Bend Fly Run

San Francisco: July 2019

"I forgot to mention," Delilah said, leaning over the wheel to get a better look at the airport traffic. She hit the accelerator and wove into a lane. "Logan is meeting us for dinner tomorrow."

I turned; head foggy from the flight. "Logan-Logan?"

"I'm sorry. I thought he was coming next weekend but Paul thought you were coming next weekend- we've been a mess. I hope you're not annoyed."

"Of course not."

"Good. I know I said a long time ago you guys should try dating but I promise not to bring that up." She glanced over. "Beginning now."

I smiled. "Why have you been such a mess?"

"Sorry?"

"You said you and Paul have been a mess- what's going on?"

She flipped on the signal, looked both directions and spun the wheel. "You know, work stuff, relative stuff- the usual. I'd rather talk about how cute you guys looked dancing at my wedding but since it's your birthday weekend that would be rude. Okay," she said, clapping her hands. "I got it all out- where should we go for brunch?"

Brunch would be a Mexican restaurant. Warm tortillas and seasoned rice, creamy black beans and Pico de Gallo. Delilah made small talk with one of the waiters, chatting amicably about his recent trip to Vancouver. When he left, she explained her and Paul ate there often, found it soon after they moved and went back every week. On the walk home, she pointed out the coffee shop she frequents, the hardware store that saved them from a plumbing disaster and the gym she finally bought a membership to. As we walked by, a woman came through the door and they greeted each other warmly, launching into a long commiseration about the gym's new manager as I stood to the side.

The next morning, I woke to balloons and the smell of fresh waffles. Delilah saw me stir from the kitchen and ran into her bedroom to procure Paul. He stumbled out with swollen eyes and side-swept hair, a party blower in one hand as he tugged his shirt with the other. They sang Happy Birthday and I sat up from the couch, stretching and laughing, snapping pictures of their goofy, sleep-coated grins. We ate breakfast in loud, loose spirits and recounted the first night Paul spent at our Detroit apartment- the bet that we made when he left.

"I'm sorry," I told him. "I gave you two weeks."

He scrunched his face. "Don't be sorry- I gave myself one."

Paul had plans with Logan so Delilah and I showered and changed, made our way to a rental bike shop. We adjusted gears, snapped helmets and started the journey- the bay to our right, open sea to our left. The momentum of the morning feeding my energy as we pedaled over the bridge and skyscraper hills, dodging cars along the narrow shoulder until we glided into Sausalito, a town nestled across a golden curve of the bay.

"Can you imagine living here," I locked my bike. "Getting coffee next to the water every morning?"

Delilah shook off her helmet. "It's probably all snobs. How much further is Tiburon?"

I squinted at the map. "Eleven miles."

"Eleven?"

"The guy said it's a three-hour ride. Didn't you hear him?"

She scowled.

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Are you tired? We can take the ferry from here, skip the next city?"

"No," she said again, turning toward the ocean. "I just need a break, okay? Let's get some water."

"Of course," I answered. I folded the map. "Whatever you need."