Page 10 of The Beachgoers
When Neil tells him, in the dark of night, that he didn’t mean for this to happen—that Kyle’s young and will find someone else—well, that does it. Kyle stands again and this time? This time he paces at the edge of the bluff. Is he trying to turn back the clock? To think of the right words to shoot through the darkness at the guy who stole his girl? His frantic pacing looks more like some way to escape this godawful night. To walk straight out of it.
When he suddenly stumbles on a slippery flat rock, when a dangerous fall is a heartbeat away, the night worsens still.
Because it’s Neil Barlow who pulls Kyle Bradford to safety.
And it’s Neil to whom a distraught Kyle sends his last words before walking off into the night:You deserve that fall more than I do.
* * *
The night brushes off on all of them.
Neil’s hair is a mess of waves in the damp sea air. His white tee hangs loose over his jeans. And when he opens the slider to his cottage, his face is dark with emotion.
Troubled enough so that when a man in his fifties looks up from a late dinner at the kitchen table, he looks once, then again. “Neil. Didn’t know you were here. I just got in.”
“Hey, Dad. Was on the bluff for a while, talking to Kyle.”
“That right?” Neil’s father asks, buttering a slice of bread. “ThoughtI saw Kyle’s truck at the curb when I came home.”
“You did.”
The man nods while dragging the bread through a splash of gravy. “Why don’t you grab a plate? Your mother left dinner in the fridge before she went to Paige’s place.”
“Not really hungry.”
Again, his father glances at Neil. “Okay, what’s wrong?”
“Lauren did it, Dad,” Neil says, his voice low. “She broke up with Kyle.”
“Figured as much,” his father answers, then forks off a meatloaf slice and drags it through mashed potatoes. “From the looks of you.”
Saying nothing, Neil closes the slider screen. And drags his hands through his hair. And pulls some greasy rag hanging from his back pocket, then tosses the rag in the trash. After that, he stands there, looking out the slider to the darkness.
The two men are quiet in the dimly lit kitchen. Keys and pens and a cell phone and oven mitts and the day’s mail cover the countertop. A pot of water simmers on a stove burner, maybe for a late coffee or tea. A canvas workbag on the floor is unzipped—open to trowels and brick jointers and wood line blocks and a long-bristled brush. The father’s workpants and shirt are dusty and tired from a long day on the job.
Eventually, Neil walks to the table and sits across from him.
“Didn’t go too well, I take it?” the man asks his son. “With Kyle?”
“No. You know.” Neil clasps his hands behind his neck and stretches back. “Shit,” he whispers.
The father only glances at his son, then swirls a hunk of meatloaf through gravy on his plate. The sound of breaking waves out on the bluff reaches through the slider screen into the kitchen. Lazy crickets chirp on the hot August night. And the father’s fork and knife click on his plate.
Neil stands and fills a glass with tap water. He turns, leans against the counter and takes a long swallow, then sits at the table again.
