Page 2 of We Are Just Us

By noon that day, he extended his motel stay. By evening, he was scrolling frantically through local rental listings. And by the end of the week, he signed a month-to-month lease on a small, pale yellow duplex off Santa Fe Drive.

He didn’t surf, didn’t tan, but absolutely burned. He had too many freckles, a mop of red hair, and felt vaguely ridiculous in tank tops, but the ocean had been calling to him anyway, in that persistent, irrational way things called to him when he was running out of reasons to say no.

Kieran squinted through the windshield as he pulled up to the duplex for the first time with all his belongings. The sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the low hills. Encinitas sprawled before him, a landscape filled with beach cottages, organic juice bars, and weather-worn surf shops with hand-painted signs.

“I’m either about to live my dream,” he muttered to the dashboard, “or make a huge, sandy mistake.”

Mabel snorted in response, which Kieran took as a definitive vote of confidence.

The rental was slightly musty, featuring louvered windows that barely shut and a backyard big enough for the dogs to stretch their legs. The online listing claimed it was “steps to the beach,” which turned out to mean six blocks and a brutally steep incline, but he wasn’t mad about it.

He found the lockbox, secured the keys, and dropped his heavy duffel bags onto the tiled floor.

The dogs instantly bolted toward the back door like they’d already claimed the territory. Kieran opened the glass slider and watched them barrel into the overgrown yard, sniffing wildly like they were destined to find buried treasure.

He stood there for a moment, holding onto the doorframe to steady himself. In the yard, Hank found a patch of grass and was rolling in it with the kind of uninhibited, full-body commitment Kieran deeply envied. Mabel was sniffing along the fence line, her tail going a mile a minute as she mapped the perimeter of her new kingdom.

Kieran’s hand drifted to his pocket, his fingers curling around the necklace hidden inside—the cool silver chain and the familiar weight of the circular pendant. Leaving it tucked away, he simply pressed his thumb against the metal through the fabric of his jeans, standing perfectly still.

She would’ve had endless opinions about this place. The old kitchen without a garbage disposal, the six-block lie about beach proximity. She would’ve walked through every single room touching things—the countertops, the light switches, the doorframes—the way she always did in new spaces, like she was introducing herself to the house.

Two years. It was long enough that Kieran stopped expecting to hear her voice when he walked into an empty room, but not quite so long that the silence had stopped catching him off guard. He let go of the necklace and watched Hank, all four legs kicking in the air, tongue out, completely blissful.

Okay. He took a deep breath. This has to be…okay.

The next morning was already bright by 7 a.m., and the Southern California light left nothing hidden. Kieran stood at the bathroom mirror with a toothbrush in his mouth, shirtless, trying to decide if his torso looked better with or without the harsh overhead light on.

The answer was neither, really. He wasn’t in bad shape, just soft in a way that made him look…huggable? At least his arms had decent tone from years of lifting Mabel in and out of the car. Still, he was never quite at ease in his own skin, always adjusting his posture, trying to meet a version of himself that wasn’t actually there.

He didn’t dwell on it. He had errands to run, groceries to buy, and a dog leash to replace because Hank chewed through the last one during the car ride.

He pulled on a clean shirt, locked up the house, and made a detour down to the beach.

It was early enough that the tourists were still trapped in their rentals, sipping hotel coffee and slathering on sunscreen for a high-UV day. The locals, though, were already out in full force: joggers, barefoot kids, and a silver-haired man doing tai chi near the lifeguard stand.

And then there was him. A blue surfboard propped against the picnic table beside him completed the picture. He stretched one arm over his head—a casual, lazy movement that made his ribs pop under tanned skin and his armpit hair catch the wind.

Kieran looked away. Then, immediately, looked back.

His beard was dark and full, not the overly groomed type found in corporate offices, but thick and natural, like it had always been a part of him. His chest was dusted with hair that curled slightly in the salt breeze, tapering down to a shadow that disappeared beneath a pair of low-slung board shorts.

His build was the functional kind that came from real labor—lifting paddleboards, working on roofs, doing yard work just to stay moving.

He was also staring directly back.

Shit.

Kieran turned sharply, pretending to dig through his canvas tote bag for something. His phone, a notebook, a stale protein bar. A viable reason not to panic.

“What’s up?” The voice was deep and crisp.

Kieran looked up to find the guy walking toward him.

“Oh. Uh…hi,” Kieran said, awkwardly straightening up and managing to knock his own sunglasses off his head in the process.

The guy squinted at him. “You’ve got a couple dogs? Springer spaniels?”

“Yeah.” Kieran nodded quickly, then froze as the stranger’s words actually registered. “Wait…how do you know that?”