Page 86 of Shift Change

Fuck.I didn’t have the best track record for things working out, and there was no need to jinx this. “Want to go to the Boardwalk?” I asked, dragging myself back to the present. “There’s a lot to see, and we can goof around.”

He tapped my arm and left his hand there. “You know me; ‘goof around’ is my middle name.”

We headed in that direction, and I kept glancing at the ocean, my mind already spinning with possibilities. Hopefully, we had long careers ahead, and there was no telling where we’d land. One of us could end up out here while the other was still in Buffalo. Or maybe I’d screw it up like I always seemed to do.

What the hell? If I want this to work, I need to stop thinking about worst-case scenarios.

“What the fuck is that guy doing?”

Chuck’s voice yanked me out of my spiral, and I barely registered that his hand was now splayed across my abs.

Fifteen feet in front of us, a tattooed thirty-something man was juggling chainsaws.

“Really, dude?” I blurted out. “Death-wish much?”

“For real.” Chuck’s voice was much softer than mine, as if he were considering the safety logistics. “At least they’re not running.”

“I guess that makes it a little less dangerous.”

The guy grinned at us. “Want to try? No charge.”

After politely declining, we gave him a wide berth as we walked past.

We wandered for a while, soaking everything in—people watching, listening to a saxophonist who deserved to be playing in sold-out concert halls instead of on a street for tips, and even dodging a fire juggler who clearly had a questionable relationship with personal safety.

Somewhere along the way, the scent of grilled meat, fried onions, and garlic oil started following us. My stomach growled loud enough to make Chuck smirk.

“Hungry, sweets?”

“Starving. If we don’t eat soon, I might accept that guy’s offer and take my chances with the chainsaws.”

We followed our noses to a little sandwich spot tucked between a surf shop and a henna tattoo booth. It was a no frills, no bullshit kind of place, offering nothing but unashamed greasy perfection. The sandwiches were fantastic, dripping enough juice down our fingers that we used four napkins each to clean up.

After a detour to the bathroom, we continued exploring. It wasn’t long until we came to a stand selling everything from hand-blown glass to tiny Hollywood magnets.

Chuck let out a low whistle. “This is some of the most random shit I’ve ever seen in one place.”

“Like Venice Beach in miniature,” I said, picking up a snow globe with a tiny golden Oscar rattling inside.

We pawed through the clutter, pointing out the weirdest trinkets and trading commentary that was equal parts making fun and sheer delight. Chuck grinned at something across the table, and I had a sudden, stupid urge to freeze time.

I don’t want to lose this. The wonderful feelings. Him.

“Want to buy anything?” I asked. “To help us remember this?”

He turned to me. “I’ll never forget today, but I’d love a souvenir to keep the memories sharp.”

Something else across the cart caught his eye, and he wandered off. I was about to follow when a woman stopped me and introduced her daughter.

“Sorry to bother you,” she said, “but Blanca wanted to say hello.”

The girl, maybe eight or nine, peered at me with big eyes and a shy smile.

“We’ll be at the game tomorrow,” the mom added. “Blanca plays youth hockey.”

“I love the Warriors,” Blanca said. “I watched you win the Cup last year.”

There was no universe where I wasn’t going to stop and talk hockey with a kid.

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