“It was a campfire accident,” she said quickly. “The point is—I don’t want to mess this up. You’re calm. You read books about old men and fish. You packed sparkling water . I’m a tornado in board shorts.”
Bridgette hopped off with a surfer’s grace—barefoot, because of course she was. Her board shorts were faded teal, and she wore a loose gray sweatshirt that she’d cut the sleeves off of. Around her neck, a simple shell necklace she’d probably made herself. She wasn’t dressed up. She never was. And that was the point. a date with bridgette
“Your chariot, m’lady,” I said, leaning the bike against a rusted railing. “It was a campfire accident,” she said quickly
The waves kept up their endless shuffle—push, pull, drag, sigh. Seagulls argued over a forgotten french fry. Somewhere down the beach, a portable speaker was playing something slow and Latin. Bridgette sat up and leaned against my shoulder, her hair smelling like salt and coconut and something else—something clean, like line-dried sheets. You read books about old men and fish
“Can I tell you something dumb?” she asked.