The blare of a horn in the driveway tells Evan it’s seven. The moment he opens the Bronco’s door, he’s hit by an eye-wateringly strong wave of YSL M7 so intense it feels like an assault on his senses.
“Jesus man,” he says, wincing. “You know you’re not supposed to use the whole bottle, right?”
Sirius only grins from behind a pair of mirrored aviators, hair pulled back and his shirt making liberal use of its buttons. The amount of tanned chest on display is borderline absurd.
“You’re just pissed you don’t smell as good as me,” Sirius says as he throws the car into gear.
“You smell like a freaking spice market,” Evan mutters under his breath as he digs through the glove compartment for Sirius’s CD wallet—leather-bound and immaculate. Its contents are predictably Sirius: Zeppelin, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Queens of the Stone Age, Sublime, Weezer, Incubus.
They pull into a quiet residential street just off Via Del Monte—white terraced houses and palm trees swaying gently in the marine breeze. Sirius gives a sharp, unapologetic blast of the horn, and a few minutes later Mary and Emmeline appear.
Sirius actually lowers his sunglasses.
“Damn,” he says, sounding very pleased with himself.
Evan snorts, shaking his head as he climbs out of the car. He doesn’t say anything, just moves—relinquishing his claim on shotgun to Mary without fanfare and sliding into the back beside Emmeline. The sacrifice does not go unnoticed. Sirius flashes him a blinding grin over his shoulder as Mary pulls the door shut and they ease back onto the road.
They head south along Palos Verdes Drive, the light stretched long and golden across the hills. The infinity pools and curated gardens of Palos Verdes Estates begin to thin, cliffs dropping away beside them in sudden, cinematic sweeps—crumbling stone and dry grass catching in the wind. Ahead, the flat sprawl of San Pedro rises to meet them: sun-faded bungalows and chain-link fences, liquor stores and taquerías, cracked sidewalks, shopfronts painted with saints and slogans. Cranes stand like oversized metal giraffes silhouetted along the docks, their limbs angled as if mid-stride, ambling through flame-colored sky.
The front yard of the house they pull up in front of is mostly concrete, broken up by a few stubborn tufts of grass. A low chain-link gate sticks when Sirius pushes it, and they follow the uneven path along the side of the house—music getting louder, warm light spilling through half-fogged windows. The house is a single story, its siding sun-bleached and patched with primer in places. Wind chimes hang from the porch. A couple of people are standing outside smoking, and Sirius slips past them easily, Evan and the girls falling in behind him.
Inside, the house is packed—hot with bodies and low ceilings. What Evan assumes is usually the dining-room table has been shoved into a corner; decks are set up on top of it, and a girl with long braids is spinning. The bass is loud—the kind of loud that makes your teeth vibrate. Sirius doesn’t stop though. He clearly knows exactly where he’s going, weaving through the press of people without hesitation.
Evan follows him through a kitchen straight out of the 1980s—pale green cabinets, Formica counters lined with plastic cups, half-empty bottles of vodka and tequila, and an untapped keg in the corner sweating onto the linoleum. Sirius pushes through the screen door, and they spill out into a backyard aglow with lights strung in low loops from the fence posts. There’s a fire pit in the center of the yard, a good-sized bonfire going. Next to it sits a low table scattered with chips and foil trays, and another keg balanced on two cinder blocks. Lawn chairs are clustered in loose groups—people sitting, eating, talking. Someone is playing guitar on the steps, lazy strumming that bleeds into the low thrum of bass coming from inside the house. Two longboards lean against the back fence.
Sirius throws himself at a tall, lanky guy—grabbing him around the middle and lifting him clean off the ground. The guy startles, letting out a sound somewhere between a yelp and a laugh as Sirius spins him in a circle.
“I’m guessing that’s the birthday boy,” Mary murmurs, sounding entertained.
“You’d be guessing right,” comes a familiar voice from behind Evan.
He turns. James stands there with a paper plate stacked precariously high—chips, carne asada, something that might once have been coleslaw—balanced expertly in one hand, a can of beer wedged between his elbow and his ribs.
“And that,” James says, nodding toward the spectacle, “pretty tame as far as greetings go—for them.”
“Hey,” Evan says.
James’s eyes crinkle as he smiles—warm, bright, easy. “Hey.”
Sirius, having finally put the guy down, turns back to them with a flourish.
“Ladies—Ev—allow me to present the coolest dude you will ever meet, besides myself, obviously.”
The guy Sirius is presenting like a prize on The Price Is Right is kind of dorky. His nose—slightly too long for his face—is a little sunburnt, his cheeks and arms dusted with freckles the same color as his sandy brown hair. He’s wearing a seventies-print button-down and faded blue jeans, but somehow, despite the fact that it shouldn’t, it all works for him. He’s cute, in a gangly awkward kind of way.
He gives a small, self-conscious wave, still catching his breath from being hoisted into the sky. “Hi,” he says, and then, with a self deprecating smile, adds, “I’m Rem, and I’m really not that cool.”
