Chapter 2

“But I don’t want to go to a party,” I said as we bounced along a rutted dirt road in Millie’s Mazda3.

“It’s going to be fun,” Millie said. “In fact, it’s going to be AMAZING!”

It had been a long, strange day. We’d gone home and spent the afternoon trying to be normal. Spoiler alert: it didn’t work. The fight—fights, I guess, if you count Deputy Bobby and West’s spat—had ruined an otherwise perfect day, and nothing seemed capable of dispelling the mood. Maybe that was why, when Millie and Keme and Fox had announced that we were going to a party for the adults who had participated in the surf challenge, I wasn’t capable of offering my usual level of resistance.

Now, as we followed the unpaved road under a cloudy night sky, I repeated my point: “But I don’t want to go.”

“What would you do instead?” Fox asked. “Sit in your room and pretend to write and feel bad about pretending to write?”

“Ouch!”

“I know how it goes, darling. We’re not going to let you do that to yourself.”

“That sounds like something a cult leader would say right before kidnapping you into their cult.”

“My cousin was in a cult!” Millie announced.

“Why am I not surprised?” I murmured.

That made Keme turn around to blast me with a death-ray.

Since I wasn’t scared of Keme, like, at all, because I was an adult and I was bigger than him and I was definitely, most certainly stronger, I said, “Also, for everyone’s information, I actually was going to write tonight. I was going to write a lot.”

Fox cleared their throat.

I sank down in my seat. “Probably.”

After that, we finished the drive in silence, with only the rumble of tires and the creak of Millie’s suspension as we threaded our way over mile after mile of grassy slopes.

I’d never been in this area before—north of Hastings Rock, on the far side of Klikamuks Head. Even with the cloud cover, the head itself was a bulk of stone and earth protruding into the sea, visible as a patch of deeper darkness across the vista of open ground. Instead of the conifer forests I’d grown accustomed to, tall grasses grew here, and it reminded me more of a Midwestern prairie than, say, the setting for a movie about sexy vampires. The smell of the prairie grass filtered into the car—a dusty, sagey smell that was unexpectedly pleasant.

A chain-link fence stopped us as we approached the surf camp. Signs announced NO TRESPASSING and DO NOT ENTER and DANGER! CONSTRUCTION SITE! Graffiti overlaid many of the signs—THIEVES said one, and another said GET OUT, and another ONE PEOPLE, ONE LAND. Apparently the protesting wasn’t only happening at the surf challenge; I wondered if, to some people, this was sacred land too. When Keme stuck his head out of the window, a guy in board shorts and a ratty Hurley hoodie opened the gate for us, and we drove into the camp itself.

“That’s some serious security for a surf camp,” Fox said.

Millie glanced at Keme before saying, “They’ve had a lot of problems with vandalism. They put up the fence and the cameras, but it still keeps happening.”

Keme nodded.

As we continued into the camp, the gate rolled shut behind us. Ahead, buildings took shape in the darkness: frame structures with clapboard siding and dark shingle roofs. When the headlights washed over them, color popped in the night— doors painted bright reds and blues, shockingly vivid against the monochrome night. In contrast to the pristine new buildings, the surf camp’s grounds consisted of churned earth, spilled gravel, and weeds. There was no landscaping, no sidewalks, not even a proper parking lot. Millie ended up parking on a grassy strip where other cars were already clustered.

When we got out of the car, the sound of music came on the night air—I didn’t recognize it, but I figured it was probably called something like acoustic surf rock, and it sounded like it would appeal to a group (mostly men) focused on “chillaxin’” and indulging in recreational substances. Behind the camp’s central building, firelight flickered and sent the shadows dancing.

We came around the central building and found ourselves in a large, open square. The music was louder here—the voices too. At one end of the square stood a palapa. Under the palm-thatch roof, fairy lights illuminated a fully stocked bar, where several of the surfers were playing mixologist. At the other end of the clearing, a bonfire blazed; the heat lapped at me even from a distance, and a whiff of wood smoke came in on my next breath.

