Evan wakes to the dull throb of a headache and the sun sneaking sharp and golden across the wooden floors of his bedroom. His mouth tastes like the memory of last night’s beer and his thoughts are slow and hazy. Somewhere downstairs, a door slams, the sound harsh in the quiet house.
Then—
“YO, FAG FACE”
A beat.
“YOU HOME BRO?”
Sirius.
Evan hauls himself upright as footsteps thunder up the stairs. A second later, the door bursts open without a knock and Sirius appears with all the force of a tsunami—sunglasses, sun brown skin and long dark hair pulled back into a messy knot rushing towards Evan in a blur of movement.
“There he is!” Sirius crows, launching himself onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and dragging Evan into a crushing half–bear hug, half–linebacker tackle. “You broke my board you little shithead,” growls Sirius into his neck.
Evan feels a smile split his face as he hugs Sirius back—a lightness spreading through his chest as he’s enveloped in the familiar scent of Sirius, a mixture of Sex Wax, pot and Axe Body Spray.
“Yeah,” he says, “but I looked really cool doing it. You would’ve been proud.”
Sirius rolls off him, flopping dramatically backwards across the mattress.
“That board’s been with me since Baja. Not cool dude.”
“Stop pouting, I’ll fix it.”
Sirius turns his head to look at Evan with a wide shit eating grin. “Waves are killer—wanna see if you can break my other boards?”
Evan shoves him and Sirius laughs, he sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.
“Come on kiddo, tide waits for no man.”
“Give me ten,” says Evan getting out of bed and pulling on a pair of board shorts.
“Wicked,” said Sirius, already halfway to the door. “I’ll load the boards. But I’m choosing. You’ve lost your privileges.”
“Rude.”
“Earn them back, sunshine.”
Sirius vanishes with the same force he’d arrived—door swinging shut behind him with a bang, footsteps echoing down the stairs.
Evan finds a t-shirt, and follows Sirius out the house and into the drive, a gleaming black Bronco idling in wait—spotless, chrome catching the early light, all rumble and polish. Sirius is waiting behind the wheel one arm slung out the window, Nirvana blasting loud enough to wake the neighbours.
“What is this shit, the freaking douchmobile?” Says Evan as he climbs in. “You’re almost as bad as Dora,”
Sirius doesn’t miss a beat.
“Dude, your sister has impeccable taste,” he says, flashing a grin as he revves the engine.
“You’re such a peacock,” Evan says with a laugh.
“I’ve been told I wear it well.”
“Yeah, by who? Yourself?”
“Absolutely,” Sirius says, throwing the Bronco into gear. “Every freaking day man.”
They peel out of the drive with a crunch of gravel, the smell of salt and warming tarmac filling the cab as they speed along the cliffs. They stop for coffee on the drive, Sirius ordering something that’s less a drink and more a dessert in a cup— all whipped cream and caramel drizzle.
“Bro,” says Evan, eyeing it with a mixture of horror and fascination, “what the actual hell is that?”
Sirius passes him his own cup—mercifully black filter—then takes a triumphant sip of his own.
“Better than the shit you drink is what it is.”
Evan grins. “It’s called coffee. You might’ve heard of it.”
Sirius rolls his eyes, throwing the car into reverse with one hand.
“Do I judge your life choices?”
“Yes.”
“Do I judge all your life choices?”
“Yes.”
“Shut up and drink your depressed bean juice like a good little East Coast snob.”
Evan flips him off and Sirius flashes him a whipped-cream moustache grin.
There’s already a few cars parked along the cliffs when they arrive. The beach unfurls below them like a postcard—golden sand and glassy breaks, waves peeling clean and steady under the rising light. Dark dots bobbing like seals across the break, stark against the bright blue water.
“Waves are so freaking choice man,” Sirius said, grinning as he scans the coast, one hand shading his eyes.
They paddled out past the breakers, shoulders burning and lungs open to the cool sea air. The water is cold and fresh against Evan’s face and hands. Sirius doesn’t waste time, carving back and forth, tossing spray behind him in wide arcs.
