Page 103 of Neap & Spring

“Low.” Beckett’s grin fades, reality crashing back in. “My board got dinged pretty badly during the competition. I hit a rock on a bad wipeout. Repair is gonna cost at least a thousand bucks.”

“Ouch,” Hayes winces in sympathy.

“Yeah. And I need it fixed before the next comp, which is in two weeks in Santa Cruz.” Beckett shrugs, but I can see the tension creeping back into his shoulders. “Prize money’s already spoken for. Rent, entry fees for the next three competitions, gas to get there and back. Might have to dip into what’s left of my savings.” He runs a hand through his still-damp hair. “Which I really didn’t want to do, but …”

“Can you use a different board?” Callum asks.

“Not at this level. The board is custom-fitted to my weight. I’d have to completely relearn my balance and timing.” Beckett’s voice is frustrated now. “It would be like asking you to cook with someone else’s knives. Technically possible but you’d be fighting against muscle memory the whole time.”

Patrick is watching him carefully, and I can see him filing that information away for later.

This is what they do, I realize. They listen. They pay attention. They remember. And then they help without being asked.

“We will discuss that later, Beck. Don’t worry.” Patrick says gently, his tone shifting to something softer. “Iris? You want to go next?”

Iris shifts beside me, pulling her cardigan tighter around herself like armor.

“High.” She thinks for a moment, her fingers playing with the edge of her sleeve. “I finished reading twelve books this month. Beat my personal record by two.”

“Twelve?” I can’t help saying, turning to look at her. “How is that even possible?”

“I don’t sleep much,” she says simply, like chronic insomnia is just a personality trait. “And I read fast.”

“What were you reading?” Patrick asks, genuinely interested.

“Mostly contemporary fiction. Some poetry. A few classics I’ve been meaning to get to.” She adjusts her glasses, a small smile appearing. “It was a good reading month.”

Iris is quiet for a second. “Low, uh, my landlord raised my rent. Again.”

“That’s illegal,” Hayes says immediately, sitting up straighter. “They can’t raise it more than ten percent annually. That’s California law.”

“It’s exactly ten percent each time.” Iris’s voice is flat and resigned. “Which is technically legal. But this is the third time in three years. They raise it every year.”

“You’re getting priced out of your own apartment,” Hayes exclaims, visibly frustrated over the situation.

Iris shrugs, but I can see the stress in her face. “I’m managing. I picked up some extra freelance work. I’ll make it work.”

“What kind of freelance?” Patrick asks.

“Editing. Proofreading. Content writing. Whatever I can find online that pays.” She adjusts her glasses again, a nervous gesture. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

No one looks convinced. Not even a little bit.

But they don’t push. They just file it away. Another thing to remember. Another person to help when the opportunity comes.

Then everyone looks at me.

My heart starts pounding.

“Oh,” I say, my mouth suddenly dry. “I don’t have —”

“You can keep it simple if you want,” Patrick says, and his voice is kind. “As the kids say, we listen and we don’t judge.”

Beckett groans loudly. “Dad. Please don’t.”

“What? I’m being supportive.”

“You’re being embarrassing.”