The party appeared to be in full swing, and it seemed to combine elements of beach hangout and Halloween bacchanal. A guy with long blond hair—his costume, apparently, was “lifeguard”—laughed as he staggered and fell, and then he laughed even harder. A girl in a “nurse” bikini—in total defiance of the October cold—was balancing an inflatable ring on her nose while her friends recorded her on their phones. A couple more of the long-haired types (maybe they came in a six pack?) were wrestling—apparently simultaneously trying to turn each other out of their Baja hoodies—and neither of them seemed sober enough to get the upper hand. At the edge of the ring of firelight, someone moved, and I thought I recognized Nate Hampton. After assaulting Gerry at the beach, the redhead had apparently found time to change into a hoodie and jeans, and he didn’t look too bothered by the earlier scuffle.

Keme took off into the scrum of bodies (he’d gone with “skeleton in a suit” for his costume, which apparently meant some makeup on his face and a suit that he looked really good in—I was fairly sure Millie had been the intended audience, and I had a sneaking suspicion the suit belonged to Deputy Bobby). Millie went with him. Fox and I lingered at the edge of the square. To their top hat and frock coat, Fox had added a monocle—again, ordinary Fox apparel, or Halloween costume? You decide!

As we stood there, voices came up the path behind us. It only took me a moment to recognize West.

“…because I’m afraid you’ll get hurt. Do you understand?”

And Deputy Bobby’s answer was quiet and even. “Yes.”

“And that’s scary for me. That’s terrifying, Bobby. Because I love you. And I know we’ve talked about this before, but that actually makes it worse. You promised me that when you were off duty, you weren’t going to do stuff like that. Get involved, I mean. And when you break your promises, it’s hard for me to trust you, and trust is the bedrock of our relationship. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

A moment later, they appeared. West was still in his hot-as-the-sun construction worker costume; if anything, he somehow looked even better, but I still had no idea how he wasn’t freezing to death. Deputy Bobby was a construction worker too, although, thank God, he’d managed to cover himself up a little more: boots, jeans, a white T-shirt, and then the hi-vis vest and hardhat.

“Pity,” Fox murmured. “I was looking forward to seeing your tongue fall out of your mouth.”

I shot them a furious look, but by then, West and Deputy Bobby had noticed us.

“Hey,” West said in that tone people use when they’re trying to pretend everything is great. “I didn’t know you guys were coming.”

“They made me,” I said.

For some reason, that made Deputy Bobby smile—just a quicksilver flash, there and gone.

“Keme and Millie are already out there enjoying themselves,” Fox said, jerking a thumb at the crowd. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the wallflower.”

“I hope someone said something to Keme about age-appropriate drinks,” Deputy Bobby said.

“Even though that’s none of our business tonight,” West said. He squeezed Deputy Bobby’s hand. “Because we’re here as a normal couple, right?”

Deputy Bobby said, “Right.”

“Indira talked to him,” Fox said. “I don’t know what she said, but his eyes were huge when he came out of that kitchen.”

“And that’s another thing.” I turned toward Fox. “Why didn’t Indira have to come?”

“Indira didn’t have to come because she’s an adult and a fully actualized human being.”

“I’m an adult. I’m a fully actualized human being.”

“Wearing a keyboard cat costume.”

“It’s not—” I drew a breath through clenched teeth. “You’re just saying that because you’re scared of her.”

“Of course I’m scared of her. My God, Dash, have you seen that woman debone a chicken thigh?”

“Okay, you two have fun,” West said. “We’re going to get drinks.”

Before I realized who he was talking about, he reached out and grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the palapa. I stumbled after him, glanced back, and saw a strange expression on Deputy Bobby’s face—like the quicksilver smile, there and then gone, only this hadn’t been a smile. Worry, maybe. Or something adjacent to worry.

West led me under the palm-thatch roof of the palapa, and we got in line for the makeshift bar. The crowd around us seemed evenly split between guys who had made a modicum of effort to dress up for Halloween (a cowboy, a police officer, Where’s Waldo?), and others who had clearly decided that going as a surfer was costume enough—lots of board shorts, flip-flops, and hoodies. Most of the women, on the other hand, had put a little more work into their getup. I counted two Playboy bunnies, one girl from Stranger Things , an evil (but sexy) clown, and no fewer than three Wonder Women. The clink of bottles mixed with the swell of voices, and the music was louder here—more of that acoustic surfer rock. I figured I could stand about ten more minutes of it before I started looking for a power cord to chew on.

“Am I making a mistake?” West asked.

I glanced over at him. His eyes were wet, and he was blinking rapidly, staring straight ahead.

