From Summit to Shore
The buzz of my phone shattered the Sunday Morning quiet at 6:37 AM. I blinked at Dean's message:
Two international students missing on Grouse since yesterday. Taiwanese nationals. NSR and Metro Van want all hands at the command center by 0800.
My fingers tightened around the phone. No family nearby to raise alarms. No instinct for how fast conditions here turned fatal. Just two kids from a continent away wearing jeans, thinking the Grouse Grind was some tourist trail with handrails.
I exhaled through my nose, my shoulders protesting as I sat up. Every muscle remembered yesterday's activities: the burn in my quads from Cypress, the twinge in my lower back where Drew had dug his fingers when we were tangled on his bed.
The floorboards creaked as I crossed to my dresser; no heated penthouse floors here. I grabbed my standard search clothes: quick-dry pants, a moisture-wicking base layer shirt, and my battered hiking boots. A full uniform wasn’t required, as this was a Metro Vancouver Parks command, but I grabbed my District Ranger ball cap from its hook. That would identify me well enough to the other professional search crews.
The phone got left in the bedroom while I got ready, even though I half-expected a text, at least later on. Not that I was the kind of person who would have sent one already. Morning-after messages had always felt like a formality I didn’t trust. But with Drew, it didn’t feel necessary. Not awkward. Not unfinished. Just quiet and understood, like we’d each walked away carrying something intact.
I quickly prepped a search pack with extra space blankets, energy gels, and a thermos of sweetened tea. International students always came off the mountain cold and dehydrated.
The parking lot buzzed with NSR volunteers in matching jackets and Metro Vancouver rangers in full uniforms when I arrived shortly after 7:30. I adjusted my cap as I approached, the familiar weight of responsibility settling between my eyebrows. A mustached ranger glanced at my civilian clothes, then did a double-take at the insignia on my hat.
"Deyton, District of North Van," I said by way of a greeting.
He nodded and handed me a radio. "You're with Team Three. They're gathering up for the northeast quadrant over there."
One of the volunteers at the command center trailer pushed a hot chocolate and a 50-box of Timbits toward me as I passed. I took the cup, grabbed two chocolate glazed, and headed toward the northeast group.
“Charlie!” A somewhat familiar voice greeted me as I approached. It was Thomaz, the Deep Cove Ranger Soraya had gone out with last night instead of me. I had spent a week on a Deep Cove shift the previous year with Thomaz. He was going to the JIBC to be a Conservation Officer, and I had correctly guessed he was straight as he kept bragging about spending his paycheque on fishing gear and hunting gear at Bass Pro to me.
Thomaz instinctively tugged at the collar of his uniform when he saw I wasn’t wearing mine. “Soraya told me about Tuesday, that’s one thing I’m glad we never see at the Cove as frequently,” he grinned.
“The canyon had one last year too,” I said, adjusting the strap of my pack. “But this one was just eighteen.”
Thomaz’s smile faltered. “Damn. That’s rough.” He looked down at his boots. “We had a fatality in the Cove last year as well, but… just a freak kayaking accident. Old guy flipped and hit a submerged log. Nothing like what you dealt with.”
My phone buzzed in my cargo pocket. I pulled it out, and thumbed the notification. A text from Dean.
Just on the Ironworkers. Port Mann’s backed up from a crash. Give the ICC my ETA.
I typed back a thumbs-up and slipped the phone away. “Dean’s on the bridge,” I told Thomaz.“Traffic snarl on the Port Mann.”
Thomaz winced. “Figures. At least I only had one bridge to get here from New West.”
As we talked, one of the NSR volunteers fell into step beside me. He looked young, early twenties, fresh gear, crisp jacket. Probably new.
“You talking about that death in Lynn Canyon?” he asked, glancing sideways. “The one near Twin Falls?”
I nodded. “Kid jumping off the rocks, was there when they pulled out his body,”
“Brutal,” he said, shaking his head.
Just then, a voice rang out: “Team Three, over here for briefing!”
The NSR lead, mid-forties, lean, looked like he slept upright, motioned us into a loose cluster near the open back of a rescue truck.
“We’re grid-searching the northeast slope above the BCMC trail,” he began. “Dense second-growth, lots of false leads, and steep fall lines. Leapfrog every fifty meters, maintain your azimuth. This is a needle-in-a-haystack situation.”