The next wave rolls in clean and glassy, head-high and curling like it had been shaped just for Evan. He paddles hard, catches it carving fast down the line. He cuts up and back, tucks into the shoulder and lets the water fold around him. For a moment, the world narrows to just the inside of the wave—blue and white and thunder—and then he kicks out clean, back into open water, adrenaline fizzing under his skin.
Sirius cheers from further out, throwing up double shakas.
Evan laughs, breathless.
“Looking good, New York!” a girl’s voice rings out behind him.
Evan turns just as someone slices past—sleek board, and a flash of a razor-sharp smile. She shoots him a look over her shoulder, eyes bright under salt-streaked lashes. Recognition flashes in Evan, it’s one of the girls from the beach last night.
Evan catches two more waves before his arms start to burn, he straddles his board, bobbing in the swell as he watches Sirius cut sharp turns with the kind of ease that only comes from years in the water. Sirius arches down the curve of a wave throwing up a spray so clean it arcs like glass, and finishes with a lazy drop-knee on the board like he’s posing for a photo that hasn’t been taken.
“Show-off,” Evan mutters, with a smile and a shake of his head.
“Still got it,” says Sirius paddling towards him.
“You never lost it,” Evan says, splashing him. “But that drop-knee? Bit over the top.”
Sirius grins, unrepentant. “What can I say? Gotta give the people what they want.”
“By people, you mean you right,” Evan says
“Exactly,” Sirius laughs, and they drift together for a moment, boards rocking gently as a new set builds on the horizon.
It’s mid-morning by the time they make it in, the sun already high and the breeze fading as the day begins to heat. Sirius collapses onto the sand with one arm flung over his eyes, theatrical as ever. Evan drops beside him, draping a towel over his shoulders before stretching out his legs, the grit of the sand grounding him back into his own skin. They sit in companionable silence, the kind that only comes from hours in the water and years of knowing each other. Just the soft lap of waves, the rustle of wind through coastal scrub, the occasional yell from farther down the beach.
A blur of motion catches Evan’s eye—a girl slicing through the shallows with smooth efficiency, neat kick-turn and a practiced dismount. It’s the same girl who called out earlier.
She’s not alone. Another girl trails behind her, board tucked under one arm. No wetsuit—just a hot pink bikini despite the cold of the water, salt-tangled sun bleached hair, and the confidence of someone who knows exactly how good they look. Evan hides a smile as he sees Sirius clock her, his shift from sprawled exhaustion to sudden alertness almost comical, head tipped up just enough to watch as the pair make their way across the sand towards them.
“Not bad New York,” says the girl from the party.
Evan can’t remember her name, but it’s the same girl who’d grilled him on his favourite surf spots the night before.
“Back at you,” Evan replies.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” Sirius drawls his gaze locked onto the girl in the hot pink bikini.
Evan huffs a laugh. “This is Sirius,” he says, glancing between the girls.
“Emmaline,” says the girl from the party with a sharp smile.
“Sirius Black right?” Asks the other girl, the one in the hot pink bikini.
“I see my reputation proceeds me,” says Sirius with a grin.
“Mary McDonald,” says the girl in the hot pink bikini. “I went to Chadwick.”
“Nah,” says Sirius. “You can’t have gone to Chadwick. I would’ve remembered you,” his voice drops just enough to make it a line.
Evan almost rolls his eyes, but Mary just smiles wider. “I was two grades below but I remember you.”
There’s something about her stance—the easy confidence, the way she balances the board against her hip—that tugs at Evan’s memory. He watches her for a moment, narrowing his eyes as he tries to place her. And then it lands.
“Shit,” he says. “No way.”
She glances at him.
“I know you,” says Evan, with a slightly stunned with a kind of reverence. “You won the Pacific Crown Junior Pro back when I was a freshman—”
A beat in which Sirius’ eyebrows shoot up and he looks from Evan to Mary and back again.
