sticking up in every direction.
Evan drops down beside him, legs stretched out, chest still buzzing from the cold and the run of it all. For a minute, they just sit, letting the sun bake the chill out of their bones.
James pushes his hair out of his eyes and grins over. “Feel like I should buy you a tub of mint choc chip to mark that epic wipe out.”
Evan rolls his eyes. “Don’t think I didn’t see you fumble that last set Kelly Slater.”
James shoves him lightly with his shoulder. It gets quieter after that, both of them watching the tide pull at the kelp, gulls circling overhead. Evan lets himself fall back onto the sand, closes his eyes, and turns his face up to the sun, letting the warmth soak into his skin.
When he opens his eyes a few minutes later, James is watching him—dark eyes intent, almost searching. He glances quickly away when Evan catches his eye, turns his gaze out to the water, and clears his throat.
“You got your tan back pretty quick,” he says. “Look like you never left.”
Evan glances down the length of his bare chest—he hadn’t really noticed, but his skin has darkened back to the golden brown it was before New York. He grins. “Been out most days since I’ve been back.”
James nods, eyes still trained on the surf. “Yeah, can tell. You look good out there—be leaving me in the dust soon.”
Evan pushes himself upright. “Not while you’re still offering to buy me ice cream whenever I wipe out. That’s a sure way to keep me around.”
James snorts, there’s flush blooming high on his cheeks—and Evan can’t tell if it’s just sun and salt, or if it's something else. His heart does that same dangerous stutter it had the day before, and he winces inwardly. He glances sideways at James, who’s watching the water. The feeling tightens in his chest—equal parts dread and a ridiculous, hopeful spark. That same treacherous voice from the night before surfaces in the back of his head. This time sounding suspiciously like Emmaline.
You like him.
Shit.
This was not good. Not good at all.