He passed around a few clipped-together topo printouts. “Last cell ping was 16:42 yesterday, around 720 meters elevation, just east of the Powerline Trail cutoff. That doesn’t mean much; no indication they stayed on route. No headlamps, no overnight gear, no food besides what we think were drinks from the Starbucks at the base. No signs of trail planning.”
I scanned the map, tracing the terrain in my head.
“Names are Enzo and Ming-Tao,” the lead continued. “Both 20, both exchange students at Langara. Roommates. No formal hiking background that we know of, but social media shows trail selfies and short day walks, one of them might be wearing a bright orange Osprey daypack.”
Someone muttered, “So they were just… winging it?”
“Looks like,” the lead said. “We don’t assume malice, and we don’t assume sense. We assume lost and disoriented.”
He made eye contact with each of us. “Search with discipline. Anything you see, broken ferns, discarded gear, wrappers, hell, a smudge on a bark log, log it. We’ll reconvene at 11:30 for a break, then reassignment.”
I checked my pack one last time: water, thermos, med kit, extra blankets. Then, I glanced at the ridgeline above us, disappearing into mist.
It was already getting hot. Mid-July, and once the mist burned off, there’d be no cloud cover at elevation. That meant dehydration would come faster than panic.
We broke from the huddle and started uphill, fanning out into staggered pairs. My boots caught on roots already dry and brittle from a month of no significant rain. Behind me, an NSR volunteer with mirrored sunglasses clipped to his vest muttered something about cougars. Thomaz fell in beside me, his breathing steady, his boots quieter than I remembered.
“Nice morning for it, if it weren’t for the missing students,” he said, relaxed.
“Yeah. Could almost trick yourself into thinking we’re doing The Grind.” I replied.
We picked our way along a faint trail, calling out every couple of minutes. No response but birdsong and the constant hum of flies.
I kept my eyes moving, but let my tone drift toward the casual. “So. You and Soraya. How was the game?”
“Oh. Uh….good,” Thomaz said quickly. “Crowded. But fun. She knows, like, everyone in that stadium, her brother is a Southsider.”
“She does that,” I laughed.
“She kept disappearing during halftime to hug people. I just kind of stood there holding our beers.”
I snorted. “Sounds right.”
He glanced over, maybe catching the edge in my voice. “She mentioned you bailed on her?”
“Yeah. Something came up.”
“Right.”
We paused at a fork, checking the map. Thomaz pointed left, toward a steep drop-off lined with huckleberry and old windfall.
“She said it was a last-minute thing,” he added. “Didn’t sound mad. Just said you were like that sometimes.”
I didn't answer right away. Just scanned the slope below. No sign of a trail. No wrappers, water bottles, or disturbed moss. I marked the spot on my GPS and nodded to move on.
“Wasn’t a date,” Thomaz added after a minute. “Not like that. I know you and Soraya are just friends. And I know you’re, uh…”
I raised an eyebrow. “Did I say it was?”
He didn’t answer.
We kept walking, branches catching at our sleeves, the forest holding its breath around us.
I let my mind drift for a moment. Not far, just enough to picture Drew, a smile beaming at me in front of his dad’s wine fridge. He knew enough to tease me, but not push my limits. I liked that. Didn't need the morning-after dance, didn’t need the text, at least not right now.
My phone buzzed again just after we cleared a bluff that opened onto a tangle of deadfall.
Dean: Just got here. Heading up with Team 6. Trailhead is jammed. Port Mann’s still a mess.
I shot back a thumbs-up emoji and tucked the phone away. The sun was climbing now, brushing the tops of the trees with gold, but the forest floor stayed cool, shadowed. We pushed on through the brush, pausing to call out names that felt flat in the vast quiet. Nothing but the occasional squirrel chatter and a raven overhead, circling like it was watching for something we hadn’t found yet.
By 11, we’d checked our assigned grid twice. No tracks. No clothing. No sound.
Just more forest. Sun climbing. Hours vanishing.
Back at the Incident Command Center, the parking lots had filled up with hikers and tourists. A few search teams trickled in, mud-streaked and red-faced. Someone handed out cold Gatorades and quartered bagels from a Safeway tray. I stripped off my gloves and drained half a bottle without breathing.
