Page 47 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

“It’s beautiful,” he says quietly, and he’s mostly talking about their surroundings.

When Mike speaks again, his voice is low, barely carries over the ebb and swell of the waves. “It’s amazing how little it’s all changed. We came here because we’d been looking for better waves, and the couple that owned our vacation home mulled it over for half a week before they coughed up this spot.”

Toby isn’t surprised that the shallow waves of Samara Beach couldn’t hold eight-year-old Mike’s attention. His sister’s probably the same, and if their parents let them surf massive waves like the one currently breaking further out in the water, then Mike’s fearless constitution is a family trait.

“I take it,” he begins quietly, “that your parents surfed, too? Hawaiians and all.”

“My mom did.” Mike’s eyes are soft as he stares out at the ocean. “She was good, even competed a few times.”

Toby sits down in the sand, digging in his toes. “I’m sure she was a wonderful woman.”

“She was.” Mike swallows visibly. Against the sky, his figure is reduced to a silhouette. “My dad was pretty great too.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” Toby tells him softly. His chest feels a little tight, not quite enough room for the air he needs. It’s humbling that he’s even here, that Mike trusts him enough to want him around when there is so much they don’t know about each other.

They are silent for the space of three waves that crash and roll up onto the beach, water hissing as it seeps into the sand. Then Mike sinks to the ground beside Toby in one fluid motion, propping one leg up to wrap his arm around it.

Beautiful.

Toby leans back on his elbows. The sun is blinding, tiny flecks of gold dancing through his vision each time he blinks. Heat makes the shirt stick to his skin, and he’d consider taking it off if it wouldn’t imply having to move. He’ll jump into the water in a few minutes, clothes and all, to cool off.

“Your parents... They died in an accident?” He licks his lips and tastes salt, focuses on the line of Mike’s profile. “You can tell me to fuck off; I won’t hold it against you.”

Another wave breaks and washes up on the beach before Mike replies. “A car accident. Or so I thought, for a long time.”

“There’s a story there.” Toby straightens to shrug out of his sticky shirt. “If you want to share it, I am a half-decent listener, contrary to popular belief. Again, no pressure.”

Mike rolls to his feet and moves closer to the water. An oncoming wave sprays him, wetness darkening the hems of his pants. When he wades in further, Toby gets up with a sigh and follows.

“My father...” Mike turns his head for a frayed smile before he faces forward again. “He headed the police department. They were trying to crack down on a Japanese crime ring that was just putting down roots in Hawaii. I guess that planting a bomb in my dad’s car was their way of telling him to fuck off.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry, Mike. I’m really fucking sorry.” Toby exhales and takes a step forward, closer. The water is shockingly cool on his bare ankles. “Please tell me the bastards paid for it.”

Mike sends him a grin that’s really more the caricature of one. “Why do you think I picked this line of work?”

“We don’t operate in home territory.” As soon as it’s out, Toby backtracks. “Wait, don’t tell me. Not a word. I’d like to claim factual ignorance in case anyone ever asks me whether you may have performed illegal acts of self-administered justice.”

The edges of Mike’s grin soften. “Don’t ask, don’t tell?”

“Something like that.” Toby wades in further, until he’s beside Mike. In an undertone, he adds, “Good for you, though.”

“Yeah.” Mike breathes in, breathes out, staring at the horizon. The sun washes over him, and Mike’s chest aches a little.

He reaches out to touch Mike’s elbow, drawing his attention. “Hey. I really am so sorry, Mike. Maybe...” He tries for a smile. “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to come here.”

Mike’s gaze fixes on Toby’s mouth.

It’s like whiplash, the sudden need that zips through Toby while water is sloshing around them, the bitter taste of salt on his tongue.

“No,” Mike says slowly. His expression is raw and open. “I’m glad we came. It’s a beautiful place.”

“Mike,” Toby starts, then doesn’t know how to continue. This can’t happen. Not now, not with Mike so vulnerable and Toby too caught up in him, too aware of how easy it would be to close the gap. He would find it much harder to walk away, this time.

A wave, taller than the last few, reaches up to his belly and sends him slightly off-balance. It jerks him out of the moment.

“Well.” He takes a stumbling step towards the shore, wet pants sagging on his hips. Mike is still watching him with that same open need, and Toby has to force the next words out. “It is beautiful, no doubt. The one thing that could possibly improve it is a steak roasting over a fire.”

It’s not his best line, but it’s either that or give in. Toby doubts Mike even realizes the full impact of it, at least from where Toby’s standing: it would hurt.

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