“With Bobby.” His voice broke as he added, “Am I screwing everything up?”

“What?” I looked around, but aside from a lot of drunken surfers and one Wonder Woman who was trying to climb on a cowboy’s shoulders, there was nobody who could help me. “I don’t—”

“I love him so much. But I keep feeling like I’m—like I’m messing up, you know? And you know how Bobby is. It’s impossible to read him. He never says what he’s thinking. And then I ask him, and he says he loves me, or he’s happy, or—I don’t know. And I just want to scream.” Some of the tears spilled, and as he wiped his cheeks, he ducked his head and said, “Never mind.”

I could run away, of course. I could pretend I hadn’t heard him. I could simply let the conversation drop—he’d made it possible. I could hope that drunken Wonder Woman fell on me and her armor crushed me to death. (It looked like a possibility; that cowboy was definitely not off-roading material.) But West was still wiping his cheeks and sniffling, and he just looked so…miserable.

“I’m all in favor of screaming,” I said and touched his arm. “And crying, for the record. So if you want to do some screaming, we can walk out to the beach, and you can scream your head off. And I’ll hold your drink. And then we’ll get more drinks. And then I’ll hold your hair while you puke. And someone will take pictures of us passed out next to the toilet.” The line moved forward, and I said, “I’ve never actually done this before, so I’m mostly basing this off of movies.”

A tiny laugh made his shoulders tremble. He looked up. His eyes were red. (And the really annoying part was that it didn’t make him even one percent less gorgeous.)

“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” I asked. “Is this about, uh, the thing at the beach?”

“No.” And then he said, “Yes.”

“You sound like me.”

We both laughed.

“I don’t know,” West said as we moved forward again. The song changed, but the music didn’t. Eight minutes to power cord. “I mean, yes, we argued about that. I argued about it. That’s—that’s the whole problem. He just agrees with me. And he apologizes. And I know he means it, but—” He was breathing rapidly; the hi-vis vest made it easy to see how his chest and belly rose and fell with shallow breaths. “I don’t think he wants to move. And I don’t think he’s happy. And sometimes— sometimes I think I’m ruining his life. But when I ask him, he says he loves me, and he wants to be with me, and everything’s going to be okay.”

The couple in front of us stepped aside, and we found ourselves stepping up to the bar. The guy behind it had sleepy eyes, lots of interesting muscles, and a tiny pair of black trunks. It was starting to feel like the Twilight Zone . Was I the only person who got cold anymore?

“What’s up, kitty cat?” he asked. And then somehow he managed to lean on the bar in a way that made a LOT (cue Millie’s voice) of muscles pop in his arms. Like, some of those muscles I hadn’t even known existed.

West started giggling.

“Uh,” I said.

That made West giggle harder.

“Damian,” the guy behind the bar said. He did some more of that very interesting leaning. I was trying to remember how to swallow.

“I’ll have a vodka cran,” West said through the giggles. “And two beers—an IPA, whatever you’ve got. What about you, Dash? His name’s Dash.”

“Hi, Dash,” Damian said.

My face was hot. Pins and needles ran across my chest. My throat had closed up.

West was dying by now, but he managed to say, “He’ll have a vodka cran too.”

As West started to pat himself down (although God only knew where he could be carrying a wallet), the bartender (Damian, said a treacherous voice in my head) shook his head. “Everything’s comped. Gerry’s picking up the tab.”

He must have understood our confusion because he tipped his head toward the clearing. It took me a moment to recognize Gerry in the flickering firelight—the real estate developer had opted not to wear a costume, and he was in deep conversation with a woman dressed as a luchador .

“Two vodka crans,” Damian said as he set the glasses on the bar. Two bottles of Rock Top’s IPA followed. “And two beers.”

“Thank you,” West sang out. “Say thank you, Dash.”

I managed “Thanks.”

“See you around, kitty cat.”

As we stepped away from the bar, West said in an unnecessarily loud voice, “Oh my God, he is gorgeous! And he’s totally your type!”

My face still felt like it was on fire, but the pins-and-needles sensation faded as we left the palapa and moved into the shadows beyond the fairy lights.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” West said with another giggle. “Now he’s definitely going to come find you.”

I took a gulp of the vodka cran rather than answer—it was good; not ordinarily my drink, but still good.

