Headlights and High Tide

The wind down here didn’t smell like freedom. It smelled like wet charcoal and rotting kelp, a heavy, organic funk that stuck to the back of the throat. It was two in the morning, the dead hour, the time when the Atlantic turned into a black, heaving void that swallowed the light from the beach houses up on the ridge. Jeff hated it. He hated the grit of sand working its way into his socks, he hated the damp friction of his nylon windbreaker against his forearms, and mostly, he hated that he was out here, shivering, following Simon.

Simon was ten paces ahead, a dark shape cutting through the sea mist. He walked with that infuriating, steady gait—shoulders hunched against the gale, hands buried deep in the pockets of a faded Carhartt jacket that looked three sizes too big. He walked like he owned the coastline, like the shifting dunes were just extensions of his living room floor. He didn’t look back. He never looked back. That was the thing about Simon; he assumed everyone else would just keep up.

"You're walking too fast," Jeff snapped. The wind tore the words out of his mouth, scattering them toward the water, but Simon stopped. He didn't turn around, just halted, his boots sinking slightly into the wet slurry of the tide line.

Jeff caught up, his breath coming in short, white puffs. His heart was doing a frantic, hummingbird battering against his ribs—not from the exertion, but from the proximity. Being this close to Simon without a crowd, without the safety net of their usual public venom, felt dangerous. Like handling a live wire with wet hands.

"We don't have all night, Jules," Simon said. His voice was a low rumble, grounded and rough, cutting under the noise of the surf. He finally turned, and the beam of the distant lighthouse swept over them, catching the sharp angle of his jaw and the exhaustion bruised under his eyes.

"Don't call me that," Jeff muttered, purely out of habit. It was a weak protest. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to stop the trembling that had started in his knees and was working its way up to his jaw. "And we have until six. That's when the car comes. That's when my dad..." He trailed off. The mention of his father made his stomach twist. The domestic fallout of the last forty-eight hours hung over him like a guillotine blade. The shouting matches in the kitchen, the shattered vase, the ultimatum. Boarding school. Switzerland. No phone. Immediate departure.

Simon watched him. He didn’t offer a platitude. He didn’t say 'it'll be okay.' He just watched, his dark eyes unreadable, absorbing Jeff's panic without mirroring it. This was their dynamic, stripped of the summer's performance. For three months, Jeff had been the golden boy of the yacht club set, and Simon had been the 'townie' mechanic's son who fixed their boat engines and ignored Jeff’s taunts. They had circled each other like sharks, fueled by a mutual, inexplicable hostility that had felt sharper, hotter, than any friendship Jeff had ever known.

"Six is four hours away," Simon said. He took a step closer, invading Jeff’s personal space with the terrifying confidence of gravity. "That’s a lifetime."

"It’s nothing. It’s a nap. It’s a blink." Jeff looked down at his shoes—expensive, Italian leather, completely ruined by the salt water. He laughed, a brittle, cracking sound. "God, this is stupid. Why are we here? If my dad wakes up and sees the alarm is off..."

"He won't." Simon turned back to the ocean, scanning the horizon where the black water met the black sky. "He's three scotches deep and sleeping pills. I saw the lights go out in the master suite an hour ago."

Jeff’s head snapped up. "You were watching the house?"

"I'm always watching the house, Jeff. That's my job. Security checks. Remember?" There was a bite to the sarcasm, a reminder of the class divide Jeff had wielded like a weapon all July. You fix things; I break them. But beneath the sarcasm, there was something else. A confession buried in the logistics.

They started walking again, slower this time. The space between them had shrunk from ten paces to two feet. The air between them felt pressurized, thick with the things they hadn’t said during the daylight hours. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was heavy, loaded with the static of unspent electricity.

Jeff kicked a piece of driftwood. It skittered across the stones with a hollow clatter. "I didn't think you'd come," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "After the bonfire... I thought you'd let me rot."

The bonfire. Three nights ago. The catalyst. Jeff had been drunk, spiraling, terrified of the end of summer, and he’d picked a fight with Simon in front of everyone. He’d said cruel, elitist things, trying to provoke a reaction, trying to make Simon hate him so leaving wouldn’t hurt this much. Simon hadn't taken the bait. He’d just looked at Jeff with a terrifying, pitying intensity and walked away.

"You were a prick," Simon said simply. He stopped to pick up a smooth, white stone, turning it over in his large, calloused fingers. "But you were also scared. You get loud when you're scared."

"I'm not scared," Jeff lied. He felt a flush heat the back of his neck, warring with the cold wind.

Simon stopped walking. He turned fully toward Jeff, blocking the wind with his broader frame. The sudden stillness was jarring. "You're shaking, Jeff. You're vibrating out of your skin."

