“You’re going to pop a tire, you know!” she called out, her blonde hair whipping into a tangled halo. “We’re not late. The tide waits for no one, but it’ll wait for you.”
I eased up, letting the bike coast to a stop near the end of the pier, where the tourists thinned out and the fishermen were packing up their rods for the day. The sun was that impossible shade of gold that only happens in late spring, when the marine layer hasn’t yet decided whether to roll in or retreat. Today, it was retreating.
“Can I tell you something dumb?” she asked.
“I brought you a book where an old guy fights a fish for three days and then watches sharks eat it. I thought you’d appreciate the commitment.”
The salt spray clung to the back of my throat as I pedaled harder, the old beach cruiser’s tires humming against the wooden planks of the Santa Monica Pier. Behind me, nestled in the wicker basket with her legs dangling over the side, Bridgette laughed—a sound that cut clean through the crash of the waves below.
“Okay,” she said finally, taking the book from my hands and setting it in the sand. “Race you to the water. Fully clothed.”
