Page 45 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

“Yeah, about that.” Toby shifts his weight and diverts his attention from the hollow of Mike’s throat. Nearby, a mockingbird is perched on the fence that surrounds a gated community, a billboard assuring Toby that security and comfort are only a small step away. “I have a theory, if you want to hear it.”

“Sure,” Mike says easily. He crosses his arms and leans back, eyes on the horizon.

“You visited this place with your parents.” Toby continues quickly, after a brief glance at Mike’s blank expression. “You said it was a long time ago, and you would have been here with someone, obviously. Parents seem like the obvious answer. Except now that we’re getting close, you’re starting to think it may not be such a good idea to return.”

For a long moment, the mockingbird’s raspy calls are the only sound that disturbs the silence stretching between them. Two cars pass by, engines humming. Toby thinks about looking away, giving Mike some space, only it would seem like a cowardly move.

He isn’t prepared for it when Mike turns his head, holds Toby’s gaze. “You’re good at this.” Mike’s voice is slightly rough.

“Peppermint Peppy taught me well.”

“Wisdom that comes as a sugary treat? Sounds like a special kind of fortune cookie.” Mike’s mouth lifts at the corners, but if it’s supposed to be a smile, it’s a mere shadow of his real ones.

“My psychology coach. He left an impression.” Toby returns Mike’s smile, aiming for something easy and unassuming. Taking a step closer to the car, he nods his chin in the direction of the village, only a mile away now. “I meant what I said: if you want, we can turn around right now—go back to the airport, or check out some other place around here. Or we keep going. It’s up to you.”

“We were here just a month before they died.” Slowly, Mike shakes his head and drops his arms, his gaze sliding past Toby to fix on the road. His shoulders tense, but when he meets Toby’s gaze again, his eyes are calm and certain. “There’s something I want to show you, at least if it still exists. Let’s go.”

“You’re—”

“I’m sure,” Mike interrupts smoothly. His expression softens. “Really, Toby. Thank you for the concern, but I’ll be all right. Let’s go.”

***

Samara Beach must have changed a lot since Mike’s last visit. While not so touristy as to trigger Toby’s fight or flight reflex, there are several souvenir shops scattered along the main road, and the beach is lined with cafés that blast reggae music into the afternoon, booths offering anything from surfing lessons to towels. Out on the water, surfers are stretched out on their boards, bobbing on the surface like colorful beads, with only a handful actually trying to catch one of the small waves that roll into the bay.

“Is that what spurred the idea of surfing lessons for Hal?” As they drive past, Toby spares the brightly colored, hand-painted sign of a surf shop a dismissive look. “Because I’m not sure whether I would classify that, out there, as surfing—it’s just kids on flashy new boards who would cower in fear if a real wave came their way. It’s sunbathing, really. Just higher up on the coolness scale.”

“Well, it is a beginner surf spot.” Mike follows the statement up with a shrug, eyes invisible behind his dark sunglasses. “But I agree: you’d be better than ninety percent of them if I gave you even just a five-minute lesson.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment, or if you’re bragging about your own skills as a teacher.”

“Why can’t I do both?”

Why indeed.

“You learned how to surf before you could walk, I take it?” Toby pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and watches the town draw by outside the window. “The way I see it, Hawaiians spend their days riding the waves, drinking cocktails with tiny, pink paper umbrellas, and mistreating pizza because it can’t fight back.”

Toby is pleased to see some of the strain around Mike’s shoulders loosen as he chuckles. “Glad you’ve got such a well-rounded view of me and my people. Truly impressive how you manage to steer clear of the usual stereotypes.”

“How old?” Toby demands.

Mike smirks. It shouldn’t be attractive. “Me, right now?”

“You, when you started surfing.”

“Three, going on four. Got my first surfboard as a hand-me-down from a neighbor.”

“Thanks for the confirmation. It’s so nice when everything fits into neat little drawers, you know?”

“Remind me why I asked you to come?”

“Hell if I know,” Toby says, but when he glances over, it’s to find a small, genuine smile tucked into the corners of Mike’s mouth, and... well, that’s why. No one wants to face their ghosts alone. Not even Mike.

They pull into the parking lot of a supermarket, and Toby slides lower in his seat while Mike kills the engine. “Don’t forget my steak,” Toby mumbles, eyes half-closed—his brain had better cooperate tonight so he can get some quality sleep.

“You’re not coming?” Mike asks.

“Nah. Too tired.” Toby waves him off. “Just get me something nice, will you?”

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