Dean stepped out from the NSR trailer, brushing pine needles off his sleeves. He looked like he'd crawled through a hedge and hadn’t had time to notice.
He spotted me near the tailgate of a Metro Vancouver truck and ambled over, sipping something from a disposable cup that might’ve once contained coffee.
“Search was a bust,” he said.
I nodded. “Same for us. Grid was clean. Not even a gum wrapper.”
He took a swig, made a face. “Tastes like burnt cedar and regret.”
I cracked a tired grin. “So… typical field brew.”
He leaned against the tailgate beside me, stretching out his legs. “Anyway, how was Saturday?”
I gave him a sidelong look. “You mean before or after you guilt-tripped me into having a day to myself?”
Dean raised his eyebrows like he didn’t remember, classic. I rolled my eyes.
“It was fine. Lions Bay then did some riding at Cypress. Got a beer after. You?”
“I was home fixing the dryer. Ended up with my head inside the damn thing for two hours. Should’ve taken your day off instead.”
“I traded mine this morning,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “You think we’ll be out here till dusk?”
The silence stretched. Heat shimmered off a nearby hood like something barely held back.
“We’ll find them soon,” Dean said at last.
“Yeah,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I believed it.
Dean checked his phone and let out a low grunt. “We’re reassigned, Sector 4, south of the tram line. Brushy as hell, but they want a fresh sweep before light starts to shift.”
I tipped the last of my Gatorade into my mouth and threw the bottle into a recycling bag. “Still on foot?”
“Yup,” he said. “Trail cuts west just past the comms trailer. We’ll hook around from there.”
We slung our packs back on and headed out, skirting the edge of the command center and climbing past a cluster of parked NSR quads. The access path was narrow, more animal trail than route, the kind that disappears if you stop looking at it. By the time we crossed under the tram line and hit the first pink flagging tape, the noise of base camp had faded to nothing.
At 12:40, we were deep in second-growth, calling names in slow intervals and stepping over blowdown that looked older than either of us. The air was thicker here, humid, windless. Sweat pooled under my pack straps, and my shirt clung in places I didn’t want to think about.
Dean paused by a split cedar snag, raised his radio. “Team Six to ICC, nothing visible in current sweep, continuing southwest.”
A crackle of static, then: “Copy, Team Six. Be advised, Team Two is tracking fresh prints near MacKay Creek. Stand by for an update.”
At 1:17, the call came through.
“All teams, be advised, subjects located by Two-Bravo near 780 meters. Both conscious, mild dehydration, awaiting heli evac.”
Dean exhaled hard and braced a hand on his thigh. “Jesus. Finally.”
We stood there for a moment, boots planted in the moss, the sun cutting through high branches like a sigh of relief. Somewhere far off, I thought I heard the chop of a rotor starting up.
Dean looked over, a weary grin tugging at his mouth. “You hear that?”
I nodded. “That’s the sound of no sirens.”
As we turned back, the fate of the hikers now out of my mind, I wondered what Drew was up to. His dad was probably home by now, and the cleaner would’ve erased any sign he’d had someone over. Maybe once we hit the parking lot and I had some privacy, I’d shoot Drew a quick ‘hi’. Dean and I made quick work of the trail, winding back down the mountain toward home.
Back in the parking lot, NSR was starting to pack up their gear. I tossed my sweat-dried nylon pack into the back of my truck and grabbed a cold water bottle. Dean was still dusted in trail dirt, leaning against the command center while he scribbled something on the whiteboard.
“You look like shit CJ,” he said without looking up. “Still have the district-wide Ranger meeting Monday morning, so take Tuesday off.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
“You’ve been up on the mountain from Monday to Sunday. Take some time away before you turn into a Sasquatch.”
I gave a half-salute and laughed. “Alright, Dean-o. Thanks”
On the walk out to the truck, I felt it, how much my body wanted the break. I slid into the driver’s seat, peeled off my hat, and let out a breath as I typed something to Drew.
Hope the cleaner didn’t toss my dirty socks. How are your quads feeling today?
I hovered for a second, then followed up:
I’m off Tuesday, by the way. If you’re around, we could do something together again, maybe off the mountain.
