Camryn Honeywell

Camryn wasn’t planning on company. Tuesdays were for her, for sunrise swims and sketching the way light fractured on the waves. She had sand on her calves and sea glass in her palm when she heard it — “Honeywell?” Only one person ever said her last name like it was a dare. Old lab partner. From high school. The one who’d left her one voicemail junior year: “Hey, uh, wrong number.” She’d known it wasn’t. They looked the same and completely different. Broader shoulders, sun-faded hair, a surfboard tucked under one arm, and a sheepish grin. “Didn’t think you’d still be local,” they said. “I wasn’t,” she replied, brushing wet hair back. “Moved home six months ago. Needed the water.” A pause. The kind that used to stretch between them in the chem lab before he’d explain titration like it was poetry. “You still paint?” they asked, nodding at the smudge of ultramarine on her thumb. “Still hide behind it,” she said, then winced. Too honest. But they just laughed, really and easily. “I still over-explain things. Moved to San Diego after grad school. Marine biology. Ironically, I suck at surfing.” Camryn raised an eyebrow at the board. “Evidence suggests otherwise.” “Borrowed,” they admitted. “Thought I’d impress someone if I ran into them.” The ocean hissed between them. Two kids with buckets ran past, shrieking. “So,” they said. “Coffee? Or… I could not impress you while you sketch, and I fell off this thing.” Camryn looked at them — at the nervous tap of their fingers on the board, the same way they used to tap their pen before asking her a question they already knew the answer to. “I’ve got an extra towel,” she said. “And opinions on your form.” They grinned. “Knew I could count on Honeywell.” And just like that, Tuesday wasn’t just for her anymore.