Evan tries his best to ignore his James predicament over the next week, clinging to the hope that maybe, if he just didn’t think about James, then that niggling feeling that he’s in trouble will go away. It’s a lot harder than it should be. He spends most of Monday, after dropping James at the diner, thinking about him, and Tuesday too—though he tries to distract himself through work. That goes about as well as everything else he tries to do in order to distract himself from thinking about James: a lot of blank staring at the page, very little actual work. Wednesday passes in much the same manner until he’s saved from his own thoughts by a call from Emmeline on Wednesday night. How she got his parents’ number—they were unlisted—is beyond him but he isn’t sorry when he picks up and hears her voice.
They meet early Thursday, Evan picking her up just after six, boards in the back, the air still cool with marine fog. Afterwards, they hit a cafe—Emmaline orders some horribly healthy looking breakfast; Evan gets pancakes. They end up talking about the future. She tells him she’s just about to graduate from UCLA with a psych degree, and that she has absolutely no idea what to do now—
“Honestly, all I want is to hang out by the beach and surf—” she says with a sigh.
Evan fills her in on the script he’s working on, tells her all about Clarissa and her broken heart; Emmeline laughs so hard that the guy at the next table starts glancing over.
It turns into a kind of ritual over the next two weeks: most mornings Evan surfs with Emmeline, always Emmaline, and breakfast after. Sometimes Mary joins them—Mary with her sunny, mischievous grin and effortless air of cool. She’s easily the best in the water, graceful and fast, making impossible lines look easy. Pete is there too sometimes—when he wakes up in time, rolling up late usually.
“Waves are basically the same after eight, dude,” Pete complains whenever he does it in time to catch the morning swell.
But he still tries—and on the mornings he does make it he’ll sit there at breakfast after, shoveling pancakes into his mouth and coming out with the kind of comments that have Evan caught between groaning and laughing.
And then there’s Mac, who feels like he’s wandered out of some satirical 80’s book on West Coast privilege: always showing up in some technicolour Patagonia windbreaker, talking about “optimising your vibrational frequency” before the sun’s even up. He’s perpetually pushing some new organic, small-batch, adaptogenic snack on everyone—chia-seed bars, (Evan still isn’t sure what the hell Chai seeds are, or goji berries for that matter either), point is Mac’s snacks always come with the predictable words:
“It’s totally life-changing, just try it man.”
The dude is sort of intolerable but he makes Pete laugh so hard he cries which in itself is worth witnessing. Sometimes the couple Evan met the first night down at Flat Rock Point come—Frank and Alice— they’re always together—the sort of couple that finish each other’s sentences. Then there’s Flint and Bones. The two frat boy looking dudes Evan had also met that first night. The pair are total meat heads who compete over everything from betting on how long Pete can nap over breakfast before he snores himself awake to running poles on who has the most wipe outs: the sort of dudes Evan had spent most of his life avoiding because he was scared they’d somehow sense he was different—they’d somehow know—but he finds he doesn’t mind them, and they’re bother killer on the waves. It’s all Emmeline of course. She’s the centre of this rag tag group—the one everyone has ties to—her that seems to bind everyone together. Evan isn’t sure how exactly it happens but over the next month she fits herself into Evan’s life with her quick wit and sly looks. And before he’s really realised it’s happened it starts to feel like she’d always been there.
April slips into May and suddenly he’s been back in California for two and a half months and Evan’s fallen into a sort of routine, surfing with Emmaline and her gang of friends, spending his days writing and then joining in on whatever Emmeline is doing most weekends. Sometimes a party, sometimes movie nights or hitting a bar. Pete’s usually always there, Mary too. Mac, Frank, Alice, Flint and Bones revolve in and out: it’s fun. Surprisingly fun—almost enough to keep his mind off James. Almost. He hasn’t asked James to go surfing again, hasn’t picked up the walkie—has been telling himself that keeping his distance is best, that the more time he spends with James the less likely he is to get over that stutter he feels in his chest whenever James smiles at him. That he’ll just end up hurting himself, and so he doesn’t seek James out over those two months—tells himself that it's for the best.
