A Date With Bridgette -

“Because I like you. And when I like someone, I usually do something stupid. Like challenge them to a race into the waves fully clothed. Or accidentally set their surfboard on fire.”

“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.” a date with bridgette

She laughed softly. “I was scared to come out tonight.” “Because I like you

The last light caught the edges of her face, and for a moment, she looked less like a girl who spent her life chasing swells and more like something the ocean had made on purpose—a wave given form, given breath, given a crooked grin. Or accidentally set their surfboard on fire

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.

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.