Who We Are (The Seafare Chronicles 2)

My mouth went dry.

We drank that night, Creed more than the rest of us. We sat in the living room with the lights down low, watching the fog roll in off the ocean, half listening to each other, laughing and talking loudly. Creed stood up and tried to do some dance and ended up falling over and decided quite quickly that the floor was where he planned to spend the night, and within minutes was snoring away, even with Otter and me pelting him with pillows.

Otter and I stayed up late that night sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch, our feet propped up on an ottoman. He told me stories about college, some I’d heard before, others that were new. He asked questions about what my plans were. I hesitated for a moment, then told him I wanted to be a writer, and he became the first person I ever told. He watched me intently before saying that I’d better do it, then, that I was going to be the greatest writer ever known. I blushed, feeling the beer in my veins flowing wonderfully. I wondered, for a brief moment, what would happen if I laid my head on his shoulder.

I didn’t know why I thought that.

Eventually, I was too drunk to stay awake, and he pulled me up the stairs and put me in Creed’s bed. He stared down at me for a moment as if he wanted to say something further, that something was on his mind, and his eyes grew dark when I asked him what was wrong. He told me nothing was wrong, he was just tired. He said good night and shut the door gently behind him.

I awoke once that night, the press of my bladder more urgent than my need to sleep. I got out of bed and walked toward the bathroom, only to have the door open and Otter walk out. He froze when he saw me in the dark hallway, and there was a moment then, a moment where we watched each other and something happened, something flashed, bright and heavy, and I heard him gasp quietly to himself, a subtle intake of breath that I almost missed. He wore only shorts, and the moon slid out from behind the clouds and soft light poured in through the window, illuminating his skin, the muscles in his chest and arms, his flat nipples, the light dusting of hair.

And then he spoke, his voice hoarse: “I never asked you,” he said.

“How’s Anna doing?”

I stared at him, unable to look away. “She’s… fine. She’s….”

He walked toward me, and I started to tremble, and I thought—

earthquake oh god earthquake

—he was going to stop in front of me, that he was going to tower over me because I was just a little guy. But he didn’t. He walked past me, his bare arm brushing against mine. He didn’t say another word as he disappeared into his room, shutting his door behind him.

I PARK in the little side parking lot, unable to see the beach below due to the sand-dune crest. My brow furrows for a moment as I look around and see my car is the only one in the parking lot, Otter’s Jeep nowhere to be seen. I ignore that little sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, because it doesn’t mean anything. It’s probably part of the surprise, or whatever’s going on.

He’s probably heard my car drive up and is staring up the hill, grinning that Otter grin, the gold-green flashing as he waits for me to stop being such a chicken shit, to get out of the vehicle and just fucking go to him. I close my eyes and briefly imagine what set up he’s got going on down there, if there’s a table with food, with music playing softly on the stereo, candles flicking in the cool ocean breeze. Maybe there will be a misanthropic seagull that’ll ruin everything, but in reality making things all that much better. Maybe there will be more, because he’s there. He’s waiting for me. I open my eyes and the dashboard clock says 5:31.

Showtime.

I open the door. I close the door. I put one foot in front of the other, my suit jacket flapping in the wind, the beach grass bending back toward me as my feet touch the sand, my toes dig in to the tiny particles that feel like home. I almost pause then, almost stop because I’m scared, but I think it’s a good thing. I think… I think I know what’s about to happen—

bear i’ve been thinking

—and my eyes start to burn. Oh my God.

But don’t I just run? Don’t I just fly over the hill?

And stutter to a stop.

The beach. The beach is empty. The tide is out and the beach is empty, and all I can hear is the subtle crash of waves, the cacophony of birds above me. Sirens, in the distance.

I’m confused. Maybe I got the time wrong. Maybe he’s running late.

Maybe I’m in the wrong place. Maybe—

he up and left and i’ll be alone forever

—I hadn’t understood what was happening. Maybe he didn’t want to ask me a question at all, that question I can’t stop thinking about now that I’ve thought it, that question I’ve thought about unintentionally for months now, and even though it’s too soon, even though it can’t be real, I’ll say yes, I’ll scream yes. I’ll beg and plead and do anything just so he asks the question so I can say yes.

I walk down the hill to the beach. It’s starting to get colder, and I can feel the sea air start to seep in through the suit jacket, and it bites at my skin, nips my ears. I pull my phone out of my pocket and flip it open. No missed calls. No voice mail. No text messages. I tell myself to stop being stupid.

That if something was going to happen, if there was something wrong, I’d know.

Then it hits me and I almost grin. Maybe they wanted to get me out of the house, make me come someplace so they could set something up at home. Maybe that was the surprise. Maybe Anna and Creed and Mrs.

Paquinn and the Kid and Otter are all rushing to do something at the house right now. Maybe their parents are there. Maybe Isaiah, though I doubt it.

What could it be? If that’s the case, I’m going to kill them all for making me come out to the beach when it’s cold. Barefoot, no less.