Evan wakes with a kink in his neck, a sharp complaint running down his spine as he blinks blearily up at the sky. It’s gone that velvety purple of early dawn, streaked with faint ribbons of pink and lilac. He sits up slowly, joints protesting, and it takes a few seconds to register where he is—the deck, the two empty beer bottles, the walkie still resting by his elbow.
Inside the clock on the kitchen wall reads half five and he’s just considering coffee when the sharp blare of a horn splits the quiet. Once, twice, three times, echoing up the drive. Evan fights off a smile, abandons the idea of caffeine in favour of shoving his feet into flip-flops, grabbing his wallet and heading for the door. There’s only one person who’d be honking in his driveway before six am. Sure enough, Mary’s navy Range Rover idles outside, headlights still on. Emmeline is half-hanging out the passenger window, one arm waving as she cups the other around her mouth.
“Rise and shine, New York!” she calls, voice carrying up the slope of the drive. “Waves are killer, move your butt!”
Five minutes later Nelly is secured on Mary’s roof rack and Evan is sliding into the back seat. They pull into Bluff Cove ten minutes later, Evan whistles as he climbs out. Mary hadn’t been lying—the sets are overhead, rolling in fast and breaking clean.
Emmeline drops from the passenger side and nudges him with her shoulder, “race you down,” she says.
They run down the steep path, boards under arm—feet skidding on the loose gravel of the path. Evan catches his first wave on instinct, dropping in as the face steepens, board thrumming under his feet. Spray catches the light as he cuts across the green, racing the break, heart slamming, every nerve tuned to the rush of water and speed. For a few seconds it feels endless, suspended—him, the wave, the day cracking open in streaks of pink and gold. There’s a flash of lilac fish and Mac is cutting past him. Evan paddles back out, pausing in the channel to scan the lineup. The break’s filling and he scans the bobbing black shapes, sure enough it looks like the whole crew is there. Frank and Alice side by side as always, the picture of coordination. A little further down the hulking silhouettes of Bones and Flint. A head of sandy hair catches the early light and a moment later Pete swings in beside him, bleary-eyed, yawning like he’s only just crawled out of bed. Evan grins, flicks a spray of water at him, and earns a reproachful look in return.
Around them boards dart and weave, water flashing under the early light. Bones and Flint hoot as they drop in tandem, carving wide and heavy, while Mac hovers close behind them, hollering something about flow, it’s all about flow before the spray drowns him out. Frank and Alice dart around each other like dancers in some oceanic ballet. Further down the line Mary takes off late, drops straight into the pocket, and makes it look easy, effortless, as if the wave belongs to her. By quarter to eight the gang is sprawled across the beach, boards planted in the sand and wetsuits stripped to the waist, everyone salty and buzzing with the adrenaline that only big waves can instill.
“Who’s hooking me up with pancakes?” asks Pete from where he lies splayed on his back. “I was up at the crack of dawn. That’s a major sacrifice. Somebody owes me a stack.”
“I got you,” says Evan grinning at him.
“Apprecitate it E dude,” answers Pete.
Bones and Flint lead the way back up the path to the cars, arms windmilling as they reenact a drop, both of them talking over each other, Alice is giggling: “You both look like you’re having a fit,” she calls.
At the top Mac hands around a plastic container. “Spirulina bites,” he says. “Packed with protein, adaptogens, full-spectrum minerals—”
“Packed with pond scum,” Mary interrupts.
“Algae,” Mac corrects, visibly offended. “It’s sustainable. It’s the future.”
Flint takes one, chews and then grimaces. “Tastes like…shampoo.” He pauses as if thinking and then adds. “But, like, good shampoo.”
Alice takes one and then stage whispers, “We’ll regret this when we’re all glowing green later.”
Pete refuses the tub when Mac pushes it toward him. “Dude no,” he says, shaking his head, “I’m begging you. It’s too early for food that green.”
Evan, feeling brave—accepts the tub. It's not actually half bad, he thinks as he chews, kind of earthy but not horrible.
Emmeline raises an eyebrow at him, “verdict?”
Evan shrugs, “give it a seven point five,” he says honestly. Which on the Mac Snack scale was a good rating, considering the last one of Mac's concoctions he’d tried had been some sort of Japanese fish jerky, this was by comparison, pretty inoffensive, all things considered.
After breakfast Evan spends the rest of the morning buried in work, then in the afternoon he drives downtown for a meeting with his agent—who, with terrifying conviction, insists that he “join the twenty-first century” and buy a cell phone. The thing cost him nearly four hundred dollars, which seems absurd for a device with a keyboard half the size of his palm.
