EXT. HARBOUR WALL - EVENING
Lea sits on the wall with a paper ferry ticket in her hand. She holds it out, then pulls it back before her friend can take it.
Before you say anything. I know what it looks like. One ticket. I saw your face when I took it out. You thought I was going without you. Sit down, the wall's dry, I checked.
I went to the office at lunch. Maureen was on the desk, she asked who it was for, and I said it before I'd decided to. I said your name. Ten past seven, Friday, one adult, one bike. You still have to pay for the bike. They won't let me do that. Apparently the bike has to be present.
You've been talking yourself out of it since March. Every time the college sends you something, you read it at my kitchen table and then you say, 'Well, we'll see,' and you look at me. Like I'm the reason. Like you need me to say go. So this is me saying it. With money.
I'm not coming. I know we said. I've been saying 'next year' since the fair and you've been kind enough not to notice that I mean it. I like it here. I like the fog and the shop and knowing every dog by name. That's allowed. And you don't, and that's allowed too, and one of us has to actually do the thing instead of sitting on a wall talking about it.
It's in your name. Maureen spelled it wrong, I made her do it again. Don't hug me. I'll cry, and then you'll stay, and then I'll have paid for a bike that isn't going anywhere. Friday. Ten past seven. Bring the bike.