“I went to see Spider-Man with James,” says Evan, stabbing a little too hard at his berry waffles. It’s ten past eight on Monday morning—he’s tired and salty, slouched in their usual battered corner booth, sunlight pooling on the Formica. Pete and the others have taken off and it’s just him and Emmeline—the self employed and unemployed—left now.
Emmeline snorts. “Don’t tell Pete. He’ll be heartbroken you didn’t take him.”
Evan nods, takes a bite of waffle—it’s cold now and a bit chewy. He swallows, hesitates, then says, “you were right.”
She gives him a sideways look. “I usually am, but just so we’re clear, what was I right about?”
Evan sighs, scrubs a hand through his hair. “James. You were right. I like him.”
She smiles around the straw of her smoothy, all white sharp teeth. “Dude,” she says with the satisfaction of someone saying I told you so. “I knew it. There was totally a vibe.”
“Yeah,” says Evan, “what the hell am I supposed to do?”
“What do you mean what are you supposed to do?” her dark eyes sharp, “ask him out or something.”
“It’s not that simple…”
“How is it not simple?” She arches a dark brow. “You like him. He’s hot. Seems hella simple to me.”
“Well. He’s straight for one thing,” answers Evan.
“No way,” says Emmeline. “I told you—he was totally checking you out at that party.”
Evan snorts, “that doesn’t always mean what you think it does.”
She gives him a mildly confused look.
Evan shrugs. “Lotta guys are up for something behind closed doors—not saying that’s James, but—just…known him a long time—think if he was actually into dudes I’d have heard about it from Sirius or Reg. Might be up for fun on the down low but doesn’t mean he isn’t still straight in the ways that matter.”
“And you don’t want that?” she asked carefully, “fun on the down low I mean?”
“Nah,” says Evan looking down into his cup, “not my thing.”
Emmeline chews her straw. “That’s rough,” she says after a minute.
“Plus, he’s my friend,” says Evan, shrugging again. “Sirius’s, too. I don’t wanna make shit weird.”
There’s a pause and then she says thoughtfully. “Is that it or is there more?”
Evan stares into his coffee cup for a long second—this is the real issue—the bit he’s been stalling.
“Ev?” she asks.
“He’s got a kid. Harry. He’s six.”
“A shit,” says Emmeline. And then asks, “his baby mama around?”
“Don’t think so,” says Evan. “Pretty sure it’s this chick Lily—she was his girlfriend when I left, so the timing fits. But nobody’s really talked about her. Like, at all. Get the feeling there’s some serious shit there you know?”
“So, wait—have you met the kid?”
Evan smiles. “Yeah, he’s awesome.”
She watches him for a long moment, then asks, slowly, “Okay, so—say we put all the other stuff aside for a sec. Forget the straight thing—which FYI I know I’m like no gay expert or anything but I’m not convinced on—but like whatever that aside… Hypothetically, if he did like you back, how would you feel about dating a guy with a kid? Like, for real?”
The answer presents itself instantly in his mind, embarrassingly quick.
“Oh my god,” sounding half amused and half like she thinks he’s crazy, “you’re like so totally into it, aren’t you?”
Evan winces—feeling a bit embarrassed. “Yeah,” he admits, “kinda.”
She considers him for a second and then frowns as if she’s thinking—finally she says: “I guess that makes sense, I think you’re like totally weird but I guess you did say things with Hot Topic Hamlet tanked because you wanted the whole family thing and he just wanted to, like, write poetry in graveyards or whatever.”
Evan gives her an amused look. “Hot Topic Hamlet?”
She shrugs, grinning. “Call it like I see it baby.”
“You make it sound like I’m shopping for a pre-packaged, no-assembly-required happy ending.”
“Aren’t you?” she asks.
“No,” says Evan, “it’s not like that—I just. I dunno Harry’s a great kid, I like hanging out with him and James is—he’s James. Who wouldn’t want him, you know?”
“I think you should try it,” she says suddenly, “carpe diem you know? You’re not gonna know if you don’t try but like be smart about it you know? Because you’re totally right, a kid complicates shit.”
She narrows her eyes and drums her fingers against the counter as if thinking—Evan waits.
“Okay,” she says as if reaching a conclusion. “Here’s what I think you should do. Let him take the lead. Be chill. Spend time with him, hang with him and the kid, show him how rad you are—”
Evan nods, she’s making sense—then she winks and adds, “And then he’ll see you’re totally future stepdaddy material, obviously.”
He groans, dropping his head onto the table as she bursts out laughing.
“But for real,” she says after a minute, “why don’t you ask him to hang out—keep it friendly. See if he gives you any hints that he’s into it. If it doesn’t? Well you can keep your pride intact and nothing has to get weird, he doesn’t even have to know you like him.”
And so that's what Evan does, he tries the talkies first but gets no response and so he calls James that evening—after hunting his phone number down from Sirius. A woman's voice answers on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” says Even feeling oddly nervous, “is that Marls?”