Back home he carves out another scene of Love on Sunset Bay, and then when the clock hits half four he calls it a day, and heads out onto the deck. The grill stares back at him, something about it almost accusatory, as if to say, use me. He considers it, and then, making a decision on the spot, pulls out his new phone and keys in James' number.
It rings twice before a small, serious voice answers. “Hello, Potter and McKinnon residence.”
Harry.
Evan smiles. “Hey, Haz. It’s Evan.”
“Evan!” Harry’s voice shoots up an octave, followed immediately by a torrent of words flooding out of the tiny phone speaker at light speed. “I went to a birthday party yesterday and there was a magician, and he pulled a rabbit out of a real hat, and then the rabbit peed on the floor and—and we had balloons and I got a whistle and—”
Evan leans against the railing, grinning as the monologue tumbles on. Somewhere in the background, he hears James’s voice.
“It’s Evan!” Harry yells back, without breaking stride. “And Evan—Evan—guess what—the cake was shaped like the Hulk—”
There’s a muffled scuffle. Footsteps. James’s voice again, this time loud enough for Evan to make out the words beneath Harry’s tirade.
“Harry, give me the phone!”
“No!” Harry sounds breathless. There’s another scuffle, and Evan thinks he can hear small feet slapping across linoleum. “I’m telling Evan!”
Harry launches into the contents of the party bags, rattling everything off in one long, breathless sentence. Eventually, there’s a shriek, a thud, and a drawn-out “Noooo!” before James’s voice comes down the line, a little breathless and much closer to the receiver.
“Ev?”
“Yeah,” says Evan. “Hey.”
From somewhere in the background, Harry shouted, “Tell Evan—”
What James was meant to tell him Evan never found out, Harry’s voice shut off by the unmistakable sound of a door closing.
“Sorry,” said James, “he knows he’s not meant to answer the phone—-”
“It’s all good man,” says Evan, “I was kind of enjoying hearing about the party bags.”
James’ laugh is soft and almost relieved.
“So,” he says, “what’s up?”
Evan hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not much,” he says finally. “Just—uh—I was wondering if you’d eaten. Or had plans for dinner. I know it’s a school night, so no pressure or anything, but I was thinking of firing up the grill. Thought I’d see if you two wanted to drive up. Hang out for a couple hours.”
There’s a pause on the line—small, but long enough for Evan to feel it. He holds his breath, staring out at the edge of the horizon. It isn’t too much, is it? Just dinner. Not dinner dinner. Chicken, maybe fish. Not a date. Definitely not that. Just friends, catching up. Totally normal. Totally Chill.
“You offering to show off those cooking skills you told me about?” asks James, he sounds like he’s smiling.
“I’m offering to grill for you,” replies Evan, feeling oddly relieved. It’s not a no. “Don’t get too excited.”
There’s a short pause on the line, the faint sound of static and a dog barking somewhere in the distance, before James says: “you want me to bring anything?”
“Nah, man, it’s cool,” there’s a stupid smile fighting to break across his face, he hopes James can’t hear it in his voice. “I was gonna hit the store anyway. What does Harry like?”
“He’ll eat anything as long as it’s got ketchup on it.”
“Ketchup. Got it.”
When the line clicks dead, Evan stands there for a moment, listening to the quiet, the surf breaking somewhere down the hill. His reflection looks back at him in the glass door—still smiling. Then he grabs his keys and heads for the Wrangler, mentally putting together a shopping list as he goes. He’s back half an hour later with probably more food than is necessary. By six, the chicken thighs are marinating in lime, garlic, and chipotle, the potatoes crisping in a cast-iron pan. A bowl of heirloom tomatoes and avocado sits on the counter, glossy with olive oil; sweetcorn waits by the grill ready to char. Evan tries to ignore the fact that he’s trying to impress: hopes James can’t tell. He wipes his hands on a towel just as tyres crunch up the drive. A minute later comes the knock—quick, uneven. Harry’s. When Evan opens the door, the kid is bouncing on his heels in that way he does—like he’s ready to take off like a rocket.
“Hey,” says Evan, stepping aside. “Come on in.”
Harry is off like a shot the moment his shoes hit the floor, sprinting down the hall towards the deck. “Wow, this place is huuugggge!”
James smiles, a little lopsided. “Hey,” he says.
“You want a drink?” asks Evan.
James accepts a soda, Evan snaps the top off a beer for himself. Out on the deck, the grill hisses as Evan lifts the lid. The chicken has caramelised—edges crispy, centres glistening. The air smells of smoke and lime—
“Damn,” says James, leaning in over his shoulder. “That looks crazy good.”
“It’s nothing special,” Evan says. “Just chicken, veg. Standard stuff.”