I hit send and slid the phone into my charger, the buzz of the search still fading from my limbs. There was dirt on my boots, pine needles in my collar, and a knot in my shoulders I wouldn’t notice until I lay down, but the mountain, at least for today, had given something back.
My fridge was empty, so I stopped at No Frills for groceries on the way home. I regretted it as I tried to lug everything inside in one trip. I dropped it all in the kitchen, peeled off my boots, and stretched a shoulder that cracked like firewood.
I checked my phone, and Drew had sent me something while I was in the elevator.
The cleaner washed the socks and put them in my drawer. My quads hate you, but in a good way.
I’ll see tomorrow what I might be up to, but Tuesdays are usually my dad’s court days, so we can hang out.
My reply: Awesome, I’m thinking maybe we can do a beach day.
I hit send, tossed the groceries in the fridge, and flopped back on the couch.
A reel came through from him a few minutes later: a mountain biker washing out on a root, arms flailing, landing square on their ass in a puddle. I fired back one I’d saved: a security guard chasing skaters, only to slip and eat it down a flight of stairs. I added the 😳 emoji and hit send.
Neither of us mentioned last night before I drifted off for a nap before dinner.
Monday morning hit like a freight train: meetings, tourist families pouring into the trails early thanks to the bluebird sky, and some guy who insisted his drone was allowed in the park "because it’s recreational."
By midday, I was walking up from the lower lot to the entrance, halfway through a protein bar, when I saw two figures skating down from the bus stop.
Drew and Samir.
I blinked and straightened up a little. Samir? Drew saw me first, grinned, and kicked off his board to slow. Samir followed, hopping off with a practiced flip and tucking his board under his arm.
"Up here early again?" I asked.
"Technically, it’s almost noon," Drew said. "And I finally convinced Samir to come up." This is Charlie, the ranger dude I told you about.” Drew looked at Samir.
Samir gave a half-wave. "I had Bio for my IB science. I’m a bird guy. I’m not, like, into hiking, swimming, or whatever. But the Ecology Centre sounded half decent."
I gave him a puzzled look. "You’re into birds?"
Samir shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. "Who isn’t? Birds are sick."
Drew just smirked and added, "Told you I had range in my friends."
“Well, the Ecology Center is just over here, Wally has this hand thing for remembering the types of Salmon. Just don’t ask him for two colouring books.” I replied.
They followed me along the sidewalk. As we passed the parked cars, I glanced at Drew.
"How come you take the bus? Do you drive?"
He kicked once, coasted, then grinned without looking over. “Yeah. Once.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Backed my dad’s Cayenne into a parking pillar at Park Royal when I was seventeen. Barely dented it. He lost his mind, said I could take the bus until I understood responsibility.”
I snorted. “And you still do?”
Drew shrugged. “Kinda prefer it. No traffic, no parking wars, and I can blast music till I get where I want to go in peace.”
I left Drew and Samir at the Ecology Centre entrance with a wave to Wally, the volunteer inside, who looked pleased to finally have some guests. I watched the pair disappear through the double doors, the automatic ones that always wheezed like an old man settling into a couch.
I was halfway back to the Ranger Station when I noticed someone leaning against a railing, coffee in hand.
Soraya. Sunglasses pushed up on her head, watching me like she already knew something.
“Hey, Sor.” I said.
She took a long sip, then nodded toward the Ecology Centre. “So… was that your date again? Or did you just decide to start mentoring skater kids full-time?”
I blinked. “What?”
She nodded her head. “The same kid from last week, right? The one with the longboard and the hair? I thought he was just a park hazard. Now he’s back with a friend, and you’re giving him the interpretive trail experience.”
I coughed out a laugh. “That’s Samir. First time up here. And the blonde’s name is Drew.”
“So, not your date.”
I hesitated. “Not today.”
She smirked. “Uh-huh. Well, you’ve got your 'not-a-date' face on.”
I crossed my arms. “Right. And what about you and Thomaz the other night? That wasn’t a date either?”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. “Let’s see. He paid for parking, brought a beef jerky pouch, and made us dip ten minutes early to beat traffic. Not exactly date material.”
I laughed. “Sounds like textbook ranger courtship.”
“Please,” she said. “I’ve had deeper connections over inventory audits.”
We both looked back toward the Ecology Centre doors, where Samir and Drew had disappeared. Her gaze lingered a second longer.
