A Date With Bridgette -

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.

She raised an eyebrow. “You brought me Hemingway on a date?” a date with bridgette

She laughed softly. “I was scared to come out tonight.” I eased up, letting the bike coast to

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. She raised an eyebrow

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 dog-eared page, and read aloud: “‘But man is not made for defeat,’ he said. ‘A man can be destroyed but not defeated.’”

“Can I tell you something dumb?” she asked.