“Sure is,”
“It's Evan, is James around?”
“Oh hey Evan,” she sounds like she's smiling, and there's warmth in the greeting, “Yeah one sec, he's out back. Stay on the line and I'll go grab him for you.”
“Thanks,” says Evan, he can hear what he thinks might be the TV in the background and Marls calling to James from somewhere in the house. A few minutes later James’ voice comes over the line.
“Ev?” he sounds a little unsure, as if it's more a question than a greeting.
“Hey man, what's up?”
There's a slight pause and then, “not much, you?”
“I was gonna ask if you wanna hit the waves some day this week?”
The response comes quicker this time. “Hell yeah,” the enthusiasm in James’s voice makes Evan smile. Makes some of the nerves drain away.
“Wicked,” says Evan, “when are you free?”
James says he's on the lunch shift all week—-but he could drive up to PVE after dropping Harry at school. Evan tries to follow Emmeline's advice—plays it cool. Casual. He says yeah—that would work. He can take an afternoon away from his script whenever it suits James. There’s a pause and then James asks, almost hesitantly:
“Tomorrow?”
Evan tries not to let the smile on his face creep into his voice as he says, yeah—tomorrow is cool. He’s still smiling when he hangs up five minutes later. And it’s still there the following morning when he wakes up—-he tells himself to be cool. Tells himself it's just him and James going surfing, like they have a hundred times before, like his heart doesn't do that uncomfortable stutter when he opens the door to see James grinning at him. Tries not to let his eyes linger on the muscular brown skin of James’ back as he pulls on his wetsuit–turns his eyes out over the swell of bluff cove instead. Be chill. He inwardly chants like a mantra as they walk down the bluff. Keep it friendly. The Sun has already broken through the cool morning air, turning it warm. It's later than Evan would usually hit the water, almost nine by the time they make their way down the steep path. The usual morning lineup already long gone, or so Evan thinks until he spots a familiar sandy mop of hair trudging up the path towards them, bored under arm. Pete does a double take when he clocks Evan, face breaking into his usual dopey grin.
“Do my eyes deceive me,” he says in greeting.
“Hey man,” says Evan, slowing to a stop.
“You sleep through your alarm too?” asks Pete almost hopefully.
Evan grins, unable to help it— “Nah man, just shaking things up a bit,” he nods to James, “this is my friend James, he lives down in San Pedro.”
“J man, pleasure I’m sure the name is Pete,” Pete holds up a fist which James dutifully bumps, “mornings dude,” adds Pete with a dollful sigh shaking his sandy coloured head, “never been able to get the hang of them–the will is there you know? Just not like… the power.”
James nods as if he completely understands—despite the fact that Evan knows he often starts work at six am sharp.
“Could be the weed bro,” says Evan raising his eyebrows at Pete, “crazy idea but have you tried not getting blazed every night?”
Pete gives him a mildly horrified look, “E dude while you know I hold you in the highest homie esteem and genuinely value your input and opinion, that is like not it bro—the green is never to blame.”
Evan chuckles, shakes his head and claps Pete on the back with a parting, “I’ll see you tomorrow then, bright eyed and bushy tailed?”
Evan can feel James’ eyes on him as they make their way down the remainder of the path and onto the beach, but he doesn't say anything—not until they're flopped on the sand afterwards, waterlogged and salty.
“You've changed,” says James after a while.
Evan turns his head to squint at him, the mid morning sun glaring off the white sand.
“You think?” he asks curiously.
James smiles, “yeah,” he says.
“Guess I grew up,” says Evan—he looks out to the sea for a minute and then back at James who is watching him—brown eyes turned to amber velvet by salt and sun. “Never felt like I belonged here,” says Evan slowly, the words feeling almost dangerous—-or maybe what’s dangerous is the way James is looking at him. Evan runs a hand through the salty tangle of his hair and looks back out at the waves because it feels safer than looking back at James.
“Thought it would be different in New York,” he admits. “Thought I could be normal out there, that I could belong. Didn't though, was even worse than it was here. Took coming back to realise the problem wasn't California, or even New York, was never about the place, it was about me. Can't belong if you don't let yourself, never let myself belong here. Never wanted to belong in New York.”
It was more than he meant to say, but when he does turn back to James—meets those warm brown eyes—he's not sorry. James is still watching him intently, watching him like he's something truly interesting, like he wants to know more, like he cares.
“And now?” James asks, eyes still fixed on Evan's, “do you want to belong here now?”
Evan smiles, “yeah, I think I do.”
“So you’re not going to run off again?” James asks.
And there it is again—that something. The same thing Evan that had been in his voice outside the Surf Garage. And Evan realises that it’s the third time James has asked if he’s staying. The first time had been in the Blacks’ driveway, and Evan hadn’t thought anything of it. It was a normal question to ask someone who’d shown up out of nowhere after six years. But then he’d asked again in the parking lot outside the Surf Garage—and now. Different words but the same question.