Either West took pity on me, or he was still focused on his own problems, because he said, “I don’t know what to do. Bobby’s the first guy I’ve ever been in love with. He’s the first guy I’ve ever shared an apartment with. He knows my family; they’re obsessed with him, of course. But I feel like we’ve gone as far as we can in Hastings Rock. Things aren’t…progressing. I keep thinking if we don’t leave—” He stopped, and his voice had an unexpected catch at the end.

The ideal solution, of course, would be to have a bottomless vodka cran, and to keep drinking until I passed out so that I never had to respond to any of this. But I didn’t have a bottomless vodka cran. And West was wiping his eyes again. I drew a deep breath.

“I feel like I need to be totally upfront and tell you I’m terrible at relationships. Like, horrible. So, I don’t really feel like I’m qualified to give advice.”

“You’re my friend,” West said. And then he laughed softly. “Besides, who else am I going to ask? Damian?”

“Definitely do not ask Damian. He looks like one thousand percent trouble.”

“But hot.”

I dodged that one. “I know you said Deputy Bobby isn’t very…communicative, I guess.” And I didn’t say that part of me found that strange, since it always seemed so easy to talk to Deputy Bobby, since it seemed easy to read his expressions—the little furrow between his eyebrows when I’d lost him with an obscure gaming reference, or the way his mouth turned up at the corner when he was trying not to smile, or those times I caught a glimpse of him, and I knew, even though I couldn’t have listed the reasons, that he was happy right then, in that moment. That things were good. “But,” I continued, “I don’t think he’s a liar.”

“God, no. Bobby is definitely not a liar.”

“So, if he’s telling you he loves you and that he wants to be with you and that everything will be okay, then that’s what he believes.”

West sighed, and in a small voice, he said, “I know.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“I don’t know. I think it might be what he wants to believe. Or what he thinks he believes. I don’t know.” West put his hand on his neck, and in a softer voice he said, “I don’t know.”

“You and Bobby are great together.” When I heard what I’d said, a wave of—I don’t know what to call it: déjà vu, or disorientation, or maybe just a sense of unreality—swept over me. It was like hearing an echo. That was what everyone had told me. You and Hugo are great together. You and Hugo are perfect. You and Hugo are such a good match . And hearing those words come out of my mouth made me feel like I’d stepped off solid ground. I fumbled for words and managed to add, “You’re going to figure it out.” And then, even though it was like cutting off my own arm, I said, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the move is exactly what you need.”

West took a few deep breaths. Then he said, “Thanks, Dash,” and kissed my cheek. It ought to have set off all my peopling alarms—CODE RED! CODE RED! PHYSICAL PROXIMITY AND EMOTIONS AND TOUCHING!—but I was surprised that it felt…fine. Sweet, actually. Because West was my friend, even if—

I cut off that thought. And then I buried it.

“I guess we should be getting back,” West said. Then he giggled again. “Bobby is going to lose his mind when Damian tracks you down.”

Before I could ask what that meant—not that I wanted to know, not that I had any interest in why Deputy Bobby might have such a strong reaction to a guy, an admittedly hot guy, a guy with muscles that were like, everywhere (I mean, did you know you could have muscles in your back?) who happened to want to, um, talk to me (although I suspected that with Damian, not much talking would be involved)—West started walking, and I hurried to catch up.

When we got back to Deputy Bobby and Fox, Millie and Keme had returned, and the four of them were engaged in conversation with the woman in the luchador costume. She carried her mask under one arm, and she looked familiar—she had a long, almost overdeveloped jaw that gave her a distinctive look. Her boyishly short hair was threaded with silver, and she had crow’s feet, but otherwise, she looked like she was in her twenties: a hard, muscular body that looked strong from being used in the real world rather than from hours in a gym.

“A beer for you,” West said as he handed one of the Rock Tops to Deputy Bobby.

“Thank you,” Deputy Bobby said with a small smile, as he slipped an arm around West’s waist.

West passed the second bottle to Fox. “And one for you.”

“Bless you, my child.”

“Sorry, Millie,” I said. “I thought you and Keme were still off partying.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” she said. “I don’t really like drinking. I’ll probably just have a Coke. Sometimes I have just one beer and I feel SO SLEEPY.”

The woman in the luchador costume rocked slightly on her heels; apparently, she’d never been in Millie’s blast zone before.

