Page 23 of Bend

Marisol laughs. “You were just here on Tuesday, Cece.”

“Exactly,” Cece replies, placing her hand over her heart. “Two whole days without us here to elevate the atmosphere.”

Marisol rolls her eyes affectionately and flips open her notepad. “Alright, what are we getting?”

“Salmon salad for me, please,” Lena says. “Oh, and my usual caramel macchiato.”

“Shrimp tacos,” Cece adds. “Extra lime. Like aggressively extra.”

“I’ll have the lobster roll,” Bex says easily. “Same as always.”

Marisol nods and scribbles, then looks at me. “And for you?”

My eyes scan the menu quickly, pretending like I didn’t already clock the burger the second I sat down.

“Umm, I’ll take the burger, medium rare. Fries on the side, and an iced coffee, black, please.”

She nods without judgment. “You got it,” and heads back inside.

The second she’s out of earshot, Cece turns to me slowly

“You do know Seaside is basically a shrine to ocean animals, right?” Cece asks, but she’s grinning like she’s about to judge me for sport.

“I did not,” I admit. “But I don’t like seafood anyway, so this was doomed from the start.”

Lena gasps like I just insulted her entire bloodline. “None of it?”

“None,” I confirm. “Like, literally nothing fishy. At all. If it swims, I’m out.”

Bex laughs softly. “You really did pick the wrong café.”

“Correction,” I say, pointing lightly at the table, “I didn’t pick anything. I just arrived. Big difference. And for the record, I have full faith in their burger. I believe in land animals.”

Cece presses a hand to her chest dramatically. “Ay, Dios mío. We’re over here ordering half the Atlantic and you’re just sitting there like, ‘Yeah, I’ll have the cow, thanks.’”

“Exactly,” I say. “Reliable. Predictable. Doesn’t smell like low tide.”

Lena snorts.

“Okay but not even shrimp?” Cece pushes, leaning in like she’s negotiating a treaty. “Not even with limón, and a little tajín to make it cute?”

“I admire the marketing,” I reply. “Still no.”

She sighs loudly. “Trágico. I should’ve known. You’ve got burger energy.”

“Is that an insult?”

“It’s a diagnosis.”

Bex laughs again, shaking her head. “It’s fine, Echo. We’re not revoking your lunch privileges.”

“Yet,” Cece mutters, eyeing me dramatically like she’s already drafting the paperwork to revoke my seafood privileges.

I lean back in my chair, crossing one leg over the other, smirk tugging at my mouth before I can stop it. I shouldn’t be this comfortable this fast. I walked in here half-expecting side-eyes and subtle interrogation tactics. Instead, I’m getting theatrics over shrimp.

And I’m… kind of into it.

There’s something easy about them. No weird tension or passive-aggressive energy. Just straight-up banter and exaggerated playful judgment over my food choices.