“Don’t worry,” Jason said. “I’ll wait ‘til the next time I see you.”
Charlie positively beamed at that, and Jason didn’t miss the way his gaze flicked down his body and up again.
Ooh.
“I’m counting on it,” Charlie said, standing. He tossed Jason a wave. “See ya around, Cap’n.”
“Sure,” Jason said. He watched Charlie go and sat back in the Adirondack again, suddenly feeling a bit edgy. The patio at Big Boba seemed deathly quiet after Charlie walked away.
Jason messed around on his phone, catching up with his friends back in LA via Facebook, and then finally got to his feet, stretching for a moment before he drained the rest of his coffee.
It was nearly ten. If he went to the store and returned to the boat right away, he could start writing at about 11:30. Except he’d want lunch at noon or a little later, and he wouldn’t really get much writing done in that little window of time before lunch. He’d eat noon and get started writing at one. That was a solid plan, he thought.
Jason walked behind Crescent Avenue to the grocery store where the locals shopped. He kicked himself for not taking his golf cart after all, and ended up lugging four heavy bags all the way back to the dock, pushing through the tourists and dodging pedi-cabs, carts, and the occasional real car. He made himself a pasta salad with fresh crab for lunch, and thought it came out pretty nicely. Then he realized his kitchenette could really use a scrub down and that kept him busy for a while. After that, his leg felt stiff, so he went for a swim.
It was four o’clock before Jason sat down at his laptop to write in his little office corner in the stateroom on the lower deck. He had an advance. He had a contract. He also had a mountain of research. But most of his material was in his own head. He was supposed to write about his experience as a beat cop turned detective. He’d written a couple pieces for The Atlantic after achieving just a little of notoriety out of sheer dumb luck, and it had brought him an opportunity that came around just when he’d wanted to quit the force as his marriage was breaking up. He had peace and quiet and he had a functioning computer and a brain.
The page remained blank.
2
Charlie
Charlie Benton tossed his empty boba cup in a bin and tripped on the sidewalk. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he righted himself, quickly dodging a family pushing two strollers as they barreled down Crescent Avenue. He smiled at them, even giving a brief salute. They were tourists. Eventually they would get to the shop, he was sure. He was always careful to be polite, helpful, and friendly to tourists in public because sometimes people remembered you.
He hunched a little as he walked. He had been six foot two since the tenth grade and he never felt quite comfortable in his height. Back then, he was skinny too, a lanky mess with his head down. Now he was much broader. He was lean but not thin. Still, he always found himself self-consciously hunching. His mother had given up correcting it.
Charlie kept an eye out for Andy as he trotted back to the shop just a couple blocks down. He wondered if Andy had come across the yacht guy yet. Andy always met everyone first.
The conversation with Jason—Jason the hunk, Jason the wet dream—would crackle in his head all day. He couldn’t wait to talk to Andy about it. But it was nearly eleven already, and his mother needed him at the shop. He quickened his pace.
Around five thousand people lived on the island and Charlie knew almost everyone, having grown up there. He knew all the shortcuts to the other side of the island. He’d spent a chunk of high school getting high up in the hills and watching the bison run, camping there under the stars. He knew when the fish market had the freshest fish. He knew the best spots for snorkeling and scuba diving and never told tourists because they would ruin it. He knew three people who would take him to the mainland for five bucks whenever he asked. He also knew every guy in town with any proclivity for other men. He’d slept with a couple of them. Charlie knew every inch of Catalina. New people who weren’t just tourists were always thrilling.
Jason was especially thrilling.
Charlie tripped up the sidewalk to his mother’s shop just as his junior year chemistry teacher, Mr. Takeshi, tossed him a friendly wave while cruising by in a golf cart. Charlie waved back and smiled.
Porpoise Pot was as touristy as a trap could get. They sold anything made of seashells, beachy knick knacks, and things more specifically themed to Catalina, some books, stuff his mother made, T-shirts, and lots of things that Charlie found totally unnecessary in life.
“Hey, mom!” Charlie hollered, his voice breaking the muted ambiance of the place as the bells above the door jingled. Enya was playing, and he winced. His mother thought tourists liked Enya. “Have you seen Captain America?”
The store was small. “Cozy,” his mother liked to call it. All their merch was crowded onto glass and wooden shelves from floor to nearly the ceiling and Charlie had learned to dance his lurching, broad-shouldered frame around everything. He sidled up to the counter where his mother sat on a stool, reading a romance novel.
She looked up and blinked at him. “Sure, I’ve seen Captain America, sweetie. We watched it together. You wouldn’t—”
“No, no, I mean—”
“Shut up about it,” she went on. “All that fuss over the poor boy with a metal arm—”
“Mom—”
“I think you’re right, by the way. Steve and Bucky should have been a couple—”
“I’m not talking about the actual Captain America.”
“Oh.”
“There’s a new guy in town,” Charlie said slyly, leaning on his arms. “Lives on a yacht? I almost passed out when I saw him. I mean, he looks like if Captain America retired once he hit middle-age and got soft and comfy. Started wearing sweaters. But still, like... Gah.”
“Lives on a yacht?” his mother said, narrowing her eyes. “How old is he? Young people don’t live on yachts.”
“Sure they do, if they’re rich. And he was... I don’t know. Forty, probably.”
“Sounds too old for you.” Charlie’s mother was Sandra. She had long, salt and pepper hair that she habitually wore in a braid. She was partial to tie-dye and faded jeans and dangly, beaded earrings. She crocheted and knitted and sold blankets in the shop for absurd amounts of money. But people bought them.
“I’m thirty-two!” Charlie said, coming around behind the counter and leaning on the wall.
“Oh, you’re not a real thirty-two,” his mother said, with a wave of her hand. “You’re a millennial thirty-two.”
“I’m having an urge to needlepoint that on a pillow,” Charlie cracked.
“I’m sure it would sell well.”
“And what is this not-young man’s name?” his mother said, rising from her stool and placing her bookmark between the pages of her novel.
“Jason,” Charlie said. “Didn’t get his last name. But he’s moved here. I’m sure I’ll see him around.”
“And do you think he enjoys the attention of other gentlemen?” his mother said, lowering her voice. She batted her eyes.
“How come whenever you talk about me and guys, you turn into Mae West?”