We're barely out of the SUV before Emmett spots the bike rental stand, eyes lighting up like a child in a candy store. “Part one of this day is a group ride. Let's go!” he crows, and within minutes, we’re all awkwardly straddling our respective two-wheeled personalities.
Emmett goes for the speed demon, some sort of carbon-fiber thing with racing stripes and pedals that look like they were designed to snap your ankles. Miles chooses the next most intimidating option, a slate-grey mountain bike with enough gears to launch a moon mission. Brody, despite all his brooding, picks a beach cruiser, but it’s brand new and matte black, so it still feels like an extension of his closet. I get the only one left inmy size—a turquoise Schwinn with a cream-colored seat and a huge, ridiculous wicker basket strapped to the front.
“It’s like you stole that from a basket-weaving grandmother," Emmett teases me, grinning as I get on my gleaming dinosaur of a bike.
“You know… jealousy is not a good color for you,” I shoot back, shaking my head so my hair flares out like a banner behind me. The air is warm and the breeze feels wonderful and, honestly, everything about this is totally perfect.
We set out down Duval Street together, weaving past sunburnt tourists in Hawaiian shirts and street vendors hawking T-shirts, shell bracelets, insulated cups that promise to keep your daiquiri cold until next Tuesday. The town pulses with music, laughter, and it’s something right out of a movie.
Ourmovie, that is. I don’t think dating three of your dad’s friends at the same time is a common romcom trope though.
“First stop, souvenirs!” Emmett suddenly veers hard right, nearly taking out an elderly couple on a tandem. “We’ve yet to load up on that. It’s like a vacay tradition.”
“Last time I got a souvenir on vacation, it was mono,” Miles says under his breath, but he's the first to park his bike and follow Emmett into the shop, which is calledThe Conch Republic Emporiumand seems to specialize in items that are either hot pink, shaped like marine life, or both.
And I won’t lie, as gaudy as it is, I kind of like it.
I leave my bike half-tipped against a palm tree and follow them inside, Brody at my elbow. Shelves spill over with keychains shaped like flip-flops, shot glasses covered in glitter, and T-shirts with dumb slogans.
“Do people actually buy this stuff?” I ask, picking up a bobblehead of Ernest Hemingway in sunglasses and board shorts. Apparently, he used to live here.
“Only if they're too drunk to know better,” Brody murmurs, but when I look over, he's holding a miniature snow globe with a shrimp wearing a pirate hat inside. He puts it back on the shelf before I can tease him about it.
Miles and Emmett are already at the counter, arguing over which of the two coconut monkey statues is more lifelike. Emmett wins, obviously, but only because he threatens to smuggle it into my carry-on if I veto his choice.
Oh my god. This is my life now.
Back on the street, we pedal south. We pass a henna tattoo stand, a bakery with a line out the door, and a man in a banana costume advertising something some bar.
“Next stop,” Emmett announces, standing on his pedals and turning to face us as he rides, “the hat shop!”
“Is that a thing?” I laugh breathlessly, but sure enough…
It is. And it’s even worse than the gift shop.
Inside, the clerk—a girl with purple hair—waves us in with a cheery, “Let me know if you want to try anything on.”
Miles immediately grabs a Panama hat, sets it on his head, and does his best Miami Vice pose. It would be dignified if he hadn’t chosen one with a fluorescent pink band.
“That's a good look for you,” I tell him. “You could win a lot of cases if you wore that.”
“You think?” He turns to the side, then back, surveying himself in the mirror with clinical detachment.
“Positively menacing,” Brody says, giving us both a weird look.
Emmett ends up in a Stetson three sizes too small and prances around the shop like a deranged rodeo clown, making everyone—including the clerk—crack up. I try on a floppy sun hat with a brim so wide I can barely see.
I tip it over one eye, wiggling my brows at Brody. “How do I look?”
He glances up and then grins. “You look incredible. Big hat or not. I’m buying that.”
I snort, but his gaze doesn’t flicker. “It’s fifty bucks,” I whisper, as if the price is a dirty little secret.
“So?”
“So that's more than I paid for my last three pairs of shoes combined. I can't justify?—”
He plucks the hat off my head, steps to the counter, and hands over his card before I can protest.