Gesturing with his beer to the luchador , Deputy Bobby said, “Jen was just telling us that Keme’s going to do some part-time instruction once the camp is up and running.”

Keme was actually, honest-to-God grinning. I gave him a thumbs-up, and his grin immediately changed to a scowl.

“And he’ll be full-time once he’s eighteen,” Jen said. Her voice was deeper than I expected, and for a moment, I wondered if she might be trans. As though she’d heard the thought, she said, “You have no idea how hard it is to find surf instructors who aren’t raging homophobes and transphobes.”

“Really?” West looked at Deputy Bobby. “You never told me that.”

“It’s not really an issue here,” he said.

Jen shook her head. “It’s an issue pretty much everywhere else. Lots of toxic masculinity—they’re not too keen on women surfing either, by the way. Lots of machismo. Lots of aggression. And like I said, the homophobia and transphobia are off the charts.”

“But this cute guy just tried to pick up Dash,” West said. “And Bobby’s been surfing for ages.”

Deputy Bobby gave me a crooked smile that I couldn’t quite read. And then, to my surprise, he reached out and flicked my cat ears.

“Let me guess,” Jen said with a mock groan. “Damian?”

West burst out laughing.

“He’s a sweetheart,” Jen said to me, “and he won’t hurt you on purpose. But don’t ask him to do long division.”

“What do you mean,” Deputy Bobby asked—and somehow, his voice matched that crooked smile—“he won’t hurt Dash on purpose?”

“Oh God, he’s just a mess—can’t make up his mind, can’t settle down. I hired him because he really is sweet, and like I said, it’s hard to find queer surfers, but I bet he’ll be gone before we even officially open—he’ll go crash with a buddy in Malibu, or he’ll be living out of a van on Oahu. He’s good with cars, so he’ll pick up some easy money and move on again. Sorry; I’m telling you so he doesn’t break your heart.”

Deputy Bobby made a weird, sharp noise. West turned to look at him. Fox raised an eyebrow. Millie’s eyes got huge. And Keme, of course, glared at me like somehow I was ruining everything. It took me a moment to realize the noise had been a laugh.

Into the silence, I said, “So, this is going to be a surf camp for LGBTQ people?”

“It’s a surf camp for everyone,” Jen said. “But with a zero-tolerance policy for that kind of BS. It’s an untapped market, see? There are a lot of queer people who either want to surf or are surfing, but they don’t have a community. On top of that, you’ve got a perfect situation here—ideal conditions for cold-water surfing, plus Portland’s already got a strong LGBTQ population, and it doesn’t hurt that it’s one of the most beautiful places in the world.” Then she gave Deputy Bobby a pointed look. “That’s if I can get the right instructors.”

With a laugh, Deputy Bobby said, “I’d like to—”

“We’re moving,” West said. “So, he can’t.”

The bonfire snapped and popped.

“As I was saying,” Jen began, “maybe a few weekends every month.”

“Maybe,” West said. “I don’t know. We’re going to be really busy.”

The expression on Deputy Bobby’s face might have been the flickering light of the fire, but I didn’t think so.

“Keme won’t be too busy,” Millie said. “And Keme’s SO good with kids. He’d love to do it. Right, Keme? He can start whenever you want. He can start TONIGHT!”

“We’re not quite ready to start,” Jen said. “But we should be good to go by the spring.”

“It’s going to be a huge success,” Deputy Bobby said. “I know you weren’t actually competing, but I saw you out there today; anybody who comes here is going to be lucky to have you as a teacher.”

Jen laughed. “I don’t know about that, but it’s kind of you to say. It gets harder every year. That’s the whole reason I needed to make this camp happen now—I’m calling it my retirement in my thirties. Come on, I’ll introduce you to some of the other guys.”

She led Fox, Deputy Bobby, West, Keme, and Millie toward the crowd gathered around the bonfire. I hung back. Deputy Bobby must have noticed, because he turned to check where I was; I gave him a wave to let him know I was fine.

Fine, yes, but I needed a few minutes to myself. In part, it was because of all those people. The thought of smiling and nodding and trying to remember names and the need to say something clever or funny or cute, all of it getting sharper and sharper by the moment—no, thank you. Plus, everything with West had left me unmoored. So, I stayed at the edge of the square, my hand aching with the cold of the vodka cran, and watched.