“And,” Evan adds, “you took first place in the Del Rey Coastal Classic—I remember watching the footage. You didn’t just win. You owned that entire break.”
Emmaline lets out a laugh, her sharp smile flashing. “That’s our Mary—girls’ state champ three years running. You boys are in the presence of California surf royalty.”
Sirius looks between the two girls, slow wolfish grin spreading across his face
“Well,” Sirius says, “I’m honoured your majesty,” and then, directing his attention to Mary he adds, “should I get on my knees, or just offer you my board?”
Evan ducks his head, not sure if he should laugh or apologise for Sirius. Emmaline gives him an amused look, and he grins back at her.
Sirius, quick mover as always, lays it on thick—and it seems to work. Mary is laughing before long and both girls walk up the path with them, Emmaline falling into step beside Evan, the two of them trading wry looks only people with embarrassingly flirty friends can.
At the top of the trail, Sirius leans back against the Bronco, while Evan shoves the boards into the back.
“You girls got plans tonight?” Sirius asks. “It’s my mate’s birthday—big blowout down in Point Fermin. You’d be welcome to join us.”
“Us?” Evan cuts in with a raised brow.
Sirius turns to him without missing a beat. “Yeah, man. We’re going to a party tonight.”
Evan snorts. “Nice of you to tell me.”
Mary shifts her weight, brushing damp hair off her shoulder. “Point Fermin, huh?” she says slowly, like she’s deciding whether it’s a destination or a warning. “Bit of a… scene down there, isn’t it?”
Sirius laughs, low and smooth. “Relax. I’ll protect you from the big bad normies.”
Mary looks amused, and then glances at Emmaline. “Could be fun?” she says it like it’s half a question, half a dare.
Emmaline shrugs. “Im in.”
They part ways with a few more flirty comments from Sirius, boards loaded, salt still crusted on their skin. Evan pulls open the passenger door and climbs in.
“Well,” Sirius says, slipping his sunglasses on. “Looks like I’m getting laid tonight.”
Evan barks a laugh and shakes his head. “Classy.”
“I’m a simple man,” Sirius replies, pulling out of the lot with a flick of his wrist. “Sun, surf, pretty girls. What else is there?”
Evan rolls his eyes, amused. “I’m with you as far as sun and surf.”
Sirius shoots him a look, all mock scandal. “What, no girls?”
“Screw you, man,” shoots back Evan.
“Nah, I’m good, thanks,” Sirius says breezily, and then adds. “But maybe we’ll find you someone tonight. Rem is gay—it's his birthday. Odds are there’ll be a few of your lot there.”
Evan smiles faintly, amused by that impossible mix that defines Sirius: somehow both mildly offensive and inexplicably considerate in the same breath.
“Not really looking to be set up, man.”
“Why not?” Sirius shoots him a puzzled look. “Reg said you finally dumped the Douche.”
Sirius had met Barty exactly once—four Christmases ago, when he’d flown out to visit Reg. It was still early days for Evan and Barty; Evan had been completely wrapped up in him, excited for Barty to meet the person who was, in most respects, an older brother to him.
The meeting had gone badly from the start. Barty had taken one look at Sirius and dismissed him as a brainless surfer with no critical thinking skills. Sirius, equally unimpressed by Barty’s cultivated seriousness, had dubbed him the Douche on the spot and never let the name go.
“Yeah,” Evan says, “something like that.”
Sirius nods, entirely earnest. “You’ve gotta get back on the horse, man.”
Evan sighs. “I don’t think I’m ready to date.”
“Who said anything about dating? I’m talking about getting you laid.”
Evan shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not really my thing, man.”
Sirius lets out an exaggerated scoff, throwing a hand dramatically off the wheel. “How can sex not be your thing? Sex is freaking great.”
Evan rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I meant. I mean hookups. I dunno.” He shrugs, looking out the window. “Just doesn’t really appeal.”
Sirius snorts. “Seriously? I thought being gay was like, all parties and bathhouses.”
Evan turns to look at him amused. “Bathhouses? What decade are you living in?”
