The Sea Ain't Mine Alone

by Beaumont, C. L.

  26

  Sydney gratefully steps back when James gets his board out of the back for him after parking out in front of Chuck Hobbs’ place in the usual spot. To Sydney’s tired, drooping eyes, the world feels like he’s living inside a film. One where he has James to drive him back home after a morning spent surfing Waimea, and James to carry his board for him and casually walk down to the house—their house—and James to look back over his shoulder and say, “Come on, you lazy ass, your legs are like five inches longer than mine and I’m carrying your goddamn board and I’m still beating you.”

  Sydney jogs to catch up with him, wondering if he just ran a little bit faster if he’d sprout wings and fly up into the clear blue sky at the lightness in his chest.

  James sticks the board down in the sand and leans it up against the house, then shucks off his shoes. “You must be starving.”

  On cue, Sydney’s stomach growls. James smirks and walks into the cool darkness of the house, heading straight for the small fridge and looking at the contents inside with a frown on his face, muttering to himself under his breath.

  Sydney stands frozen in the doorway, watching James casually look through the fridge in his bare feet as if he hadn’t just picked up his whole damn life and moved it here just yesterday. As if he hadn’t just watched Sydney surf the most dangerous waves on earth, or whispered “I love you” into his ear on the crowded beach.

  A low sense of dread—the complete disbelieving anxiety that all of this can’t possibly be real—finally surges up and spills over in Sydney’s chest, and he takes a step forward into the room, heart pounding.

  “James.”

  The tone of his voice makes James pop up his head over the refrigerator door. “Something wrong?”

  Sydney gestures limply with his hand around the silent, empty house, not even sure what to say. “You—you gave up so much for this. For me.”

  It’s not at all what he’d meant to say. He’d meant to say something inane to break the silence like, “I think there’s some chicken thighs in the freezer,” or, “Did you bring anything you wanna put up to decorate the room?”

  He sure as hell hadn’t meant to stand there looking young and stupid in his doorway, reminding James of everything he gave up to be here. That he doesn’t have a job yet, and that he left all his friends behind. That people like Lahela and Hank will look at him closely now standing next to Sydney, and some of them will know. That he’ll be the fag from Los Angeles who fell for the fag from Oahu.

  He wants to sink to his knees and apologize and tell him to pack his bags and run—go back to his normal reality before it’s all too late. But before he can do anything, James shuts the fridge door and leans back against the counter, arms spread casually out behind him.

  James nods slowly at Sydney’s words. “Yeah, in a way I did.”

  Sydney swallows hard. His voice sounds too small in the echoing house. “I’m sorry.”

  James frowns, taking a step forward. “Why the hell are you apologizing?”

  Sydney shrugs. His mouth is dry. “Because, you . . . you aren’t—I don’t want you to go through what I do. You don’t deserve that.”

  “Well you don’t deserve it either, love.”

  Sydney shuts his eyes at the name, caught off guard by the pulse of longing through his chest.

  James goes on, as if he hasn’t even realized what word he just used, or its effect. “Sydney, look at me.” He waits until Sydney looks back up from the floor. “I wouldn’t have gotten back on that plane in LA if I wasn’t sure about this. If I wasn’t as fucking close to one-hundred percent as I could be.”

  Sydney reels as the room about him spins, causing everything to blur except the clear lines of James’ limbs. “I’m sure, too,” he whispers.

  James nods and clears his throat. The house seems vast and silent, warping around them in its own private universe where nobody else even exists. “You know,” James starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I . . . when I was in LA, I stayed with Rob and Lori that first night back. I told Rob that . . . that I’m gay. When we surfed in the morning.”

  Sydney gapes. “You told him?”

  “Yeah, I did.” James shrugs his shoulders. “He helped me get everything together so I could get back out here, actually. Told me I was an idiot for not coming back to you sooner.”

  “A week is still pretty damn soon. Less than a week.”