I’d always been good at watching. Grist for the mill, you know? One day, I might write a story about Will Gower where he was nursing his drink (definitely not a vodka cran—probably a whiskey highball, although maybe we’d go back to gimlets) and watching a man across a darkened clearing. That man would have golden skin and broad shoulders and hair so dark it looked like each perfect strand had been inked into place. He’d have remarkable bronze eyes that widened when he had no idea what you were saying, but you could tell he still found it amusing. Found you amusing. And he’d be leaving. Going away forever. Maybe the mob, I thought. Maybe he’d gotten in trouble somehow. In a mystery story, you needed external problems as well as internal ones.

A footstep scuffed the ground, and I turned. The man seemed to take shape as he got closer: white, middle-aged, stocky build, hair and goatee the color of coal dust. Gerry, the real estate developer. Something about his walk looked a little…lubricated, if you know what I mean, and when he got closer, the smell of booze and sweat and wood smoke mingled.

“Gerry Webb,” he said and stuck out his hand. I shook. He had rough, dry skin—not calluses, but like he might need a good exfoliator/moisturizer combo.

“Dash Dane.”

“I know. I’ve had my eye on you.”

He held on to my hand a beat too long. Maybe his grin was supposed to be friendly, but I’d had other guys give me that grin before. Damian the bartender, if he were thirty years older, would have given me a grin like that.

“Nice to meet you.” And then inspiration struck, and I held up my drink. “Thanks for the drink. And for sponsoring the surfing competition.”

“Cost of doing business, cost of doing business. You want something to be a success, you’ve got to get people talking.”

“Is the surf camp one of your projects too?”

“Darn tootin’.” He patted himself down as though searching for something, and then he gave up. “You’re a very nice-looking young man, you know.”

“Uh. Thank you.” I scrambled for the right thing to say next and came up with “How do you know Jen?”

Gerry eyed me, wobbling under the influence of his drinks. I could feel the challenge—or the demand, or the insistence, whatever you wanted to call it—building. But then his face relaxed. “Don’t know her. We were both trying to get the city council to approve developments. She thought I was going to ruin her little camp. I showed her how helpful it can be to have somebody on your side—somebody who knows how to get things done. Somebody who’s got the money to make things happen.”

“And she brought you on as an investor?”

“Oh sure. She knew she wasn’t going to get anywhere with her camp, not without some help. She needed a guy with some experience. A guy who knows how to take care of the people he cares about.” Another of those drunken wobbles. The firelight danced in his glassy eyes. He put a hand on my arm, and I tried to convince myself he was just trying to keep his balance. Then his thumb stroked lightly over my biceps. “That’s the advantage to having a mature partner,” he said, his voice gravelly with the drink and, maybe, something else. “I know how to take care of someone.”

I turned, doing my best to keep the movement casual, to glance at where Deputy Bobby and the others had joined the crowd around the bonfire. A long-haired surfer was trying to walk on his hands, while another surfer guy threw pebbles at him and tried to get him to fall. Everybody was watching. Everybody was laughing. Even if I shouted—the thought came dizzily up from somewhere inside me—even if I shouted, I wasn’t sure they’d realize it wasn’t just one more person shouting in the crowd.

The movement was enough to make Gerry drop his hand, but when I turned back to face him, he was watching me even more intently. “I wanted to talk to you, you know,” he said. “I told you I’ve had my eye on you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I just got out of a relationship—”

His laugh boomed out into the night. For a moment, he didn’t seem to be as drunk as I’d thought. There was something knowing in his face—a hard, sharp knowing that I didn’t like. “I wanted to talk to you,” he said, exaggerated amusement lacing the words, “about that sweet little piece you’re sitting on.” My mind could only conjure one horrifying interpretation of those words, which must have been obvious because Gerry laughed and said, “The land. That old house too, I suppose, but the land.”

“Oh.”

He laughed some more.

“Right,” I said. “The land. Well, see, I’m not sure Hemlock House really is mine. It’s a strange situation—”

“I know all about strange situations. I’ve got lawyers who love a strange situation. And I could make you a good offer. Girasol II – the second phase of development. I’ve already sold every lot of Girasol I. And you could use the money. It’s got to be tough, being a creative type. Creative types are like Jen, you know. They need a partner. They need someone to take care of them.”

