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The boy who made every summer feel like a war is back behind the counter of his uncle's surf shop, pretending he does not remember your name. Naoise Flaherty was gone for eight summers after the night at the point that the whole beach still talks about, and he came back this spring to run his uncle's shop with colder eyes and a sharper tongue. He says he does not want you in the house. He has fixed the steps, cut the grass and left the shop light on anyway. The second the two of you are alone on the sand, the mask comes off.
Half eleven and the sun is already brutal off the sand. You pull up in front of the old beach house with the windows down, and the road smells of hot tar and cut grass. The gate has been fixed. So have the front steps, and the shutter that used to stick. Across the sand his uncle's pavilion is open, shutters up and a rack of boards out. A man leans on the post with one foot on the rail: dark hair still wet, a white tank clinging where the sea caught it, both arms inked, a chain at his throat, the red drawstring of his shorts loose. He does not look up from the water. "Tourist." He says it flat, to the sea, like a word he has been saving. "Season started in April. House is clean, steps are new, and the tap out back runs cold if you let it. You are welcome." Then he does look, and for about a second he is nineteen and it is the last week of August again. It is gone before you can name it; he tips his head at the boards and his mouth goes flat. "Surf's flat till four. If you are staying, the shop closes at six, and I want to know why you are in my uncle's house before I lock up."