“He seems different,” she said. “The blonde.”
I just nodded. “He is.”
Soraya smiled and tossed her coffee cup into the trash before we both got back to duty.
By the time I wrapped a quick check on the trail signage near Twin Falls, the sun had fully claimed the canyon. Tourists clumped along the railings, phones out, kids screaming just because the sound echoed well here. I paused at the top of the stairs when Drew’s name lit up my screen.
Drew: was gonna dare samir to walk across the suspension bridge, but he chickened out the second he saw the cables 😭
I grinned.
Me: Rookie mistake. Tell him to look forward, not down.
A photo came through a few seconds later: Samir gripping the side rail, mid-step, scowling like he was crossing a tightrope over lava.
I leaned against the handrail and typed: He deserves an ice cream after that.
Drew: he’s already asking if there’s AC and a bench
A pause, then: lmk more about tomorrow btw
Me: Let’s do lunch on Davie before the beach. I’ll swing over the bridge and pick you up.
Drew: i’ll just take the seabus, it’s easy from home
Me: You’ll be cooked before we even get to the sand. Let me grab you downtown.
Drew: ok fine. pick me up at waterfront
Me: Got it. downtown.
I slid the phone back into my pocket. A couple passed by, navigating the narrow stairway to the lower falls, one hand on the other’s elbow like a first date. The breeze picked up through the trees, soft but certain. I turned back to the path, not thinking about much, except how easy that exchange had felt.
Tuesday came on with heat in the air and salt in the light, the kind of morning where the sky over the Lions was already washed-out blue before 9 a.m. I pulled into the lot outside my building, wiped down the dashboard, and shoved a towel and a change of clothes into the backseat, just in case.
By 11:20, I had circled Burrard Station twice, scanned the benches, the bike racks, even the mall plaza entrance, if he had come out that way. No Drew.
I parked in a taxi zone and shot him a text.
Me: I’m at Burrard. You here?
A few seconds passed. Then:
Drew: bro… I said Waterfront 💀
I froze. Looked around again, like he might suddenly materialize through the haze of office workers and transit security.
Me: Shit. Be there in five.
Drew: i already started walking 😒
I hit every red light on Cordova and rolled up just as he was crossing Howe, hoodie slung around one shoulder, hair pushed back like he was mid-eye roll.
He pulled open the passenger door without looking at me. “Do you know how to read anything other than a trail map?”
“You said downtown. Burrard is downtown.” I shrugged.
“So is Waterfront,” he said, buckling in. “The Seabus stops at ‘Waterfront.’ Like, the most obvious name.”
“Noted.”
“This is a ranger thing?” he added. “Like, you only read topo maps, never street names?”
I side-eyed him as I pulled into traffic. “You coming with this attitude to the beach?”
“Depends on where you picked for lunch.”
“You can choose, maybe we can skip pizza this time.”
He looked over, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Alright. You’re forgiven. Barely.”
By the time we reached the West End, traffic had slowed to a summer crawl, pedestrians in flip-flops, Mobi rentall bikes weaving through intersections, dogs in backpacks. I found a spot in a lot off Denman, wedged between a Prius and a Jeep with soft doors and Alberta plates and killed the truck engine.
“We walking it from here?” Drew asked, already unbuckling.
“Unless you want to parallel park us on the beach.”
“Tempting.”
We crossed Beach Avenue, the sea flashing between the towers, and made our way onto the paved path that curved toward English Bay. The usual crowd was out: sunburned tourists, shirtless regulars, kids with drippy gelato, someone aggressively blasting reggaeton from a Bluetooth speaker. Drew clocked the Cactus Club perched just above the sand and nodded toward it.
“Have you ever been in there?” he asked.
“A couple of times.”
“Let me get lunch,” he said, already heading toward the host stand.
“You don’t have to…..”
“I want to. Plus, you treated me last time.”
I followed him in, too warm to argue. They gave us a shaded table near the railing, with a wide view of the bay and boats drifting like slow thoughts beyond the anchored breakwater.
Drew ordered an iced tea and a Feenie Burger without looking at the menu. I got fish tacos. We let the silence settle as a couple on a paddleboard wobbled near a moored sailboat. One of them lost balance and splashed into the water hard enough to make the server glance.