His gaze was full of that demand again, and I remembered how his hand had felt clutching mine, and how it had felt when he’d caught my arm. I pulled my eyes away. I found myself looking over his shoulder, past him, at the palapa. Damian was still behind the bar, and he was staring back at us, his jaw set, his mouth a flat line.

“When I come to a new town,” Gerry said as he stepped closer, “I like to get to know the people there. Become part of the community. See, that’s how I know all about you. And you’re a little peach of a kid, easy on the eyes.” He touched my stomach, pawing at me through my shirt. “Just lovely.”

I took a step back. The paralyzing anxiety that had held me in place shattered, and I said, “Don’t touch me.”

“Hey,” Gerry said and grabbed my arm. “Don’t be like that.”

I started to pull away. Distantly, I was aware of the vodka cran slipping from my hand.

Gerry’s fingers tightened.

And then Deputy Bobby was there, shooting out of the darkness. He got between me and Gerry, planted both hands on Gerry’s chest, and shoved. Gerry stumbled back, arms windmilling. Somehow, he stayed upright and caught his balance. His mouth twisted into a snarl, and he said, “You’re going to regret that—”

Before he could finish, Deputy Bobby punched him.

Gerry dropped. It wasn’t a fall or a stagger. It was like someone had cut a puppet’s strings.

Deputy Bobby loomed over him, breathing hard, shaking out a fist. “He said don’t touch him!”

West’s voice came out of the darkness: “Bobby! Bobby, what are you—”

But Deputy Bobby was still focused on Gerry, and he shouted again, “He told you not to touch him!”

Out of the flickering shadows, West materialized. He stumbled to a stop, staring first at Gerry, then at Deputy Bobby. He grabbed Deputy Bobby’s arm.

Deputy Bobby’s move was reflexive: an automatic yank to get free of West’s hold.

West held on, though, and snapped, “Bobby!”

Deputy Bobby raised his head like someone waking up. He looked at West and blinked as though he didn’t recognize him. His gaze came to me, and I didn’t know the Deputy Bobby on the other side of the burnished bronze.

“Come on,” West said. And then, more harshly, “Come on!”

He towed Deputy Bobby into the darkness.

“Why don’t we step away?” Fox asked.

I startled at the sound of their voice; I hadn’t realized anyone else was there, but now it seemed like someone had fast-forwarded a movie: Jen was helping Gerry to his feet, and Keme was standing in front of Millie like he intended to be the last line of defense, and more of the surfers and their friends were drifting into a ring to stare at us. With a wild shout, Gerry ripped free from Jen’s support and stumbled away from the growing crowd.

Fox laid a hand on my back to get me moving. We started around the camp’s central building, heading back to Millie’s car, and excited voices exploded into conversation behind us. I tried not to hear the words, and I focused instead on taking slow, deep breaths. As we moved into the darkness, the night air was cold and sweet, free of wood smoke and cannabis vapor and tasting faintly like dew and dune grass and the vodka cran on my breath.

“Well,” Fox said, “that was certainly something—”

“I already told you why!” West’s voice sliced through the night. It came from somewhere nearby—behind one of the camp buildings. “I don’t know why we have to keep having this conversation.”

“That was battery,” Deputy Bobby said. I’d never heard his voice like that, I thought. Like stamped steel.

“And you’re off duty. I want one night, Bobby. One. One night when I get to have a boyfriend who cares about me, who wants to be with me, who is focused on me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You want to know what’s not fair? What’s not fair is that every time we go out, you’re a deputy, and I’m—I’m an afterthought. I’m whatever you’re doing when you aren’t breaking up fights or driving drunks home or—” West’s voice rose. “Or getting in fights like you’re a stupid teenager!”

The night had a heartbeat. My face was hot. Fox sucked in slow, pained breaths.

Deputy Bobby’s voice was strained when he said, “I think we should have this conversation after we both cool down.”

West expressed his feelings about that idea. At length. With words.

When he finished, Deputy Bobby’s familiar tread moved away into the night.

“God,” Fox said, and that seemed to break the spell. They got me moving again. “Poor kids.”

When we got to Millie’s Mazda, Fox tried the doors, but they were locked. “Stay here,” they said. “I’m going to get Millie and Keme, and we’ll head back to town.”

“No, don’t. I shouldn’t have—they were so excited about this party. I ruined it.”

“You didn’t ruin it. A lecherous old man ruined it.”

