Free Wrong City by Morgan Richter

hand tighter. “I’m not seeing anyone else right now. I want you to
know that.”
    “Me either. I
haven’t seen anyone since moving to Los Angeles.” He shrugged. “For a long time
before that, actually.”
    She was quiet
for a moment, her small features pensive. “Have you ever been in a serious
relationship?” she asked.
    Vish wanted to
lie, because he didn’t want her to think he was abnormal, but he wasn’t sure
how to be anything less than wholly honest with Troy. “Not really. I’ve dated
before, but… No. Nothing anyone would consider serious. Nothing lasting.”
    She nodded,
mulling this over. “Any particular reason why not?”
    “People aren’t
drawn to me, I guess. The people I like never like me in return. Or if they do,
they don’t tell me about it.”
    “That might
explain a few things,” Troy said. “You never having a steady girlfriend, I
mean.”
    “Oh?”
    She shook her
head. “The way you’ve been so ridiculously skittish about me thus far, I
figured you either weren’t interested, or you weren’t sure how to proceed. Guess
it’s the second option.” She turned to look at him. “I thought you’d call me,
or email after we last met. We had a good time, a really good time, but you
didn’t follow up. If you didn’t show up at my party today, I was going to give
up on you.”
    “I’m sorry,” he
said. “I’m really sorry. I’m awkward with people a lot of the time, and I
thought if I called, you’d think I was pushy or clingy, because…”
    “Because?”
    “Because I
don’t know what you’re getting out of this relationship,” Vish said. “You’re
beautiful and famous, and you’re so nice to me it’s almost unreal, and I don’t
know what you see in me. The whole thing seems, I don’t know, weird.”
    He regretted
the word “weird” as soon as it was out of his mouth. She stared at him for a
moment, not amused. “Holy crap, Vish,” she said at last. “Is that the way your
brain works? I like you, and I want to spend time with you and help you out any
way I can. Can’t you accept that without thinking there’s something funny going
on?”
    Her cheeks were
flushed, her mouth was set in a grim line, and she was clearly pissed off. “I’m
sorry,” Vish said. “I didn’t mean—”
    “I like you,”
she said again. “That’s all there is to it. Just relax and let this play out as
it will, okay?”
    She smiled her
nice smile at him, and Vish felt a sense of relief at being forgiven so easily.
“Okay,” he said. “Sorry.”
    “Let’s just
walk,” she said. She squinted up at the overcast sky. “Not that it’s the best
day for it.”
    They continued
down the Strand until it ended near Redondo, then they walked on the sand until
they reached the pier, which is where they first saw the surfers. Or at least
Vish mentally categorized them as surfers, even though they weren’t carrying
boards or wearing wetsuits. They had on ratty Hawaiian shirts with wild flower
prints, open to the waist and paired with baggy board shorts and battered
sandals. They looked like surfers from a 1970s television show.
    Correction:
They looked like villainous surfers from a 1970s television show, the
kind who’d antagonize the hero and make uncouth gestures toward the heroine.
There were five of them, hanging out in a pack, passing around a hand-rolled
cigarette. Longish tangled hair, shell necklaces against deeply tanned skin,
their hairy legs and dirty feet incongruous amongst the white-bread affluence
of the South Bay.
    As Vish and
Troy approached, their conversation stilled. Vish tried not to pay any
attention to them, but he could feel hostile eyes on him.
    A muttered
statement: “Dead man walking.”
    Vish didn’t
turn to see which one had said it. Troy stopped and stared at them. Vish wanted
to keep walking, but she squeezed his hand once and pulled him to a stop. “What
did you say?” she asked. Her tone was curious, nothing more.
    The one who
appeared to be