  James grins, then it falls from his face as he stares out one of the windows over Sydney’s shoulder. “I think you know this. That—that with Rob . . . I’ve always—”

  “You loved him.”

  James frowns. “Actually, no. Well, I mean, yes. In a way. But it’s not the same as . . . as this. Not at all.” His palm rubs once over his chest and shoulder. “I was in a bad place when I met him,” he whispers. “Really bad.”

  Sydney’s throat closes up. It’s almost physically impossible for him to calmly think about James sitting alone in an empty apartment with his scar still angry and red and knowing that nobody will call on him that day, or the next, or the next.

  “I’m glad that you met him,” Sydney says. “Extremely glad.”

  James’ eyes are dark. “Me, too.” He sighs, and his eyes squint like he’s in pain. “But it’s not just . . . Rob told me, last week. Admitted, I guess. If he hadn’t already been with Lori when we met . . .”

  James looks at him like he’s waiting for an explosion, and Sydney suddenly remembers the way Rob’s fingers had brushed James’ wet hair back from his face in the tide pools. The way Rob’s entire body shook.

  Surprisingly, the realization comes with a wave of relief. It means James was never going to sit in an empty apartment knowing that nobody was going to call on him for the rest of time.

  “I understand,” he says.

  James stares at him for a long moment, then grins in the corner of his mouth as he slowly shakes his head. “Yeah, I guess you do.”

  “He’s the only person you ever told,” Sydney says, not a question.

  James huffs a laugh. “Yeah. That and you—well, you told me. But . . . God, the world didn’t end, you know? It’s—” James runs his hand through his hair, looking over Sydney’s shoulder. “Shit, Sydney, I wanted to kiss you on the beach after you came out of the waves today. I wanted to so fucking badly. I wanna tell people that I’m with you. That I just moved in with you, because that’s the kind of shit people get to be excited about.”

  Sydney’s eyes grow wet. “Me, too.”

  James sighs, then walks forward and takes Sydney’s cold fingers in his. He looks down at their joined hands. “But, this—what we have to do . . . it isn’t right. I mean, this feels right, for me. Being with you. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt like the war wasn’t just it. That I have the whole rest of my life. And you . . . you helped give that to me. But I can’t tell a fucking single person about it because we just can’t. Not everyone’s Rob, or even Hank.”

  Sydney grips James’ hand hard in his. “I know. But James, I didn’t give anything to you. I’m just . . . I’m only just—”

  “Listen to me. I don’t think either of us knows what the hell this is yet. What . . . what it will mean. How hard it’ll be. But that sure as hell doesn’t mean I’m leaving you, or that I don’t want to live here with you.”

  “But you shouldn’t—”

  “No, no buts.” James’ head rises bravely. “I haven’t wanted to fucking kill myself since the second I met you, and I’m pretty sure I’m not totally off base when I say I think you’ve felt the same. So unless you tell me to leave—”

  “I’d never tell you to leave.”

  “Right, so unless you tell me to leave, I’m in this. I’m with you. I wouldn’t have come back if I didn’t feel that it was worth it to try, okay?”

  Sydney can barely breathe. He gasps in a deep breath, then reaches forward to pull James into his arms. He rests his cheek against his hair and runs his hand up the muscles in James’ back.

>   He wonders if James can feel the hammering thuds of his heart through his chest. “I never kissed anyone before you,” he admits, hating that his voice cracks like he’s actually still fifteen.

  He feels James’ smile against his neck. “I know. It’s never . . . it’s never felt like that for me, either. It’s just been wom—”

  “No, I mean literally. You . . . you were it.”

  James pulls back and looks up into his face, and Sydney uses every ounce of energy left in his body to keep his eyes open. He knows his face is beet red.

  James frowns. “But, I thought you . . . you’d been with—”

  “It was all just . . .” Sydney glances down between them at the lower half of his body. His face burns even hotter. “You know.”

  The following silence is so thick Sydney wonders if all the air in his house has been sucked away. Then, to his complete surprise, James laughs. He runs his hands up Sydney’s chest and grabs two handfuls of his shirt.