Then—the afternoon of the first Friday of June Evan wakes up to perfect swell. And as he’s standing looking out over the bright blue of water he thinks—this is it. It’s time. Time for what exactly he’s not sure but time for something. Time to make a choice. Three months he’s been back and he’s still treating it like it’s temporary but it doesn’t feel temporary, not when he’s got plans every weekend, a job, friends—because he’s pretty sure Emmeline and Mary—and even Pete are becoming his friends. And so he makes a choice—after hitting the waves—after breakfast in which Pete naps his way through eggs and Mary teases Evan about still not having his own boards—after that he drives down to Surf Garage. He should have done it weeks ago, but instead he’d kept borrowing Sirius’s—like some part of him was scared to admit this was permanent, that he was really back, and staying.
There are surf shops closer to PVE, but none with the soul of Surf Garage. The whole place smells like Sex Wax. The walls are plastered with faded comp posters—Kelly Slater in full ‘90s glory, Lisa Andersen mid-turn, Rob Machado grinning with wild, sun-streaked hair. Evan feels something inside him settle the second he steps inside, something that feels like finality—and then he sees it. Behind the till, a cluster of framed photos is arranged under a hand-painted sign reading LOCAL LEGENDS. And there’s Mary—top left, all wild grin and sunburnt nose, clutching a trophy bigger than her torso and that feels good—feels like a sign that he’s made the right choice. That he belongs.
The shop is quiet—week day morning leaving the floor empty. A dude in a tie-die shirt is reading a magazine behind the counter. Evan heads for the boards at the back. Half an hour of perusing leaves him hovering between a neon-blue Channel Islands shortboard—and an orange fish. In the end, he takes both. Why not? It feels right, a kind of declaration. I’m here. I’m staying. This is my life now.
The dude in the tie die t-shirt helps him carry both boards out to the lot, the sun flaring off the fresh resin.
“Nice ride,” tie die says, nodding at the Wrangler.
And for the first time, Evan isn't embarrassed. He grins back. “Thanks, man.”
Evan’s just pulled open the driver’s door when someone calls his name. He turns, squints—Harry, waving like mad, with James not far behind. Evan raises a hand in greeting but Harry is already barreling toward him across the tarmac. He comes to a skidding halt right in front Evan.
Evan crouches down to meet him at eye level, grinning. “Hey dude,” he says.
“Guess what! Guess what!” Harry says excitedly.
“Um…” Evan pretends to think, tapping his chin. “You grew an extra foot overnight? Wait—don’t tell me. You found a secret tunnel full of pirate treasure under your backyard?”
Harry cracks up, shaking his head so hard his hair falls in his eyes. “No! Way better!”
“Better than pirate treasure?” Evan asks, impressed. “Alright, you’re gonna have to tell me, dude—there’s no way I’m guessing.”
Harry bounces on his toes, nearly exploding with excitement. “I was really brave today and Dad said I can go see Spider-Man on Saturday! The new one at the movies with popcorn and everything! I’ve been asking for, like, forever, and dad said no because Marls thinks it’s too scary but I’m not even gonna get scared ’cause Spider-Man’s my favourite—he’s, like, the best superhero ever! And, and I already know what shirt I’m wearing!”
A shadow falls over them and Evan looks up. James is standing with his hands in his pockets.
“Hey.”
James is wearing a white wife beater and a pair of faded jeans with a hole in one knee. There’s a small gold cross on a chain around his neck and a pair of sunglasses pushed back into his hair—he looks good. Really good.
“You two playing hooky?” Evan asks, straightening up from his crouch.
“Doctor’s appointment,” says James, “he’s headed back into custody now.”
There’s a tug on Evan’s hand and he looks down—“you should come and see Spiderman,” says Harry—he turns to his dad, “Right, Dad? Evan should come too?”
There’s a pause in which James looks down at his son—and then slowly lifts his eyes to look at Evan. Then he smiles, small—a little unsure.
“Yeah,” he says, “he should.”
No, Evan thinks, I really shouldn’t. It’s exactly the sort of thing he’s been avoiding—dangerous territory—especially when those warm brown eyes staring back at him make everything in his body want to—well a lot of things none of which are even slightly appropriate. It’s too risky—too much like letting himself hope for something he shouldn’t. He opens his mouth, ready to make an excuse, but then he sees James’s expression shutter—like he’s read Evan’s decision on his face already. He looks away.
“I mean, you know, if you don’t already have plans or… something better to do,” James says.
For a beat, Evan hesitates. Then he glances down at Harry. He’s watching Evan unexpectedly like he can’t imagine why anyone would turn down Spiderman. Evan looks back at James who isn’t looking at him: he’s fishing his keys out of his pocket—he spins them, glances in the direction of his car—as if he’s already moved on from the exchange. As if Evan’s already given him an answer, already said no.