“Not planning on disappearing anytime soon,” says Evan slowly as he considers James thoughtfully, and James nods but something in it makes Evan feel almost like James doesn't quite believe him.
“Need to start looking for a place soon,” says Evan because he's not sure what else to say, because there's an odd current flowing beneath the conversation and he's not sure how to bring it up, or if he even should. “Folks are back at the end of August, want to find my own place before then ideally.”
“Where you thinking?” Asks James.
Evan shrugs, “not that fussy to be honest long as it’s close to the beach,” he shoots James a small smile, “decided the first night back that I never want to be more than twenty minutes drive from the ocean again, so guess that's my only real stipulation.”
That makes James smile—-eyes crinkling at the corners—and suddenly that thing that had been there a second ago is gone and Evan wonders if he imagined it. But later at home—after they unloaded the boards and James has left for his shift at the diner—then the conversation with James lingers. He tries to put it out his mind—distracst himself by driving down to the Peninsula Center where he stops at Gelson’s Market to pick up a stack of newspapers. The Los Angeles Times, The Daily Breeze, and a couple of smaller South Bay weeklies. He takes them home and sits out on the deck with a beer, spreading the papers across the table, and flips through the property listings—circling rentals as he goes—by the time he's finished his beer, he's got the beginnings of a decent list. At least two he likes the sound of, and another three that might be worth checking out. He stands, stretches and goes inside to grab a second beer. He's about to head back out to the deck when his eyes land on the walkie sitting on the counter—Emmeline's sharp smile flashes in his mind's eye—-carpe fucking diem—he thinks and picks the walkie up.
Back outside Evan flips the switch and static crackles through the warm night air. “Breaker, breaker. Anyone out there? Over.”
The line hisses and fades. He leans back in his chair and kicks his legs up, takes a swig of his beer. Then a burst of static from his lap, and James’ voice comes through, wry and faintly amused:
“Frontline to Rosier—currently under heavy fire from bath time. Will touch base when conditions clear. Over.”
“Copy that Commander,” says Evan into the walkie. “Don’t let the rubber duckies take you alive.”
The line falls silent again, just the faint hiss of static before it dies altogether. The air cools, salted from the ocean, the breeze rustles the leaves of the palm trees planted around the deck. Above him the sky turns darker, stars pushing through one by one until the whole spread is blinking down at him. He sits, watching the dark sky, listening to the waves, letting the night settle in, the minutes fold into themselves. Half an hour, maybe forty minutes, and then the walkie crackles back to life.
“You still out there, Ev?”
“Yeah, man,” says Evan. “I’m still here.”
“Sorry that took longer than I thought,” says James—Evan thinks he hears a sigh through the stratic. And then James says: “Haz is usually out like a light but it was some kid's birthday at school and they had a party afterwards. Came home full of sugar—he was still bouncing off the walls four hours later.”
Evan chuckles, lets himself sink back into the chair. He falls into James’s voice as it rolls on, unhurried, describing the small dramas of bath time—-the low rumble filling the spaces between the stars overhead—the minutes slip by, the conversation meandering in gentle loops–the flood Harry managed to create with a plastic submarine, the negotiation over which pyjamas to wear, the way Harry had insisted on wearing mismatched socks to bed—- Then suddenly James stops. There’s a beat of quiet, just static breathing through the line, before he says:
“shit man, I’ve been talking your ear off. You didn’t sign on for a play-by-play of bedtime routines.”
Evan shakes his head, even though James can’t see it. “Don’t apologise—I like it.”
The words sit between them for a moment and Evan thinks maybe admitting that was too much—maybe he’s weirded James out. But then James speaks.
“Really?” he asks.
And Evan smiles because James sounds like he’s grinning—
“Really,” says Evan, “now what’s the deal with the odd socks?”
There’s another pause, softer this time, and when James speaks again his voice has dropped into something quieter as he explains that it's because Harry doesn’t want them to get lonely without their pairs in the sock drawer. The conversation drifts, slow and lazy, carried along like tidewater. Mostly it’s Harry—school, surf lessons, the odd things kids say that stick in your head long after they’re asleep. Evan keeps asking questions, nudging the talk along, partly because he likes hearing the ins and outs of life with Harry, but that's not the only reason, he also asks because he likes the way James’s voice softens when it’s his son he’s talking about. He likes the smile he can hear in it, faint but unmistakable. Likes the picture his mind conjures of James sprawled on the couch, or maybe his bed, one arm behind his head, brown eyes soft and warm, smiling as he tells Evan about Harry.
And it makes Evan feel special, lucky, to be included—even if it's just stories, it's still James choosing to share something precious with him. It makes something inside him swell and glow with a slow, easy sort of prideful happiness. He doesn’t mean to fall asleep—but it happens. James’s laugh crackling through the static, the rise and fall of his voice drifting on into the night.