  “So, the infamous Danny Moore’s first kiss, huh?” He runs his thumbs once over Sydney’s nipples, then winks as he looks into his eyes. “Lucky me.”

  Sydney melts. He collapses forward against James’ chest, holding him tightly as he he smiles into James’ hair. The house doesn’t seem quite so large or silent anymore. “I’m not sure what the hell I did to deserve you.”

  James huffs as he runs his hands up Sydney’s spine. “I’m not sure either, because you can be a fucking asshole sometimes.”

  He pulls back and grabs Sydney’s cheek, bringing him down for a kiss. “Now stop doubting me. I’m a fucking decade older than you, I know what I’m choosing here.”

  Sydney laughs despite himself as James steps back. “Seriously, you’re gonna play the age card? Now?”

  “I’m gonna play the age card if you keep doubting that I have more feelings for you than I even know how to deal with,” James says. He walks back towards the kitchen. “Now go and shower, you smell like hot beach. And when you come back, we’re gonna eat whatever I can whip up out of this sorry ass fridge and drink beers and you’re gonna help me come up with what the hell I can do out here for a real job.”

  Sydney stares at James’ back as he effortlessly navigates the small kitchen. The world straightens itself out again around him for the first time since he’d set foot in the doorway.

  James looks back at him over his shoulder when Sydney doesn’t immediately move. “Go on. I’ll be here.”

  Then he turns back to the fridge and leaves Sydney standing in the middle of the house. The house that’s filled with the sounds of James Campbell whistling while he rummages through the fridge. And the warmth of James’ skin reaches out across the hardwood floor and spreads through every inch of their home, caressing the tired soles of Sydney’s water-wrinkled feet.

  ~

  “So your step-mom knew, then. About you.”

  Sydney takes another sip of his beer out on the porch, bringing his knees up to his chest.

  He hums. “Wasn’t exactly a secret. I’m pretty sure the whole street heard what my father was yelling that day.”

  James winces. “The usual names?”

  “The usual, and then some. He got fairly creative.”

  James stretches his legs out, resting his feet on the banister of the porch, and cradles his icy bottle in his lap.

  “I sorta thought she was gonna react more when you told her about me today.”

  “So did I.” Sydney takes another drink, then lets his beer hang between his fingers by the neck, swaying softly in the breeze coming steadily off the ocean. “I don’t think she’s ever actually met any gay people before, who were known at least. Think you threw her for a loop with all your manly muscles and shit. No lipstick or feather boas or lisp or anything.”

  James huffs out a laugh and runs a hand through his hair. “Never understood it—those guys you hear about up in San Francisco or New York or whatever who dress like that. Never understood how they could be that brave, letting everyone know like that. I’d be scared shitless to even go to one of those bars, scared of a raid. And they just . . . go out there and do it. Probably have bigger balls than any of the men I even served with—I’d bet money on that.”

  Sydney chuckles. “You know, I went to a gay bar in the Castro once, couple of years ago after a competition in Santa Cruz.”

  “No shit?”

  “Was like a whole different world up there. Whole blocks where everyone outside on the streets was a man holding another man’s hand. Leather, high heels, the whole thing. I felt like I was on a movie set.”

  James smiles wistfully. “Did you take advantage of it?”

  Sydney smirks. “Best blow job of my whole damn life, until you came along.”

  James rolls his eyes, then finishes off his beer and cracks open another on the porch railing. “You’re impossible,” he says. Then he sighs and settles back into his chair. “So, you’re gonna see your step-mom at Sunset?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Will you write to her again?”

  Sydney shrugs, looking out over the calm flat horizon as the sun begins to slowly drip down towards the waves.

  He wants to say yes, that he could effortlessly get out a blank sheet of paper and pick back up right where he left off in his final letter. But the past seven years hang over him like a lead weight, crushing him slowly with a choking weight from the sky. He isn’t eating his post-competition dinner alone in his empty kitchen, and that’s enough for now.

