Santa Monica's sunlight gilded the garage as I chased a champagne-stealing seagull in cowboy boots. Jared appeared from the tool shed, waving something wrapped in stars and stripes: "Birthday girl, your 'car part'."
The cloth fell, and I nearly crushed my cup—a new Tesla Y steering wheel, carbon fiber glowing with LED stardust. "You said the stock one was boring," he said, sun-kissed neck scratched, oil on his fingers. "Had your wave pattern carved into the grips."
I shrieked, grabbing it. The edges fit like a second skin. Last month in Malibu, I’d griped about Tesla’s plain interiors while he napped on his board. I thought the waves swallowed my words.
"Try?" He thrust it into my arms, towing me to his pickup. The truck bed, tie-dyed and tool-littered, held installation gear. "Tonight we’ll install it," he said, grinning with a wrench. "Gripping 101’ll feel like riding the Pacific."
Running fingers over the waves, I found: "25, conquer every coast." Last month in the ER—stitches from a skateboard fall—I’d rambled about a Pacific road trip. He’d fumbled an apple, peel breaking three times.
Friends swarmed with balloons as I studied the guide. Jared leaned in, shouting over engines: "Once installed, Big Sur sunset, now!" Sunlight through his hair hit the wheel’s LEDs, painting my sunburned arms with dancing light—California romance wasn’t roses, but someone making your wildest dreams tangible.
