Page 96 of Confessions of a High School Guidance Counselor

I smiled between the two of them. “So how did seventeen-year-old Cohen spend his time? You know, other than getting tattoos.”

He chuckled. “I spent a lot of time at the beach. Knew a guy who ran the surf shop and he always let me borrow boards on slow days.”

“Really?” I hardly pictured Cohen as a surfer boy, but I liked the idea.

“Oh yeah. And sometimes a guy at the pier would fish with me, and we’d take them back to his house. If I cleaned them up, I ate like a king with him and his wife.”

I smiled. “I’d love to see it through your eyes.”

His smile alone lit the room. “Are you sure? Sometimes Emerson people go to the pier.”

“We’re friends, right?” I teased.

“Friends,” he said, reaching for my hand and running his thumb over my knuckles. “And more.”

I reveled in the sensation of this closeness with him, then when I realized I looked as googly eyed as some of my students, I pulled my hand back and took a sip of my latte.

We nibbled at the sweet cupcakes and drank our coffee, then Cohen took me outside with the promise to see Seaton Pier through his eyes.

It wasn’t a far drive, maybe ten minutes from the bakery, and we had parked. The beach wasn’t as pretty here as it was farther down the coast, and the air had the distinct smell of rotting fish. But the people here seemed happy. Kids chased each other over the battered wooden planks, and a long pier extended over the ocean with fishing poles silhouetted against the bright sky like multiple antennae.

“This is it,” Cohen said, shutting off his car.

I smiled. “I already like it.”

“Wait until you meet Carl.”

“Carl?”

“He runs the corn dog stand and he’s been here for as long as I can remember, but no one knows how old he is. He never ages.”

I laughed. “So this is what Seaton urban legends look like.”

“Something like that.” He got out and came to my side of the car, taking my hand in his for a few seconds. My heart fell the second his fingers slipped from mine, but I reminded myself why we couldn’t hold hands in public.

The closer we got to the boardwalk, the more I could hear the sounds of the people around me. It blended with the crash of waves, and I felt pleasantly at ease. Maybe it was the ocean, but more likely it was the strong and steady man next to me.

He pointed ahead of us, and I followed his finger to an unassuming dingy white cart with a man in equally dingy white clothing behind it.

“That’s Carl?” I asked.

He nodded. “And he serves the best corn dogs you’ll ever eat.”

“I mean, Mara’s made me microwave corndogs before, so the bar’s set pretty high.”

He chuckled. “You talk about Mara like she’s your hero.”

“She kind of is,” I admitted with a small laugh. “I think you’d like her.”

“I’d love to meet her one of these days. Maybe you could meet some of my friends too.”

It wasn’t a big deal, meeting someone’s friends, not really, but it felt big to me. Like our lives were becoming even more intertwined, and he wanted it that way.

As we approached the cart, Cohen lifted his hand in a wave. “Hi, Carl.”

“Cohen! How you doin’, pal?”

“Good.” He gestured at me. “Carl, this is my friend Birdie.”

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