Page 29 of Neap & Spring

The table goes quiet.

“What?” Wesley sets down his spoon, the metal clinking against the bowl. “I thought that deal was solid.”

“Yeah, well.” Beckett shrugs, trying for casualness and not quite pulling it off. “Apparently ‘not enough social media presence’ and ‘lack of competitive results’ means they’re going with someone younger. Which is bullshit because I’m twenty-eight and I just placed third in —” He cuts himself off. “Whatever. It’s fine. I’ll find another one.”

“It’s not fine,” Dad says immediately, leaning forward. “How much were they paying you?”

“Dad.”

“Beckett.”

Beckett sighs, his hands flat on the table now. “Thirty-five hundred a month. Plus gear.”

Hayes lets out a low whistle.

“I’ve got savings,” Beckett says quickly. “And I’m teaching surf lessons. I can cover rent for a few months while I figure it out.”

“What about that shop on the pier?” Wesley asks. “The one that just opened. They were looking for someone to teach lessons and run the rental side.”

“Westerly Surf Co?”

“Yeah. The owner’s a friend of mine. I could put in a good word.”

Beckett perks up slightly. “That’d be — yeah. That’d be good.”

“And Beck,” Hayes says, looking up from his cioppino. “Be serious about the social media thing. You need better content and better photos. I can help with that. I know a photographer who owes me a favor.”

“You’d do that?”

“You’re my twin brother. Of course I’d do that.” Hayes shrugs like it’s obvious. “Besides, you’re talented as hell. You just need better marketing.”

“Language,” Dad says mildly, but he’s smiling. He looks at Beckett. “We’ll figure it out. You’re not in this alone.”

Beckett’s throat works. He picks up his water and takes a long drink, and when he sets it down, his eyes are a little too bright. “Thanks.”

“Hayes,” Dad says, turning to him. “You’re up.”

Hayes sets down his water glass with the precision he brings to everything, the glass finding the exact spot on the table where it was before. “High: I finished the designs for the waterfront development project in Crescent Bay. The client loved them. It’s going to be the biggest thing I’ve done.”

“That’s huge,” I say, and I mean it. Hayes has been working toward something like this for years.

“Thanks.” There’s pride in his voice, the kind Hayes doesn’t show often. “Low: the project’s probably going to mean a lot more travel. I might need to be on-site three or four days a week for the next six months.”

“That’s a lot of driving,” Wesley says, his spoon pausing halfway to his mouth.

“Yeah.” Hayes runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “I’m already driving from Dunmore to Crescent Bay most days, but with this new project I’m going to need to be on-site up and down the coast at different jobsites. I won’t have a real home base for a while.”

“Then use the shed.” Dad offers while tearing off a piece of bread, the crust crackling. “I converted it into an office this winter, insulated it, put in a heater. You need somewhere to land between sites, and you’re not going to get any real work done out of that tiny apartment.”

Hayes blinks. “You built an office? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I had to do something with the space. I had the time, and I figured one of you would need it eventually.” Dad’s voice is casual, but I can see the way he’s watching Hayes. “It’s yours if you want it. Saves you the drive a couple days a week.”

“Dad, I can’t just —”

“Shut up, Hayes. You’re not imposing.” Dad’s tone leaves no room for argument. “Besides, I like having you boys around. The place is too quiet otherwise.”

Hayes looks like he’s trying to figure out how to argue and coming up empty. His hands fold together on the table, then unfold. “That’d actually help a lot. Thank you.”