“What?” Sirius says, grinning. “I’m just saying—if I liked dick, I’d be making the most of it. Surely the best part of screwing guys is they want sex as much as you do, right?”
“Seriously,” says Evan, “how do you have a gay brother and still come out with this shit man?”
Sirius just shrugs, completely unbothered. “It’s a talent.”
Sirius drops him in the driveway to the house five minutes later with a parting—“be ready to party by seven”—
Once inside Evan heads straight for the fridge. It’s nearly lunchtime and he’s starving. He ends up sprawled on the couch, food in hand, flicking absently through channels while his mind drifts. Maybe Sirius is right. Maybe he should try to meet someone. But the thing is what he’d told Sirius was true: the idea of a random hook-up didn’t appeal. Not even slightly. Evan had been with a few people in his first year and a half in New York, before Barty. Mostly hookups. Usually drunk. They’d been... bad. Detached. And for a while, he’d thought there was something wrong with him, thought he didn’t like sex. But then came Barty—and that theory went straight out the window.
Evan liked sex a lot. What he didn’t like was sex with strangers. Sex without meaning, without connection. Maybe that made him old-fashioned, or boring, or both. But it was just how he was built. And it wasn’t just about the sex.
Evan wanted more. And that was exactly the problem. That was what had wrecked things with Barty in the end. Evan wanted more—and Barty didn’t.
Evan wanted someone to come home to. Someone who was his, only his. Someone who wanted him in that same steady, uncomplicated way. If he’s honest, he wants the whole white-picket-fence fantasy—metaphorically, anyway. Kids. A dog. A house that actually feels lived-in. Holidays with ridiculous traditions. The full Hallmark package, gay edition.
Maybe it wouldn’t be such an issue if he were straight. The thought’s crossed his mind more than once—it just seems to him that women are generally more into that sort of settled life than men. Maybe that’s a sexist assumption. If Dora was here she’d probably whack him over the head with some aggressively neon feminist zine and give him a lecture about gender norms and expectations.
The thing is, he’s not saying no gay men want that future. He does, so statistically he knows some others must. It’s just that most of the ones he’s met… haven’t. He used to think maybe it was just an age thing. That he was just ahead of the curve and he just had to wait for Barty to catch up, that maybe he’d change his mind. But that had failed miserably, had been almost twenty-nine when they split. Five years, and what he wanted hadn’t changed a bit. So maybe it wasn’t about age at all.
Maybe it was just another case of him not fitting the mould—of never quite knowing where he belonged or how he was supposed to slot into other people’s lives. He knew what he wanted; he’d just never worked out how to get from wanting it to actually having it. How to meet someone who wanted the same future, and wanted it with him.
He’d never said any of this out loud. It sounded pathetic in his own head—this quiet fear that lived somewhere deep in him. It wasn’t that he was afraid of being alone; he liked his own company well enough. It was the fear that no one would ever love him the way he wanted to be loved. That was all he wanted, really. The rest—career, ambition, legacy—he wasn’t bothered. Determined, stubborn, sure, but not driven by some burning need to leave a mark on the world. He just wanted love. To give it and to have it returned.
He could almost hear Reg’s voice, what he’d say if Evan ever admitted any of this.
Ev, come on. You’re acting like you’re the only gay guy on earth who wants a family. You’re not some statistical anomaly. You’ll find someone who wants that with you. Just… give it time.
And that was the problem.
Evan didn’t want to wait.
He wanted it now.
He’d wanted it with Barty—really wanted it—but Barty hadn’t, and that was that. And Evan wasn’t sure he could put himself through that again: falling in love, imagining a future, letting himself hope… only for the person he wanted it with not to want it back. That kind of rejection cut too deep.
But if he didn’t try, he’d never meet anyone at all. Which made the whole thing a self-fulfilling prophecy—protecting himself so thoroughly that he guaranteed the outcome he feared most.
Either way, he doubted any of it was happening anytime soon. Not when Barty’s name still hurt the way it did.