Page 40 of Plotting Summer

He leans back in the seat in mock appraisal. “Actually, it’s a pretty great bike. I might need to get me one. And Beau one. In pink. With a front basket and a bell for each of his handles.”

“And long, streaming tassels.”

“Definitely tassels.”

“He’s going to love it. Maybe you should also get him one of those seats that fit two people. That’d be handy right now.”

“Speaking of,” Tristan scoots back in his seat. “If you come stand in front of me, I can lift you onto the handlebars.”

My mind needs no prodding to create an image of exactly how this will go down—me standing way too close to Tristan when his hands settle on my waist, his grip firm and … I’m shaking my head. There’s no way I’ll risk falling harder for him when he’s already trying to get rid of me. And he’s moving. Friend zone is the safe zone. “I’m sure I can get up from the front.” I straddle the front tire, facing away from Tristan, and place one hand on each side of the handlebars behind me. I give a little hop, but it’s not enough to get me onto the bar. When I attempt it again, it works, but the bar is (unsurprisingly) hard to balance on, so I’m forced to lean into Tristan’s perfectly firm upper body for support.

“Got it?” he asks.

“I think so,” I manage to get out, despite the fact that my vital organs seem to be spasming with our proximity. The very reason I chose to climb on this way has been thrown out the metaphorical window. My back is now pressed against him, with his hands grasping my waist and the side of his face way too close to mine. Not that I’ll risk it for the sake of drawing a firm conclusion, but if I turned my head, I’m pretty sure my kissing-bike-scene logistics actually weren’t too far off in my book, Summer Fling.

Carefully, Tristan removes his hands from my body and sets them next to mine on the handlebars. Like right next to them—the inside of his hand pressed against the outside of mine—and the current flowing through my skin has an electrifying effect. But I don’t let go. “Let me know if you need me to stop.” He starts pedaling. “You could also face me if it’d be easier. That way you could put your feet on the middle bar.”

Another image flashes through my mind—one of Tristan and me face to face—that I like less. (Well, truthfully, I like it more, which means I should like it less.) My resolve is set. I will manage the entire ride home in this position or die in the attempt. And with the way I’m teetering on this thin little bar, there is a decent chance of the latter.

The accent colors of Grandma’s room perfectly match the teals and blues of the bay you can see from her screened porch. Off-white, creams, and light pinks—like the color of shells—form the base color-palette. “It’s beautiful,” I say, taking in the decorated space I’ve only seen while chatting with her over the phone.

The area’s small but perfectly cozy, with a sitting room that is separated from her sleeping area by a partial wall. The bathroom is immaculate, and she even has her own kitchenette. But my absolute favorite part is the simplified version of her framed-photo gallery from home in updated, light wood frames. There are only a dozen pictures or so, but they’re some of the most classic: Grandpa, Walker, and me fishing from the dock at the back of the house; all three of us Collins kids on the Fourth of July with bright eyes and holding sparklers; and a picture of my whole family, dad included, gathered around me and Tala with mermaid tails made of sand.

Grandma steps up next to me, her eyes on the pictures. “The rest are in a photo album I keep in my closet. That way, whenever I’m missing one of you, I can pull it out.”

I look over at her. “Do you like it here? Honestly.”

“I really do.” Grandma lets out a slow breath. “I’ll admit the first few months weren’t easy, and I’ve definitely had some hard moments, but it truly is a wonderful facility. There are so many classes and outings and people to socialize with. Not having to cook for myself or take care of a house that’s way too big for just me, it’s been … liberating. And now with Virginia next door, it’ll be just like it was.”

For a brief moment, I again wonder how the Palmers selling this place will affect Grandma, but I quickly push the thought away. I can’t dwell on that right now, or Grandma will start prodding for information I can’t give. Besides, I trust Tristan will thoroughly vet any potential buyers exactly like he said he would. So, at this point, it’s needless worrying.

“I’m glad.” Not being here to see how she’s faring has been one of the hardest things about adhering to the Sunset Harbor Avoidance Protocol, but now that I'm with her, she does seem more carefree. Younger even. Maybe I should consider moving into a retirement center myself. Having prepared meals and a cleaning and laundry service during deadline mode would be invaluable. Not to mention that the planned activities would definitely help this introvert get some much-needed socializing in, and it’d be with one of the age demographics I feel most comfortable talking to. It’s unfortunate I’m more than half a life-time too young for a place like this.

Grandma begins to empty the bag of requested groceries I brought her from Tala. Fruit. Chips. Peanut butter and jam. A loaf of bread. Two packs of thin mints. And a package of Fig Newtons. She opens the Fig Newtons and takes one out, stuffing it in her mouth and savoring every chew until it’s gone. For all the wonderful things I’ve heard about the food here, Grandma’s exuberance over a fig-filled cookie suddenly gives me pause. Surely she’s getting enough to eat.

“Want one?” she asks, stretching the package toward me.

“No thanks, I just ate breakfast,” I say, and she pops a second cookie. “How is Virginia settling in?”

“There’s been a slight incident, but I’m really hopeful it’ll resolve itself soon.”

“An incident?”

“Virginia isn’t thrilled with a few of the rules here at Sunset Harbor.” She opens her mini fridge and sticks the fruit inside. “She’s convinced some of the residents to go on a hunger strike with her.”

My lips part. “You aren’t participating, are you?”

“Oh, only here and there. Mainly when I'm with Virginia.”

So that’s why Grandma requested the groceries, so she could eat in her room, away from Virginia’s judgmental eyes. That woman! Don’t get me wrong, I love her, but when she feels wronged, nothing stands in her way of setting things right according to her own skewed notions of justice. “You need to talk to her. A hunger strike can’t be healthy for the other residents.” Especially considering some of their advanced ages and medical conditions.

“She’ll come around soon. Once she realizes Tristan isn’t out to get her—you know how she still holds on to the whole Sawyer vs Palmer rivalry.” Grandma finishes putting all the groceries into the cabinet and turns to face me again. “Speaking of Tristan, Tala mentioned you’ve been out together a second time.” Grandma waggles her eyebrows.

“We have, but just as friends.” The pinking of my cheeks isn’t helpful to my cause.

“Either way, I want to hear all about it.”

“There really isn’t much to tell. We went kayaking Saturday, and yesterday we went on a bike ride to the lighthouse.”