“That one yours?” I asked, nodding at a sleek boat parked a little farther out with a clean white hull.
He smirked. “Not even close. But my dad’s law partner’s got one. Forty-something feet, slick paint, too many Bluetooth speakers. It’s docked in North Van most of the time.”
I nodded, sipping my drink.
“They’re bringing it out Saturday night for the Celebration of Light,” he added. “Big fireworks thing. You’ve probably seen it?”
“Yeah. Pretty hard not to notice when it’s on. That’s the barge out there already.”
He hesitated, then said, “My dad told me I could bring someone.”
There it was. An invitation to meet his dad, Phillip.
“Like, this Saturday?” I asked, almost forgetting about the huge influx of people who come to the city just for the fireworks. Being on a boat nearly made the trek back worthwhile; you wouldn’t have to deal with stinky armpits on the Skytrain at 11 PM.
“Yeah,” Drew said, still watching the water. “We head out in the afternoon to claim a good spot. Hang out on deck, watch the show. Good view. Food, drinks. Chill.” He said it like it was nothing, but I could hear the edge in it, like maybe the invitation cost him more than he wanted me to know.
I didn’t respond right away. Not because I didn’t want to, just because it sounded…huge.
“You inviting me?” I asked, noticing we had almost this same conversation a week ago.
He turned just enough for me to catch his expression behind the sunglasses. “Yeah. I am. I used to ask Samir, but he never agrees because he gets seasick.”
“And I’m allowed to show up in cargo shorts?”
“Sure,” he said, smirking. “But if you wear that ugly Banff shirt again, I’m pushing you off the bow.”
Our food came, and he ate again like a hungry teen. We left the restaurant and cut back toward the sand, sun bouncing off condo glass and pooling in heat waves over the pavement. The beach crowd had thickened, blankets packed tighter, kids yelling in five languages, Bluetooth speakers trading off between Bad Bunny and Fleetwood Mac. We carved out a spot between two driftwood logs, dropped our bags, and settled into the rhythm of pretending we didn’t care how close we were sitting.
Drew leaned back on his elbows, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. “You know I walked five blocks to meet you, right?”
“You told me ‘downtown.’ I picked the most logical station on the way to the beach.”
He turned his head. “I literally wrote ‘Waterfront.’ It’s in the text. Scroll up.”
I shook my head. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re the one who left me standing on the street in Gastown.”
“Oh, come on. I was five minutes away.”
“Twenty minutes late. At the wrong place.”
I reached for my phone, mostly out of habit, and opened our message thread. I handed it over. “There. Prove it.”
He took the phone and scrolled. A second later, he snorted. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Told you.”
“No,” he said, turning the screen toward me. “Not about the station.”
He had opened up his contact info labeled: Drewby 🦈
He grinned. “You actually have me saved as Drewby?”
“Samir said it once at Mahon.”
“With a shark emoji?”
“You have shark teeth boxers,” I muttered.
He studied the name for a second longer than I expected, then handed the phone back.
“Kinda cute,” he said, lying back in the sand. “Weird, but cute.”
I couldn’t think of anything else to say to him. I just lay there next to him, the corner of his towel brushing mine, thinking about how close we’d gotten without touching.
After a moment, he turned toward me, propped on one elbow. “So… am I the only contact in your phone with an emoji?”
“That depends,” I said, not quite looking at him. “Are you jealous of Soraya’s radio, or Dean with the cop?”
He laughed, low and quiet. “Maybe.”
As the laughter faded, the noise of the beach rolled around us: distant voices, gulls, a wave curling against the rocks. And then I felt it, the stillness between us. A pressure. Not awkward. Just charged.
He reached out and hooked one finger through the edge of my towel, tugging it just slightly toward his.
“You think they’d notice?” he asked, voice low.
“Who?”
“All of Vancouver.”
I looked over. “Probably not.”
He leaned in, and I met him halfway, brushing his hip with my hand. It was barely a kiss, but enough to say, yeah, this is us now. Enough that I felt it down there.
When we pulled back, he didn’t move far.
“That counts as RSVP-ing to the yacht thing?” he asked.
“It’s a maybe,” I said. “Ask me again when I can’t taste salt.”