"It's freezing out here! Who decides to take a walk on the beach in a storm warning?"

"We did," Simon corrected. "Because you threw a rock at my window."

"I tapped on it."

"You cracked the pane."

Jeff let out a breath that sounded like a sob. He looked away, staring at the white foam churning around a cluster of jagged rocks. "I didn't want to leave without... I don't know. Clearing the air. Making sure you knew I didn't mean it. The stuff I said about your dad's shop. It was cheap."

"I know," Simon said. He stepped closer. The heat radiating off him was palpable, a furnace against the chill. Jeff could smell him now—motor oil, laundry detergent, and the sharp scent of rain. It was a dizzying, grounding smell. "I don't care about the shop, Jeff. I care about why you were trying so hard to push me away."

Jeff felt backed into a corner, even though he was standing on an open beach. This was the 'Thriller' part of his life—not the angry father or the exile to Europe, but this. This dissection. Simon was the only person who looked at him and saw the cracks in the porcelain. "Because it's easier," Jeff whispered. "If we're enemies, it's fine. It's a game. I win, you lose, we go home. But if we're... whatever this is... then it's a tragedy. And I don't do tragedies. I don't do 'sad goodbyes'."

"So you prefer 'angry goodbyes'?" Simon asked, his voice dropping an octave, becoming softer, more dangerous.

"Yes. Anger is fuel. Sadness is just... quicksand."

Simon reached out. The movement was slow, televised, giving Jeff a thousand years to back away. He didn’t. Simon’s hand, rough and warm, closed around Jeff’s wrist. The skin-on-skin contact sent a jolt through Jeff that made his teeth ache. It wasn't a gentle hold; it was an anchor. A claim.

"Stop thinking," Simon commanded. It wasn't a suggestion. "You spend all your time in your head, running simulations. Just be here. Right now. My hand. Your arm. The cold. Feel it."

Jeff stared at their connected hands. His pale, slender wrist looked fragile in Simon’s grip. He felt the pulse hammering in his radial artery, betraying him. "I can't just turn it off, Simon. I'm leaving. In four hours, I'm gone. Geneva. For a year. Maybe two. By the time I come back, you'll be... you'll be gone. You're going to tech in the city. We're done. The movie is over."

"The movie isn't over until the screen goes black," Simon said. He pulled, a steady, inexorable tension that dragged Jeff a step closer. They were inches apart now. Jeff had to tilt his head back to look Simon in the eye. "You think I spent all summer fixing your dad's boat just for the paycheck? You think I let you insult me every day at the marina because I have low self-esteem?"

Jeff’s breath hitched. "I thought... I thought you just liked the money."

"I hate your dad's boat," Simon murmured. He brought his other hand up, his thumb grazing the sharp line of Jeff’s cheekbone. The touch was feather-light, a shocking contrast to the grip on his wrist. "And I hate the marina. I was there because you were there. Every day. Preening like a peacock, looking for attention."

"I was not preening," Jeff stammered, his brain short-circuiting. The realization hit him like a physical blow. The constant presence. The coincidences. The way Simon was always just there when Jeff needed an audience for his tantrums. "You... you were stalking me?"

"I was waiting for you," Simon corrected. "Waiting for you to stop performing."

The wind howled around them, whipping Jeff’s hair across his face. He didn't brush it away. He couldn't move. He was paralyzed by the intensity of Simon’s gaze. It wasn't the look of a boy with a crush; it was the look of someone who had been starving for months and had finally been allowed to sit at the table.

"Well," Jeff choked out, his voice wrecking. "I've stopped. I'm stopped. Look at me. I'm a mess. My dad hates me. I'm being deported to a boarding school because they found a joint in my glovebox. I'm not the prince of the summer, Simon. I'm just a problem being relocated."

"You're not a problem to me," Simon said. His thumb brushed over Jeff’s lower lip, silencing him. "You're a pain in the ass. You're high-maintenance. You're loud. But you're not a problem."

The validation, rough and unpolished as it was, broke something inside Jeff. The tension that had held his spine straight all summer snapped. He slumped forward, his forehead colliding with Simon’s shoulder. It wasn't a hug; it was a collapse. He buried his face in the rough canvas of the jacket, breathing in the scent of motor oil and rain, trying to memorize it. Trying to archive this specific texture for the lonely nights in a dormitory in Switzerland.

Simon didn't hesitate. His arms came around Jeff, locking tight, creating a barrier against the wind, against the world, against the inevitable sunrise. He held Jeff with a fierce, possessive strength, lifting him slightly off the shifting sand. It was a desperate embrace, the kind that tries to fuse two people into one entity so they can't be torn apart.