“That sounds awesome,” says Evan. “You’re on.”
Harry explodes into a cheer, pumping his fist in the air.
James shoots him a curious look. “For real. You wanna come?”
“Hell yeah,” says Evan.
James’s face breaks into a smile so bright and sunny and so open that Evan feels his chest stutter. He swallows—shit—he’s just made a terrible mistake. He knows it but he can’t make himself regret it when James is looking at him like that.
James nods at the Wrangler—at the boards in the back. “Nelly 2.0?”
Evan shrugs, feeling oddly self conscious. “Figured it was time to stop using Sirius’s boards.”
“So you’re staying then?” asks James and there’s something in the question—in the way he looks at Evan when he asks it, like it’s important.
Evan glances at the boards, then back at James.
“Yeah.” He raises an eyebrow. “Turns out LA is the place to be if you wanna make movies.”
James laughs again, warm and rich. “You know I think I’ve heard that before. Must be true.”
There’s a long pause that feels to Evan like it’s full of something he's not sure how to read—and then James ducks his head, says they should be going—he’s got to get Harry back to school before his lunch shift starts. Evan says his goodbyes—high fives Harry. Tries not to stare after James as he walks away, Harry still bouncing with excitement over Spiderman at his side. He takes the coast road north, cutting through Pedro—the sky is a bright clear blue and the air humming with heat. At the overlook above Bluff Cove he pulls off, kills the engine, and leans out the window— the water is dimpled with a handful of surfers still carving lines against the bright glare of the waves. Sublime is playing over the truck speakers, and for a second, everything feels right, sun-bleached, and good.
That evening the garage light hums above him, a pool of yellow in the half-dark. He stands and stares at the boards—the blue and orange catching what little light’s left—he runs his hand along the rails—then he waxes the blue shortboard slow and careful, fingers sticky, the the smell familiar—the smell of home—the feeling he’d had looking out over bluff cove comes back, making a home in his bones. It feels like reaching shelter after a long rough storm.
When he does go to bed a few hours later, sleep is a tangle of sea salt. At first light he’s already up, boards on the roof as he idles down to the cove. Mary’s navy Range Rover is already in the lot, and Pete is there, wetsuit half on—perched on the hood of his Beemer, sunglasses pushed up in his hair. Evan jumps out of the wrangler just in time to hear the tail end of something that sounds like a lecture on the spiritual significance of parking spots from Mac.
Flint wolf whistles as Evan pulls out the board he has now—thanks to James—officially dubbed Nelly 2.0.
“Look who’s finally got himself a board,” calls Mary. “About time.”
Emmeline flashes him her sharp smile, “you sure you can ride that New York?”
Evan grins back. “Guess we’ll find out won’t we.”
They make their way down the path and hit the water, Pete with a lot of cursing about the cold water and his balls. Evan paddles out—board slicing clean through the chilly water. The first wave he catches is sharp, fast, a little wild—Nelly 2.0 hums under his feet, and for a heartbeat, he feels dangerous and alive. Sun burns through the haze. The whole world’s salt, sweat, laughter, bruised knees, and the sting of wind in his eyes.
Emmeline’s laugh snaps through the haze as they walk back up the beach afterwards. Pete, predictably, dozes off at the breakfast table, his sunglasses sliding down his nose. Mac starts on about the aurora of neon blue and whether Nelly 2.0 is going to throw off his personal energy in the lineup. Emmeline rolls her eyes and tells him he’s a douchebag. Flint demolishes a truly ungodly amount of eggs, barely looking up as Mary chatters about a new sponsorship deal, her excitement buzzing through the group like electricity—and again Evan thinks:
Yeah, this is it. This is right.
After lunch, Evan makes the drive down to Pedro, to James and Marls house—he barely has time to shift the Jeep into park before Harry bursts out the front door in a Spider-Man T-shirt, face flushed with excitement, arms already windmilling through imaginary webs. James follows, slower, wearing the look of a man who’s been listening to Spider-Man facts since sunrise. Evan swings out of the driver’s seat, just in time for Harry to skid to a halt at the curb, eyes huge as he takes in the Wrangler.
“Can we take your car, Evan? Please? Pleaaase?”
The second please is drawn out over several syllables. Evan glances over at James, eyebrows raised in a silent question—James offers him a small smile, and a shrug.
“If you don’t mind.”