Drew grinned, then lay back on his towel with a stretch that was 80% casual and 20% calculated. His bare stomach caught the sun, his board shorts dipping just low enough to reveal the top band of his Ethikas and some green fabric, this time with a pattern of dollar bills.
Of course.
“You always this twitchy after a kiss?” he asked, voice lazy behind his sunglasses.
“What?”
“Your whole vibe just shifted.” He nudged my foot with his. “You okay over there, Charlie?”
“I’m lying on hot sand in thin shorts that don’t hide much. Take a wild guess.”
He let that sit for a second. Then he rolled onto his side and reached out, fingers tugging lightly at the drawstring at my waist, just once, like he was testing the tension.
“You sure it’s the heat?” he said, voice lower now. “Not thinking about what I did to you Saturday night?”
I froze, just enough for him to notice.
“Because that whole ‘stoic and composed’ thing kinda went out the window the minute you grabbed my hips,” he added, not moving his hand.
“Drew…..”
“What?” He was grinning, but it was softer now. “You’re cute when you pretend you’re not unraveling.”
Then, without warning, he sat up and kicked off his sandals. “I’m going in,” he said, already standing. “You coming?”
“You go first.”
He looked back over his shoulder as he headed for the water, grinning like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Try not to blow up the beach while I’m gone, Mount St. Helens.”
We stayed on the beach through the afternoon, long enough for the heat to shift, for the shadows to stretch. I kept mostly to the towels, making a half-hearted attempt at reading an old dog-eared novel I found in the glove box. Drew went in twice, first to swim, then just to float, hair slicked back and eyes closed like he’d been born for the water.
I didn’t go past my ankles.
“You afraid you’ll rust?” he asked, dripping on the sand.
“I just don’t like the taste of city ocean,” I said.
“You’re missing out.”
He finally grabbed his stuff and headed to the public bathrooms to change. I stayed behind, shaking sand from the towels and trying not to look like I was overthinking anything.
When he came back, he was in dry shorts and a clean tee, his hair still damp from the showers and clinging to the sides of his face. We packed up and walked back up toward Denman in comfortable silence, the sun low behind us and the air still warm enough to stall the evening.
Back in the truck, I was still in my board shorts, salt drying on my shins. I reached down to adjust the AC when I felt Drew’s hand brush my shorts.
He lifted the edge of one of the legs casually, just enough to expose a slice of pale thigh, and the waistband of my grey Old Navy performance boxer briefs.
“Seriously?” he said, smirking. “These look like they belong to a forty-year-old seawall jogger.”
I swatted his hand away. “They're functional.”
“They’re lame,” he said. “You wear these under the uniform, too?”
“You doing a full inventory of my underwear now?”
“Just saying,” he shrugged, “when you're on the yacht with me this weekend and going up the ladder, you better not be rocking suburban dad briefs.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I muttered, trying not to show how warm my ears suddenly felt.
“So is that a yes, you’ll come?” He said as he took his hand back, and I started the engine.
“Sounds like I need to go underwear shopping first. You want a ride home?” I asked as the AC kicked in.
Drew reached for his seatbelt, still slightly damp around the edges. “Nah, just drop me at the SkyTrain again. It’s rush hour, no point in making you cross the bridge and back. Stadium’s good.”
I nodded and pulled out from the lot, weaving us back through the beach crowd and onto Pacific St. The late afternoon sun reflected hard off glass towers and chrome hoods, heat rippling above the concrete. We passed under the Cambie Bridge, then curved beside the viaduct, the road flattening out as Rogers Arena came into view.
Neither of us said much.
It wasn’t awkward. Just… the quiet weight of a good day.
I eased up near the crosswalk across from the arena. He unbuckled, hand on the door.
“Thanks for today,” he said.
“Yeah,” I replied. “You sure you don’t want a ride the rest of the way?”
“SeaBus is good,” he said. “Nice view this time of day.”
He started to get out, then paused, one hand still on the doorframe.
“You didn’t answer about Saturday.”
I met his eyes. “I’m still thinking.”
He smirked, just a little. “Well, you’ve got three days.”
Then he shut the door and was gone, walking toward the crosswalk, disappearing into the flow of bodies, bikes, and heat. I sat there for a few extra seconds, watching the pedestrian light blink, the passenger seat already starting to cool.