He focuses his attention on the meat. Looking directly at James doesn’t feel like a good idea; he’s wearing a black linen shirt, half open at the collar, and khakis, a gold cross glinting against his chest. He’s done something to his hair; it’s tamer than its usual hectic mess of curls. He looks good. Really, really good. He looks like he’s made an effort. It makes Evan wonder if this is how James would dress for a date. It isn’t a date. Obviously. Ridiculous thought. It’s just dinner, totally normal dinner. He knows that, but still—once the thought crosses his mind, it won’t leave. It just sits there, insistent and stupid, humming quietly beneath the sound of the waves and the sizzle of the grill.
Harry, apparently done with his exploration of the yard, bounces up beside Evan. Evan is stupidly grateful for the distraction.
“You wanna get in on the action, dude?” he asks.
Harry nods so hard his hair flops into his eyes.
Evan pulls over a chair and steadies it beside the grill. “Step up here, sous-chef. You’re on corn duty.”
Harry climbs up, bare feet gripping the seat. Evan hands him a pair of tongs almost as long as his arm.
“Okay,” says Evan. “You’re on corn duty. Your mission: keep turning them so they don’t burn.”
Harry nods solemnly.
“Dad, look!” he shouts after about ten minutes, holding up a perfectly charred cob. “I’m the sooz chef!” he turns to Evan then and adds, “what is a sooz chef?”
“Sous chef,” corrects Evan. “Means you’re my second-in-command. I’m Batman of the grill, you’re Robin.”
Harry’s eyes are bright. “Cool.”
They eat out on the deck, the sky sliding from pink to blue. Harry drowns everything in ketchup—chicken, corn, even a slice of avocado—and keeps up a steady stream of commentary the entire meal: stories about school, about a new comic book, about a kid called Trevor who can burp the alphabet.
When they’re done, James stands and says, “I’ll get the dishes.” Evan starts to protest, but James is already stacking plates, brushing him off. “You cooked. Least I can do is clean up.”
Evan is sure he spotted a football in the Blacks’ garage a few days ago. Harry follows him in to investigate, and after a little rummaging they find it wedged behind a stack of folding chairs. Within minutes, they’re kicking it across the yard, the evening light fading around them as Evan tries to keep up with a six-year-old whose boundless energy more than makes up for his questionable grasp of the rules. Harry moves the makeshift goalposts twice, declares himself the winner, and immediately demands another game.
“Goal!” Harry yells for the third time as the ball shoots into a flower bed.
“Pretty sure that was out of bounds,” Evan argues.
Harry shakes his head. “Nope. Totally counts.”
Evan feels eyes on him—he turns to find James leaning against the deck railing, watching. He’s smiling—a private smile, one Evan hasn’t seen before—and for a second, the noise of the world falls away and Evan is caught completely in that smile. Then Harry kicks the ball directly into Evan’s shin, and the spell breaks. Evan bites off several choice curse words before taking off after him.
It’s just after eight when James and Harry leave. Evan walks them down the driveway, hands shoved in his pockets. The night’s cooled off, the air thick with the smell of salt and jasmine. They reach the car, and Harry waves before climbing in—fighting a yawn, eyes half-lidded. James lingers for a moment, door half-open. “Thanks for dinner,” he says, quiet but sincere.
Evan shrugs. “Anytime.”
For a second, neither of them moves. The light from the house cuts a soft halo through the dark, and James’s face is all gold edges and shadow. Then he smiles—brown eyes crinkling at the corners—and slides into the driver’s seat. The headlights flare, flooding the quiet street as he reverses out onto the road. Evan stands there, watching until the glow of James’s tail lights disappear around the bend, the night settling into stillness.
The next morning, as he straddles his board—the sun turning the glassy water to gold—Evan glances over at Emmeline, both of them quiet in the stillness of early light. It’s just them this morning.
“I think I’m in trouble,” he says. It’s the same thought that had been looping through his head as he fell asleep the night before.
She looks over, squinting against the sun. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. James and Harry came over last night for dinner.” He exhales, eyes on the horizon. “I really like him, Em.”
Her mouth curves into a sharp, knowing smile. “And that’s bad?”
He lifts one shoulder. “It is if he doesn’t like me back—then yeah it’s a problem.”
Emmeline splashes him, water catching the light like shards of gold. “Don’t catastrophise yet, okay? You never know—maybe it’ll work out.”
In that moment, with Emmeline smiling at him and the world still and gold around them, Evan almost believes it. Anything seems possible.
He smiles. “Maybe.”
The next set rises in the distance, sunlight breaking across the glassy surface and sending a thousand shimmering shards of gold into the air. A minute more of calm—and then they’re off, boards cutting through the liquid gold, Emmeline chasing his wake.