He was entirely self-absorbed, another effect of his solitude—his hidden passion and achievement as a surfer. But it was the apparent selfishness of sick people too, preoccupied with their ailments. She accepted that, because she saw that though he was alone, he was never lonely. But it worried her that his solitude had intensified since the accident, to the point where he seemed in a stall, repeating himself, seemingly oblivious of time passing, lost and left behind, in a bubble.

Part of his memory had been left behind on the rainy road at Waimea, where he’d killed the man on the bike. He needed reviving, he needed to begin living again, he needed new things to care about—new waves, bigger waves; he needed to care about her. And who was his victim, the nameless corpse on the road, the man he had killed?

She thought that her refusing alcohol might make him wonder. But he didn’t ask. He ate, he drank, he slept, he hugged her; and when the surf was up he was in it.

Always disappointed in fine weather when the waves were small—“flat to a foot”—he was becalmed at home. She waited for one of those days, a Sunday when she wasn’t working, and bought a bento and some trays of sushi at Foodland and suggested they have a picnic at Three Tables Beach. There they sat on their towels, balancing the trays on their outstretched legs.

“Might see a late whale,” Sharkey said, and studied the break at Rubber Duckies. But the swell was so gentle a snorkeler was crossing where days before the waves had been head-high.

Olive found she couldn’t face him and say it. She lay flat and embraced him, clasped his head and held it next to hers, put her mouth against his ear.

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I love you.”

“How much?”

“More than my mother.”

She laughed. “You told me your mum was a pest.”

“That’s what I mean. She drove me crazy. You make me happy.”

“Would you be happy if you knew I was pregnant?”

His hair was hot and damp against her forehead, and she could feel his breath moving through his head, vibrant in his scalp. He didn’t speak. He went on breathing, his breath like a process of thought, air seesawing in reflection.

“It’s very early,” she said into his silence. “I almost wasn’t going to tell you. But I’ve been feeling so awful, and now I know that’s related to it. And it’s—see—it’s not just about me. It’s ours, our decision.”