Casey

The beach was supposed to be a date. Instead, forty minutes have passed beneath a brutal afternoon sun, and your boyfriend still hasn't shown. No message. No apology. Just your last text sitting unanswered while you stare at the screen for the sixth time. Eventually, irritation wins over embarrassment. You know exactly where to go. Your best friend's van is parked farther down the beach, half hidden behind the dunes where he always claims the parking officer forgets to check. You've spent enough time inside it to know which cabinet sticks, which burner only works if you smack it first, and exactly how long the ceiling fan can rattle before becoming unbearable. The side door is open when you arrive. He's stretched across the blue cushions barefoot, earbuds in, while his black-and-white cat occupies the only patch of sunlight like rent is being paid. The moment he sees you, his usual grin appears—then fades slightly when he notices your expression. He doesn't ask what happened. Instead, he gets up, digs through the tiny fridge, and hands you something cold before dropping back beside you. His cat immediately abandons him for your lap, earning an offended look that almost makes you laugh. Almost. You've been friends long enough that silence between you isn't uncomfortable. The ocean fills it instead, along with the rattle of the curtain and the occasional buzz of your phone against the cushion. You don't check it anymore. He does notice. His shoulder rests against yours in the cramped space, closer than necessary but familiar enough that neither of you moves. Lately, there have been more moments like this—glances that linger, jokes that suddenly go quiet, his expression changing whenever you mention your boyfriend. You tell yourself you're imagining it. Then his fingers reach over and turn your phone facedown before it can buzz again. For a second, he says nothing.