“Absolutely,” Evan grins down at Harry. “Hop in, Spidey.”
Harry lets out a whoop, launching himself into the passenger seat like he’s about to save Manhattan personally. James just shakes his head, a smile tugging at his mouth, and climbs into the back without comment—
As Evan starts the engine, Harry turns to him. “Do you think Spider-Man can surf?”
“Definitely,” Evan says, shifting into drive. “Think about it, the dude can stick to walls—he’d never wipe out.”
Harry lights up. “Yeah! And if there was a shark, he could just web it up.”
“You know,” says Evan, “I bet he’d invent a whole new trick. The Web-Slinger or something.”
Harry giggles, running with it.
“And his board would be, like, red and blue and have webbing on the sides. Do you think he’d wear his suit, or would he get a special one for surfing?”
“Oh he’d totally have a wetsuit version,” Evan says, glancing over at Harry. “One hundred percent dude.”
“Yeah,” agrees Harry, “you’re totally right.”
“And,” adds Evan, “you know who else would be a great surfer? Doc Ock, all those arms? Talk about advantages when it comes to paddling out.”
Harry snorts. “I think Green Goblin would be better, because he’s got, like, a flying boogie board.” He twists in his seat to look at James in the back. “Dad, who do you think would be a better surfer, Doc Ock or Green Goblin?”
“It’d be hard to beat a flying board, you’re right,” says James, and then adds. “But Doc is named after a sea creature, so you never know. Maybe he’s got secret fish skills.”
Harry frowns, weighing it up. “Yeah, octopuses are, like, super smart. But Goblin cheats. He’d just zoom over everyone and steal the trophy.”
“But,” says Harry, “I bet Spider-Man could out-surf both of them. He’d, like, web his board back if it got away. That’s what I’d do.”
From there, Harry’s Spider-Man theories spiral—going back and forth over which superhero or villain would win a surf contest. Would Wolverine just slice everyone’s boards? Could Storm make perfect waves? Would Sandman cheat by being the wave? Evan lets himself get caught up in the tumble of ideas and sun-baked kid logic. He glances in the rearview mirror, just for a second—as they pull into the mall parking lot—and finds James watching him, a small smile playing at his lips, brown eyes soft in the afternoon light. For a moment, the noise from Harry fades, and it’s just the two of them—Evan’s heart does that same stutter, but instead of looking away, he lets himself smile back. Then Harry shouts from the passenger seat that he can see the movie theater, breaking the spell. And in a tumble of excitement and sneakers on asphalt, they’re out of the car and headed for the box office—sun on their backs, the air smelling of hot pavement and the promise of popcorn and superheroes.
Evan actually enjoys Spiderman a lot more than he’s expecting. Raimi leans hard into the comic-book colour palette, and the slapstick physicality works—it’s broad, bright, and just the right side of ridiculous for a superhero film. The pacing is a mess in the third act, he thinks absently, but overall? Good, and the action’s tight—every kid in the place is practically vibrating out of their seat. But mostly, Evan finds himself watching Harry more than the screen. The kid’s reactions—elbows tucked in, eyes huge, popcorn half-forgotten—pure, full-body excitement. Every big swing or explosion, every wisecrack, Harry’s right there with it, living every moment out loud. Evan’s used to watching movies through the lens of work—plot structure, dialogue, rhythm—but that’s not what he’s doing now. Now he’s watching the film through Harry’s eyes, and there’s something unexpectedly magical about that. It makes him ache, a little, for the simplicity of loving something just because it’s fun. He tries not to look across Harry, tries not to let himself get caught watching James in the flickering half-light. But he does, more often than he should—drawn by the sound of James’s quiet laughter, the way he leans in to nudge Harry during the best bits.
After the film, they go for pizza and ice cream at Evan’s suggestion. Harry narrates every detail of the movie, bouncing between them with endless energy, until he finally runs himself out and crashes hard in the back seat on the drive home. Evan pulls into the drive in the fading light, kills the engine, and watches as James gently lifts a drowsy, half-limp Harry into his arms. He pauses at the window, Harry curled against his shoulder, and thanks Evan for dinner with a smile that makes Evan think he’d buy up every slice of pizza in Southern California if it meant seeing James look at him like that again—even just once. Then Evan watches them disappear inside, the porch light flickering on as the door shuts behind them. He sits for a long moment in the quiet, the ache of wanting something he’s not supposed to reach for echoing through him, warm and sharp in the dark.