#2: "I Don't"
"When's it summer in this awful city?" Hawkeye wrapped the blanket tighter around himself.
B.J. had said 'beach' so Hawkeye brought the sensible necessaries: blanket and flask, a book to read while sun stealing. The wind was a physical force that surged from the sea and snatched at their clothes. They hadn't ventured past the retaining wall a half mile from the choppy, blue-slate surf. It was late-June and above eighty in North Beach, fifty at the shore. B.J. had warned Hawkeye to expect pockets of weather that roamed like the fog that rolled down the hills near dinnertime. Erin said there were sky dragons who blew misty smoke when they sneezed. Hawkeye of the East Coast had been unable to comprehend a cold seashore in a warm climate in summer, and now he shivered stubbornly until sunset, his self-imposed beach day limit.
"Did I tell you Peggy's getting married?" B.J. was comfortable in his corduroy coat, which he'd pulled out just for the occasion. He'd strip his outers in the car like a cat shedding its winter fur as they drove home.
"Oh?" Hawkeye pulled his knees to his chest so he could arrange the blanket over his flip-flopped feet.
"Sociologist. You met him once - Curt Wrenfrew."
"You hate him," Hawkeye reported like military radar.
"I don't think he likes Erin," B.J. said, which ought to say it all.
Hawkeye patted his leg. "She's allowed to move on. You could too, you know."
B.J. didn't know how to answer that. If he wasn't moving on, what did you call his new life? He was employed, he had the house, had Erin, had . . . a roommate. Where did Peggy get off showing him up as the one who lost the race? What did he care if he didn't win the cup in the independence derby?
The sun at last dipped orange into the water, igniting a stream of fire to shore; Hawkeye insisted they stay for the whole rosy-fingered performance. Really, he was putting off calling it a day, letting the evening slide into his first morning at his new job. B.J. wasn't sure if he was nervous or just liked staying home in a house to rattle around in, with someone to cook for. B.J. sure didn't mind the arrangement. The past five weeks had been almost idyllic.
"Y'know, Hawk, we've been living together for a few weeks now -"
Hawkeye laughed, not unkindly. "Oh, no. Don't say it, Hunnicutt. You're not in love, you're in fear. You're afraid of being alone."
B.J. slumped, irritated. Damn Hawkeye. Damn best friend.
"Yeah, I'm sorry," B.J. said. "I don't love you."
"And I don't love you."
Teenagers were collecting driftwood for their campfires. Even the crazy surfers were coming in, cutting long shadows across the sand: young men all lean lines - and even a few girls in bikinis. At last, the sea swallowed the sun. Dusk laid a still, windy darkness. Hawkeye and B.J. gathered their things and walked along the Great Highway to the car.
"What do you want to do now?" B.J. said.
Hawkeye draped the towel over his shoulder. "Well, I was thinking we could get some supper and then, maybe, go to bed together."
B.J. nodded. "Okay."