"I don't want to go," Jeff mumbled into the jacket, the words wet and muffled. "I don't want to go."

"I know," Simon said, his chin resting on top of Jeff’s head. His voice vibrated through Jeff’s chest. "But you have to. If you stay, they'll crush you. Your dad... he won't stop. You need to get out."

"Come with me," Jeff said, the fantasy slipping out before he could check it. "Stow away. We can... I have money in my savings. We can go somewhere else."

Simon pulled back, just enough to look at Jeff again. His expression was pained, a crack in the stoic mask. "We can't, Jules. That's a movie. This is real life. I have my mom. I have the shop. You have to finish school. We can't just run."

"So this is it?" Jeff demanded, pulling away, anger flaring up again as a defense mechanism. "A hug on the beach and then 'have a nice life'?"

"No," Simon said. "This isn't 'have a nice life'. This is 'I'll be here'."

"You'll be here?" Jeff scoffed, wiping his eyes furiously. "I'm going to be in Geneva! You'll meet someone else. Some nice girl from town who doesn't throw rocks at your window or insult your truck. You'll forget about the crazy summer kid in a month."

Simon grabbed Jeff’s face between both hands, squishing his cheeks, forcing him to look. "Listen to me. You are impossible to forget. You are a scar, Jeff. You don't fade. I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to be right here, fixing engines, making money, and waiting for you to get your act together and come back. Or I'll come get you. Give me a year. Once I'm done with the certification, I can go anywhere."

"A year," Jeff repeated. It sounded like a prison sentence. It sounded like hope.

"We wasted three months playing games," Simon said, his thumbs stroking Jeff’s temples. "We're not wasting the next year. We write. We call. You figure out how to smuggle a phone in. I don't care. We make it work."

The ocean roared, a massive, chaotic sound that drowned out the hum of the distant ferry. The first hint of grey was touching the eastern horizon—a dull, bruised purple bruising the black. The deadline was approaching. The clock was ticking down.

Jeff looked at Simon—really looked at him. The curve of his mouth, the steady darkness of his eyes, the way his hair curled slightly in the humidity. He wanted to scream. He wanted to fight. But mostly, he wanted this.

"Kiss me," Jeff demanded. It wasn't a romantic request. It was an order. A challenge. "If you're really going to wait. If this isn't just you being 'noble Simon' saving the broken bird. Prove it."

Simon didn't smile. He didn't hesitate. He leaned in, closing the last fraction of distance. The kiss wasn't soft. It tasted of salt spray and lip balm and desperate, clawing hunger. It was messy. Their noses bumped, their teeth clashed, Jeff’s hands fumbled to grip Simon’s jacket, bunching the fabric in tight fists. It was a collision of three months of suppressed rage and desire, a violent unraveling of every argument they’d ever had.

Simon kissed like he did everything else—with total, consuming focus. He overwhelmed Jeff, tilting his head back, deepening the contact until Jeff felt dizzy, until the cold beach and the looming departure dissolved into a singularity of heat. It was terrifying. It was the most real thing that had happened to Jeff in his entire life.

When they broke apart, gasping, their foreheads rested together. Jeff’s lips felt bruised. His heart was beating so hard he thought it might actually crack a rib.

"Okay," Jeff whispered, his eyes closed. "Okay. A year."

"A year," Simon confirmed. His voice was rough, wrecked. He kissed Jeff’s forehead, then his temple, then the corner of his eye. "Go to Geneva. Survive your dad. Write to me."

"I will." Jeff opened his eyes. The grey on the horizon was brighter now. The world was waking up. The magic hour of the night was ending. Reality was creeping back in with the tide.

They stood there for another minute, just breathing, sharing the same air, two distinct silhouettes merging into one against the pale sand. Then, Simon stepped back. He put his hands back in his pockets, the mask sliding back into place, though it didn't fit as tightly as before.

"Go," Simon said. He nodded toward the ridge, toward the sleeping house that was about to become a war zone. "Before the lights come on."

Jeff nodded. He took a step back, then another. Walking away from Simon felt like walking into deep water with weights in his pockets. Every step was a physical effort. He stopped at the base of the dune grass and looked back.

Simon was still there. A dark, immovable point in the shifting landscape. He raised a hand—not a wave, but a salute. A promise.

Jeff turned and climbed the dune, his sneakers slipping in the loose sand, his lungs burning, his lips still tingling with the ghost of the kiss. He didn't know if they would make it. He didn't know if a year would turn into two, or ten, or forever. But as he crested the hill and saw the dark outline of his father's house, he realized he wasn't afraid anymore. He had a secret now. He had an anchor. The summer was over, but something else had just begun.