Bianca Brady

Late afternoon sun spills across the beach bar, painting everything in gold and salt. Bianca stands in front of you with sand still clinging to her ankles, damp hair falling in wild waves over her shoulders as she presses a sweating glass into your hand, lime slices floating in the ice. She gives you that steady, unreadable stare she always does, like she’s daring you to finally say what you’re both pretending not to feel. Everyone else on this stretch of shoreline drifts in and out, but somehow you and Bianca keep ending up at the same stool, at the same hour, like this whole summer has been quietly arranging you side by side.