  “Don’t think so,” he finally says. “It still feels too soon. Might always be too soon.”

  He looks over at James, hoping he gets what he’s saying, and James nods understandingly as he gazes out over the ocean. Then quiet peace on his face turns into a small frown, and James licks his lips like he’s nervous. Sydney watches him hold his body carefully still.

  “Your actual mom. . .” James trails off.

  Sydney knows that it’s a question. It’s the question. And for the first time ever, the thought of answering it doesn’t fill him with dread at all.

  “She drank,” he says simply, holding up the beer bottle in his hand with a shrug before taking another sip. “I was too young to know. Only in looking back that I’ve figured it out.”

  James nods, waiting patiently, and Sydney continues. “We moved from Ft. Knox to Arizona when I was nine. I don’t even remember what city, to be honest. Near some base down there in the desert. One day there was a church picnic after service on Sunday. It was like a hundred and three fucking degrees outside. I remember whining because they ran out of lemonade and I ended up pouting under a tree waiting to go home.”

  James laughs like he can perfectly imagine little Sydney Moore, whining and hot and sweaty at a church picnic. Sydney takes a deep breath. It’s been years since he’s even thought about this day, and he’s certainly never said any of it out loud.

  James waits, quiet and gentle on the porch, and Sydney looks at the sunlight glinting off his eyelashes before he goes on. “So my momma shows up late to this thing. Totally out of her mind already. I heard all this yelling and went over to see what the hell was going on, and there she was, standing by the food table calling the pastor’s wife a bitch because she copied her potato salad recipe. Then she picked up the bowl and threw it on the ground in the dirt. And for some reason, the only thing I remember being shocked at was that her bra strap was hanging loose down her arm. She was always dressed up so perfectly. I’d never seen her bra strap before.”

  James hums, listening, and Sydney feels a smile grace across his mouth. “You know, actually I remember laughing. Because momma pointed her finger at the pastor’s wife and said that she was jealous of all the people on earth who hadn’t had to meet her. Then she turned to the pastor and told him that she could spill a can of alphabet soup on the floor and it would still be more eloquent than his sermons.”

  James laughs beside him. “So that’s where you get it from.”

  Sydney hums. “Momma was
the queen of calling out other people on their shit. I just didn’t realize at the time she only ever did it when she was hammered.”

  James lets the smile gently fade from his face. “So what happened then?”

  “I remember she fell. My father was screaming at me and Mikey to get her back home and he stormed off. But Mikey followed him, and everyone else just stood there staring. So I had to try and help her up by myself. And as I was trying to help her up, she just kept telling me she was okay and that I should go and play with my friends. Except I didn’t have a single goddamn friend there. Everybody could hear.”

  Sydney suddenly feels bad for telling such a horrible story, ruining their first real evening together out on the porch of their home—an evening without the knowledge that one of them is about to leave or do something completely crazy the next day.

  “Sorry, man—” Sydney winces, that word now tasting sour in his mouth after everything that’s happened between him and James in the last day. He presses on, hoping James didn’t notice. “I know it’s not really a nice story to hear.”

  James shakes his head. “I’m gonna start making you put a dollar in a fucking jar every time you apologize, and then you can buy me a brand new surfboard. What happened next?”

  Sydney shoots him a grateful smile. He realizes he couldn’t stop telling this story even if James had asked him to can it and let them sit out there in peace. It feels so good to let it fall from his lips, like releasing the image of his momma kneeling in the dirt to fade away over the sea—like setting her free, after all this time.

  “I finally got her back home down the street. One of the other women came and helped me—can’t remember for the life of me who she was. When we got home, my father was on the phone, sounded like he was talking to some higher officer than him. I don’t really remember much of what happened after that. But a few weeks later, he woke me and Mikey up really early and said to pack everything we had and be at the car in fifteen minutes. And when we went out, my mom was already out on the porch, like she’d been there all night.”