The cottage Damien rented on the Oregon coast was not the one from my childhood summers.
It was three miles north of that stretch of beach, perched on a different bluff, smaller than the Hargrove estate by a factor that made comparison almost comedic, with weathered cedar siding and windows that faced the Pacific directly and a kitchen that had clearly been renovated by someone who understood that the best coastal kitchens smell like coffee and salt air simultaneously.
We arrived on a Friday evening in late April with more luggage than a weekend required and the unspoken agreement that neither of us was going to mention that we had booked it for two weeks.
Damien carried the bags in without comment. I stood on the small porch and listened to the ocean and felt something decompress in my
