Page 20 of Bend

I strum a chord. Let it hum out. Pick at it without really hearing it.

My phone buzzes.

I grab it immediately.

BEXLEY: ECHO!!! 😭💛

i’m so glad you messaged me!!

yes, you are absolutely allowed to crash it.

we’re going to Seaside Café 12:30.

Seaside Café.

Of course they’re going somewhere cute and coastal with overpriced coffee and good lighting. The smile that tugs at my mouth feels unfamiliar. Like I haven’t used those muscles in a while.

It feels like the start of something, and that’s the part that scares me.

But I text back anyway.

ME: okay.

Great, ill see you there and thanks

Three dots pop up instantly.

And just like that, I’m in. For now. For lunch and whatever this turns into.

Chapter Four

Echo

I almost turn around twice before I even park.

Seaside Café looks like something straight off a friggen postcard. Whitewashed railings, pale wood decking, covered in tiny tables with those big striped umbrellas. The entire side of it opens to the ocean, like it’s trying to bring the city and beach together. Salt hangs in the air thick and warm, mixing with sunscreen, and fried food.

It’s busy with a typical early afternoon crowd. Girls in beach dresses and oversized sunglasses. Guys pretending not to check those same girls out. Servers weaving between tables with trays balanced on one hand like they’ve done it their whole lives.

I park my bike across the street and kill the engine. The rumble dies under me and for a second I just sit there, hands still on the bars, and my helmet on, staring at the deck like it might bite if i get to close.

This is stupid. It’s just lunch.

But I haven’t done “lunch with girls” in years. Maybe ever.

It’s not like back in Miami, my life was some lonely, grease-stained exile like people love to assume.

Yeah, there were garage floors and late-night drives and permanently dirty hands, but I had a life. I had girls. Real ones. The kind you grow up with. The kind who’ve seen you cry over stupid boys at fourteen, punch a locker at sixteen, and show up to prom in combat boots because you refused to suffer through heels.

They knew me.

They knew I wasn’t the friend who lived for shopping sprees or makeup hauls, but I wasn’t allergic to it either. I like winged liner and getting all dolled up when I feel like it. I like putting on something tight and cute and watching someone’s jaw shift because they didn’t expect it. It’s just never been my entire personality.

I was the friend you called when your car made a weird noise. Or when you wanted to blast music and drive too fast down an empty road at midnight. Sometimes I showed up in ripped jeans smelling like gasoline. Sometimes I showed up in something fitted with my hair done and gloss fresh. Either way, they didn’t flinch. They didn’t expect me to be softer, louder or smaller than I already was.

And then my mom got sick.

At first, they were there. Hospital visits. Coffee runs. Sitting in uncomfortable chairs while machines beeped and nurses rotated in and out. But what they don’t tell you about cancer, is that sometimes, it drags. It stretches, and it drains the life from everything. The patient, and everyone around who’s watching it up close. After a while, visits turned into texts. Texts turned into “let me know if you need anything.” Then even that got quiet.