Sirius gasps like Rem has kicked him in the shins. “Lies. Slander. Defamation. Don’t listen to him—listen to me.”
Rem shrugs, unbothered, clearly used to this from Sirius.
Evan nods in greeting and offers a fist bump, which Rem returns with a kind of earnest, slightly awkward enthusiasm that is sort of endearing. Conversations blend. Rem and Mary locking into a surprisingly passionate debate about the cultural merits of the live-action Scooby-Doo movie. Evan, amused, contributes a few dry comments which lead to a broader conversation about films.
“You’re, like, a proper film buff, huh?” Emmeline says, narrowing her eyes at him over the rim of her cup.
Before Evan can respond, Sirius slings an arm around his shoulder. “Ev’s industry, baby.”
“Oh cool,” says Mary, interested now. “Are you like an actor or something?”
“Writer,” Evan replies with a small smile.
“Anything I might’ve seen?” Rem asks.
Evan shrugs. “Depends. How deep are you into network crime dramas?”
Another crooked smile. “Not very, I’m afraid.”
“I like crime,” Emmeline offers, arms folded. “Which show?”
“Third Precinct.”
“That’s a good one,” says Emmeline, “Pacing’s better in the earlier seasons, but that bar bathroom scene in season three?” she flashes her razor blade smile. “Brutal.”
Evan raises an eyebrow at her. He’d had her pegged as casually disinterested in everything other than surfing.
“She’s weirdly into cop shows,” Mary supplies. “I swear she’s seen every episode of NCIS in existence.”
“I like the structure,” Emmeline replies, completely unfazed. “Set it up. Solve it. It’s super calming.”
Mary rolls her eyes. “If there aren’t talking animals or surfing, I’m out.”
“That,” Sirius says, pointing at her with his beer bottle, “is a wildly valid take.”
Rem chuckles—low, easy. James just smiles. He hasn’t said much, Evan realizes. Not really. Not the way he used to. The thought catches him off guard. James hadn’t seemed any different earlier when they were out surfing: same old James, quick to laugh, golden in the water, sunlight turning him almost mythic.
But here, surrounded by people, there’s a shift. A quietness.
The James Evan remembers had always been at the center of every room—loud, magnetic, usually flanked by Sirius, cracking jokes or telling some ridiculous story, eyes bright with mischief. He lit things up just by existing.
This James isn’t like that. Still warm. Still good-looking in a way that makes something in Evan’s chest tighten, makes him feel thirteen again. But quieter. More withdrawn than he remembers.
Mary and Sirius drift back toward the house—Sirius announcing a need to “bougie” with exaggerated flair that earns an audible groan from Mary. James gets called over to the far side of the fire by a guy with shoulder-length dreads, and Emmeline mutters something about needing a refill before slipping toward the kitchen.
Evan finds himself standing alone with Rem.
He figures the guy will follow the others. It’s his birthday, after all—his friends, his backyard. But instead Rem stays put, shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, and glances over.
“So,” he says, “you’ve known Sirius a long time, huh?”
Evan nods. “Since I was six. My folks moved in next door and I became best friends with Reg. Sirius was kind of an unofficial big brother to me too.” A small smile pulls at his mouth. “He and James taught me to surf. I thought they were gods. Used to trail after them hoping some of the cool would rub off on me.”
Rem chuckles, rocking back on his heels. “I’m still waiting for that.”
Evan takes a swig of his beer. “You three been friends a while?”
“Me and James went to school together,” Rem says. “Met Sirius through him freshman year. Thought he was unbearable at first.”
“To be fair,” Evan grins, “he usually is.”
That gets a proper laugh out of Rem. And—if Evan’s not mistaken—there’s more than amusement in his eyes. It’s subtle. Measured. But definite. Evan is pretty sure he’s being checked out. He thinks back to the car ride earlier—Sirius’s offhand comment about one of his friends being gay—and it clicks.
This must be him. The gay friend.
There’s a brief pause, the kind that could tilt into awkward if either of them let it.
But Rem doesn’t. He just takes a sip of his drink, glances toward the fire pit, and says, “So what’s New York like? Never been.”
Evan shrugs. “It’s loud. Fast. Didn’t really like it, to be honest.”
Rem nods slowly, like he understands. “How long were you there?”
“A bit over seven years.”
“Long time to stay somewhere you don’t like,” Rem says—tone light, eyes steady.
Evan considers him. There are a dozen answers he could give—half-truths, diversions, something glib. But something about Rem’s face makes you want to say real things.
“Honestly?” Evan looks down at his beer, then back up. “Thought I was supposed to be something I wasn’t. Figured being somewhere else might shake it loose.”
Rem doesn’t respond right away. Just watches him with that same quiet focus.
Then: “Did it?”
Evan snorts. “Not really. Missed the ocean too much. Lesson learned.”
