A Date With Bridgette -

I picked up the book, flipped to a dog-eared page, and read aloud: “‘But man is not made for defeat,’ he said. ‘A man can be destroyed but not defeated.’”

“Your chariot, m’lady,” I said, leaning the bike against a rusted railing.

“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.” a date with bridgette

And because she was a tornado, and because the tide was rising, and because the strawberries were probably going to get sandy anyway—I ran after her.

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. I picked up the book, flipped to a

I turned to look at her. “You set someone’s surfboard on fire?”

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. “The point is—I don’t want to mess this up

“I surfed this morning,” she said quietly. “Before dawn. Water was glass. Saw a pod of dolphins maybe fifty yards out. They weren’t doing anything special. Just... hanging out. Floating. One of them looked at me. Like, really looked at me.”