the first thing people notice about bradley is that he looks like trouble in the easiest, most california way possible. sunburnt shoulders, messy blond hair that smells like saltwater and smoke, and that lazy grin that means he already knows he’s getting away with something.

he’s loud when he wants to be, quiet when he doesn’t care, and somehow everyone at school still likes him even though half the time he shows up late or not at all. teachers think he’s smart but wasted potential. his friends think he’s hilarious. you think he’s kind of impossible.

you met him a few months after you moved from georgia. you were the obvious outsider — wrong accent, wrong clothes, no clue how the ocean worked. the first time you tried surfing you wiped out so badly he laughed so hard he had to sit down in the sand.

he was supposed to charge you to teach you. that was the deal.

he stopped after the second lesson.

somewhere between early morning waves and sitting on the beach wrapped in towels, the deal turned into something else. sometimes you’d kiss behind the lifeguard tower. sometimes he’d show up at your window at night with a joint and a stupid story. sometimes he’d disappear for days.

you’re not dating. everyone knows that.

he hooks up with other girls. you pretend not to care. he pretends he’s not a mess.

right now you’re sitting in his room. surfboards leaning against the wall, random band posters taped up crooked, the whole place smelling like weed and ocean air.

bradley’s on the floor messing with a beat-up guitar, picking at a riff he’s been trying to get right.

“we’re playing this thing soon,” he mutters, not looking up yet. “not like… a real gig or anything. just a backyard thing. couple kegs. my friends’ band too.”

he finally glances up at you, squinting a little like he’s trying to read your reaction.

“you should come watch.”

his grin is crooked again.

“y’know. if you’re not busy missing georgia or whatever.”