“God, West sounded so mad.”

In the dark, it was impossible to make out Fox’s face, but their voice was strangely uncertain when they said, “Dash—” And then they stopped. In a different voice, they said, “It’ll be fine. They’ll be fine.”

I didn’t say anything. It was the first time, as far as I could tell, that Fox had lied to me.

“Wait here,” Fox said. “I’ll be right back.”

Their steps moved off, and the dark bulk of their body dissolved into the night.

I replayed the conversation between Deputy Bobby and West. And then I replayed it again. And then again. I heard in my head, over and over, Deputy Bobby’s heavy steps as he walked off. I went over every instant of my interaction with Gerry. I came up with a dozen things I should have done differently. I should have left. As soon as I caught that weird vibe, I should have left. The first time he touched my arm, I should have left. I should have slapped him. I should have said, If you touch me again, I’m going to call the police . I should have done anything except stand there, petrified by the thought of making a terrible situation even worse by drawing attention to myself.

And because of me, Deputy Bobby was out there, alone—hurt and angry and confused.

Before I could think about what I was doing, I pushed off from Millie’s car. I headed in the direction I had heard Deputy Bobby’s steps moving. Off in the distance, the party sounded like it had returned to normal. A man jeered. A woman screamed with delight. A splash, and then a swell of laughter. My vision was slowly adjusting to the night, and the outlines of the buildings solidified, with tunnels of darkness between them. I followed one of those tunnels, passing clapboard cabins that would stand empty until spring, my steps echoing back from painted doors, the smell of freshly sawed wood hanging in the air.

The cabins stopped, and I climbed a low hill, following a footpath beaten into the dirt through the dune grass. The grass whispered against me, scratching the backs of my hands. On the other side of the dune, the beach opened up. A few jagged tears in the clouds gave enough light for me to make out the arc of sand and, beyond it, the restless shimmer of the water. Against a board-and-batten lifeguard tower, surfboards were racked and ready for the next day. Wetsuits hung on wooden drying racks. A striped beach ball, slightly deflated, nestled in the sand.

Movement to the north caught my eye. The ground there rose steeply into bluffs, and the face of the stone caught the night’s light so that it had a soft, salt-lamp glow. Against the gentle radiance of the stone, a figure was making its way along the beach.

“Deputy Bobby!”

The crash of the waves swallowed my voice. I wasn’t sure the figure—if it even was Deputy Bobby—heard me; if they did, they didn’t look back. But I thought I recognized the way they moved, the cut-out shape of them against the pale stone.

I started after them. The sand gave under every step, slowing me. The sound of the breakers grew as I angled past the wrack line, stepping over tangles of kelp and seagrass and a crusty Fanta bottle (empty, of course). The smell of decay met me, and then the wind whipped it away again.

And then I lost them. The figure, whoever it was I’d been following, was gone. I strained, trying to make out movement in the darkness. Nothing.

“Deputy Bobby!”

My words were lost to the winds and the waves.

Pulling out my phone, I trudged in the direction I’d last seen him. I turned on the phone’s flashlight. It made it easier to see where I was putting my feet, but it ruined my night vision. I turned the flashlight off again, and then I couldn’t see anything. Somehow, the ocean sounded even louder. Maybe the tide was coming in. Was this the right time? I had no idea. I picked up the pace. It was easier going now as I followed the narrow strip of beach along the face of the cliffs. Waves slapped down hard to my left, and the swash rolled up, missing my sneakers by inches. This had been a bad idea, I decided. Deputy Bobby—if it even was Deputy Bobby—wanted to be left alone. That’s the whole reason he’d walked away. He was upset, and he needed some time to calm down, to get control of himself. He wouldn’t appreciate me barging in on him, even if I was doing it out of friendship.

And then, ahead of me, against the pale luminescence of the stone, I made out a shape. The swash came in again, swirling around that dark bulk. It took me a moment to realize it wasn’t a rock. It was someone lying on the ground.

“Bobby?” I started to run. “Bobby!”

But when I reached him, it wasn’t Deputy Bobby. It was Gerry Webb, and he was dead.

It looked like he’d fallen—his body shattered by the impact. I couldn’t help myself; I looked up. And there, on the cliff above me, someone was looking down. They were too far away for me to make out more than their shape. But they were there.

And then they were gone.