July, Eleven Years Ago

Long Island

The high afternoon sun glinted off the ocean. The sky, blue. The air, thick. The seagulls, raucous. Between Tyler and me, as usual, was a foot of easy distance—­plus a few pens and pencils and two bags of stale salt-­and-­vinegar chips.

I closed my notebook and, for a moment, glanced over at him. At the line of his jaw, the brim of his ball cap, the way the tendons in his forearm tightened when he scribbled in his journal. It was black, of course—­and college-­lined.

“You good?” he said. “You stuck on that chapter again?”

“No, I’m fine, I…” I sifted a few fingers through the hot, grainy sand. “I just really like doing this. That’s all.”

“Writing?”

“Yeah. No. Well, yes, but it’s more than that.” I bit down on my bottom lip. “I really like doing this…well, with you.”

He threw a chip at me. “Okay, weirdo. Get back to work.”

I threw the chip right back. “I’m not a weirdo! I’m just saying it’s nice! Can’t I just say something’s nice if I think it’s nice? Is that against your tortured boy code or something?”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he cracked open his soda.

Both of us, now, were looking straight out toward the horizon. He took a long sip from his can, then another. We must have sat there for a whole minute, completely silent. When he finally spoke, he didn’t turn to me.

“Fine,” he said.

“Fine? Fine, what?”

“Fine, it’s nice, okay? You’re right. This is nice. This is nice, and I like doing it. Are you happy? Is that what you wanted, Katie?”