Catalina Island sat quiet between the Pacific, its hills bare and gray against the fogless sky. Across the mainland, Highway 1 ran toward the beach. Between lifeguard towers 8 and 10, a small colony of seagulls scattered on the damp sand. The sun trembled behind a thin mist, rising from waves barely ankle-high.

By tower 10, the shadow of the structure warmed a patch of dry sand. A plastic ramp ribbed its way down toward the water’s edge, unused, the waves too still to need it. The ocean stretched flat and colorless, its swells rising only to fall in silent breaks.

A girl sat on the sand, hands behind her, legs stretched wide, her toes pressed into the grains. Beside her, a boy hunched over, legs crossed, sifting sand through his fingers. Between them lay a blanket—really a tablecloth—with a bottle of wine sitting on top.

“Should I open it?” the boy asked, pulling the bottle from his leather bag.

“Sure,” she said.

“It’s warm, and there’s sand on the lip. Spit it out if it gets in.”

“That’s a big bottle. Are you sure we’ll finish it?” Her hand reached for the bottle.

“I know how much you love big things,” he said, unfurling one leg to stretch. He smiled but didn’t look at her.

She watched him instead, her eyes tracing his collarbone, visible where his oversized shirt slipped off his shoulder. Her gaze lingered on his brown skin, moving to the stubble under his ear.

The sun broke through the mist for a moment, scattering light across the beach, then disappeared again.

“Come here,” she said, shifting closer, her hand brushing his. Her lips pressed into a quiet smile as she leaned in.

“No. Not now.” His hand pulled away, cold and quick, grabbing the bottle instead. He took a long drink, coughing as the wine went down the wrong way.

“It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’s just… it means something different now.”

“It only means something different because you want it to,” she said. “Nothing’s changed. Only you can prove that, especially to yourself.”

He set the bottle between them, a barrier they both ignored. He knew the wine would loosen them, as it always did. Their bond, so intimate once, now leaned too often on alcohol to smooth the rough edges.

“When are the waves coming back?” she asked, placing a hand on his knee. Her fingers gestured lightly for the bottle.

He stretched out his other leg, leaning back on his arms. “They say a storm’s brewing down south. Should bring a monster set by next week. But they say that a lot. Look for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

“Why would I look? I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“You could look up. Your mother would like that, after everything.”

“Don’t,” she said. Her voice tightened, but her hand stayed. “I was asking because I know how much you like it out there.”

The fog thickened. The seagull colony thinned.

“The water’s warmer than I remember growing up,” he said. “Global warming, maybe.” He handed her the bottle. She took a long drink.

“This wine’s better than the cheap stuff you usually bring,” she said.

“I thought the occasion deserved it.”

“It’s good. Tastes like fruit and nuts.”

“It is fruit and nuts.”

“I know. Just saying it out loud.”

A swell broke, and the ocean smoothed over, mirroring the empty sky.

“Did it hurt?” he asked, turning the tiny shell in his hand. His voice was soft, uneven.

She didn’t answer right away. Her knees came up, her chin resting on them. Her feet burrowed into the sand, burying a memory she didn’t want to unearth.

“Is this about me not telling you first, or because it happened at all?” she said.

“It’s both,” he said. His words came fast, like they might slip away if he didn’t catch them. “I worry about what it means for us.”

“It doesn’t mean anything if we don’t let it,” she said. “Let’s move on and enjoy what’s left.”

“I can’t just move on,” he said. “My mind won’t let me. It’ll twist this into something worse.”

“You’re being dramatic. I told you, I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

“Maybe. But so are you. You’re the one who leaves. The one who stays quiet. You want meaning in everything, even if it means losing part of yourself to find it.”

“If we forget it, what’s left to learn? How do we grow from this?”

She stretched out beside him, her arm tucked under her head. “We’ll forget it,” she said. “As long as it doesn’t happen again.”

He stood, brushing sand from his hands. “The waves will be bigger by then,” he said. “I’ll surf a new swell.”

“And I’ll be here,” she said, lifting the bottle to her lips. “Watching.”

The wine warmed her throat, the grit of sand still clinging to the glass and her tongue. The ocean broke again, and the fog swallowed the horizon whole leaving them in out there.