Rem nods, then smiles. “I think most things in life are probably improved by being near the beach.”
Evan lifts his beer bottle. “Amen to that.”
Over Rem’s shoulder, Evan spots Emmeline weaving through the crowd with two beers. She’s watching them—head tilted, like a question. He raises an eyebrow. She changes course. When she reaches him, she hands him the second bottle. A moment later Rem excuses himself, drifting toward a knot of people near the grill.
“So,” she says after a beat, cracking open her beer. “He’s totally into you.”
Evan shoots her an amused look. “You think?”
“Oh, totally.” She takes a swig, unfazed. “I’m like… crazy perceptive.”
It’s said with absolute confidence—more statement than brag.
“Oh yeah?” Evan challenges, grinning. “What do you perceive about me?”
“You’re not into him,” she says. “I wasn’t sure at first. That’s why I left—thought I’d give you a minute. You’re kinda hard to read, compared to most people.”
“You assume I like guys?” Evan asks, curious. Most people didn’t clock him unless he made the first move.
She raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”
Evan doesn’t know what to say to that. He just watches her for a moment. Then, finally: “You’re pretty up-front, huh?”
She shrugs. “I guess. But I think you can be too. And I’m not usually wrong about people.”
“That so?”
“Yeah. It’s like a superpower. Makes me a wicked friend to have.”
“And we’re friends?” Evan asks, unable to keep the smile tugging at his mouth.
“Totally. No offense, but you need friends. You’re like… way secretly sad inside. And in my experience, the best way to get over shit that makes you sad is to have killer friends.”
That actually gets a laugh out of Evan—loud, surprised. Mostly because she’s not wrong. She is weirdly perceptive, and her bluntness paired with that steady confidence is… pretty freaking charming. In a strange, unexpected way. They sit for a moment in comfortable silence, watching the fire crackle and spit sparks into the air.
Emmeline takes a slow sip of her beer. “So,” she says eventually, tone casual, “you wanna drink some tequila and, if you feel like it, tell me what the sad thing is?”
Evan glances over, one brow raised. “This part of the wicked-friend package?”
“Pretty much the whole deal,” she says, linking her arm through his and steering him toward the house.
The kitchen is hot and way too bright, the 1980s decor brutal under the fluorescent light. Emmeline claims a bottle of José Cuervo from the counter, and they take turns drinking straight from it, shoulder to shoulder against the faux-marble.
She makes him laugh—really laugh, the kind that loosens something tight in his spine. And later, when they’re back outside with two deck chairs pulled up to the fire, he tells her about Barty. About the mess it left inside him. The confused, jagged grief of it.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “he kinda sounds like a douche.”
Evan huffs a laugh. “Yeah. I guess he can be.”
“He hot?”
“Unfortunately.”
She shrugs. “Ain’t they always.”
Sirius and Mary reappear sometime around midnight.
Sirius is wearing lip gloss.
That’s the first thing Evan notices. Subtle shimmer, faintly coral—the same shade as Mary’s. Evan figures she must actually like him if she’s willing to overlook the lingering cloud of M7 still hanging around Sirius like an expensive thunderstorm. Or maybe she just doesn’t have a strong sense of smell.
Sirius scans the yard, something flickering across his face—brief, tight, unreadable. “You seen James?”
Evan lifts a shoulder. “Not in a while.”
Sirius nods, though his eyes keep moving. He turns toward the girl with the long braids—the one who’d been DJing when they arrived. “Yo, Dee—James bounce already?”
She glances over from where she’s perched on the arm of a lawn chair. “Yeah. Couple hours back.”
Sirius frowns. “Thought Marls had Haz tonight.”
The girl shrugs. “You know how he is.”
There’s a beat of silence. Sirius gives a small nod, trying and failing to hide the disappointment. Evan catches it anyway—it flashes before Sirius smooths it over. And something in Evan twists, unexpectedly. He wonders who Marls is. He’d always assumed the mother of James’s kid was Lily—the on-again, off-again girlfriend he’d had for most of Evan’s teens. But maybe not. He had been away a long time, after all. Long enough for James to have had more than one life, more than one heartbreak, more than a few girlfriends.
The fire snaps. Someone laughs across the yard. Sirius disappears back into the house with Mary in tow. Evan leans back in his chair, finishing what’s left of his beer. The party hums around him—warm air, salt, smoke. And yet his mind drifts somewhere else entirely. To James. Evan can’t imagine the James he’d known before New York slipping out of a partly quietly. It fits with this new James though, the quieter one, the one that’s a dad—a grown up. Evan wonders that’s all it is, just growing up, becoming a dad, settling into a life with routines and responsibilities, if that’s what’s changed James. Or if there’s something else there, something quieter and heavier sitting under the surface. He also wonders why he cares so much. Why a small part of him wishes James had said goodbye to him before he’d left. Why it matters—why any of it matters—after so many years, it shouldn’t matter. It’s not as if they’re close now.
But it does. For some reason it does matter.