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I think about that first time we met, how I didn’t overthink things. Life threw a man at me, and I kissed him. Easy-peasy. Two mouths met and dreams flared to life. Fantasies. I built an entire pipe dream based on five minutes in the sand. This could be the start of something amazing , I’d hoped.

Ozzy keeps pace with me. Stops when I stop. Smirks as I scoop up a handful of wee baby spiders. “They’re procreating!”

“You never know where you’ll find one,” he says darkly, then swipes at an errant streak of now-fossilized shaving cream that I missed when I erased his THIS MEANS WAR message.

When I shoot him a look, he mutters, “You started it,” and steals one of my spider children.

“Are you—”

“What?”

He swings around to look at me. It’s been a day, and I’m tired, but I think he’s concerned about me. It makes me uncomfortable.

“Do you need anything?” he asks.

Oh, the things I need. His brow is furrowed, his hands on his lean hips now.

I can tell it’s absolutely killing him that I won’t admit that I could, in fact, use help.

A miracle. Divine intervention and a forty-eight-hour day.

Since I still half blame him for the mail room debacle, however, I play dumb. “Like?”

“Rice,” he suggests. Lame.

I’m sure the last time he ate refined carbohydrates was a decade ago.

“I’m good.” I jam my key in the lock. I’ve got this.

Ozzy leans in. He might brace himself against my wall with a hand. “Do you want help?”

He means my help .

Because that’s what he’s asking.

Do I want his help?

Will I accept it, or will I mark it return to sender ? It’ll be like a rejected Christmas present on December 26 tossed in the exchange bin at Walmart.

I shrug. No big deal. He’ll get over it. He’ll be fine.

“You can come in,” says the stranger who’s taken over my mouth.

Ozzy follows me inside.

I guess we’re doing this: him helping, me letting him. It’s so weird.

I dig out a ten-pound bag of rice and shove my tablet in there, but the patient is on life support and we both know it.

It shows no sign of life, no pulse of light.

While I wait for rice to fail me, I check my backups and discover that, yup, I’ve got nothing.

The tablet didn’t sync before it swam, and I’ve lost a hundred questionnaires.

“Bad news?” Ozzy asks.

Can I help dances in the air between us.

I’m too tired to fight, so I admit the truth. “I lost my data for my demo.”

He huffs a laugh. “That sucks. Can we recreate it?”

It’s weird, this being part of a we .

I fall back on my default mode: sarcasm. “Do you know two hundred people who are available now to fill out a semi-invasive online questionnaire about their travel and hygiene habits?”

He looks like he has questions. I forestall them.

“I’m coding a new travel app, but it requires data.

There’s an online questionnaire that quizzes people about their travel likes and dislikes, does some personality analysis, asks a bunch of stuff that gives my algorithm the data points it needs to find a traveler their perfect travel match—and their ideal itinerary. ”

I can’t quite hide the flush of pride I feel. This is my brainchild, my project, and it’s really— really —good. Still, I wait for him to make the obvious jokes about dating apps.

“I’ll bet it’s great.” For once in his life, he sounds serious.

“It is.” Oh, my God, it is. I am good at this, and I can do this.

Ozzy looks at me. “I’ll fill it out. Your questionnaire.”

“One down, 199 to go.” I am a fount of optimism.

Still, I text him a link to the online survey. He brings it up on his phone, hums to himself for a bit before asking, “Can I share it?”

I shrug. “Sure. It’s not a government secret.”

He nods and flings himself on my sofa. Pillows scatter.

“Do I prefer solo activities or traveling with a group?”

I am immediately defensive. It’s not the most original question, but it works. “Trust the process, Ozzy.”

He tucks his tongue into his cheek, a gesture I did not know existed in real life. Squints. Moves the tablet closer to his face. His nose is leaving Ozzy-shaped smudges on the screen.

“Are you farsighted?”

He ignores me.

“Do I need to stay connected to work while traveling?” He clucks his tongue. “Did you write these, Dora?”

“I think we need to revisit your definition of helping .” I latch on to his phone. I’ll clear his browser cache, and it will be like this whole nightmare never happened.

He won’t be defeated and tugs back. Somehow, I crash-land on the sofa next to him.

“New foods or familiar friends?” he muses. “That sounds almost cannibalistic.”

He taps away, writing a book rather than answering my multiple-choice-single-answer question. I try to sneak a peek. He’ll be the adventurous type. Bold. Ready to eat fried tarantulas or fertilized duck eggs. Hapless puffer fish. Ant larvae.

“What’s the last new thing you ate?”

I don’t want to answer his questions. It’s not as if we’ll ever travel together. It’s pointless. “I already took the survey.”

I roll my eyes so hard that I see stars. Stars. God, I want to be in my spaceship so badly.

“Answer, please.” Ozzy is a relentless taskmaster. “If I’m answering your questions, you should answer mine.”

I try to remember how many items are on the survey.

“Mochi doughnuts,” I mutter ungracefully. “I went to Japantown last month.”

He crows. “I knew you were a sweet girl!”

If looks could kill, he would be dead.

Fortunately for him, he moves on. “Preferred options for nightlife?”

“None.” I’m an inside girl. A hermit.

He makes a buzzing sound. “Unless you turn into a comatose vampire, you have a nightlife. What do you do with it?”

“I…work?”

“Have you considered getting an actual life?”

“What do you do?”

He grins. “I help you with work?”

“Okay, but when you’re not holed up in my condo, what do you do? Where do you go ?”

He shrugs. “I take pictures. I run. I swim. I disappoint my loving parents by taking insufficient interest in my future.”

There’s so much to unpack there. “You don’t go out?”

“Those things count,” he protests. “Where else should I go?”

“Where do people go out to?” Now it’s my turn to shrug. “Bars. Movie theaters. Pop-up taco trucks. They date. They talk to other human beings. Just finish the survey.”

I have used up my quota of words for tonight. For this lifetime. I groan. I might slap my hands over my eyes. I am more dramatic than a seven-year-old in a school play. Who knew what he’d ask next?

Strong hands tuck me up against a muscled side, anchoring me when my bones threaten to melt. I’m seconds away from oozing off the couch. Moving to live on the floor. Time is warping.

I think I doze off. My couch vibrates and rumbles beneath my cheek. It’s warm and deliciously solid.

Ozzy groans. “I don’t know how you do this for twelve hours a day.”

“What?” I blink back awake.

“Blue light is bad for you, Panda Bear.”

“Are you done? Because I need to go solicit 199 people to overshare about their travel habits with me.”

Oh God. I have to talk to strangers. Ask them for help.

“Yeah?” He sits up, sliding me gently onto the sofa.

“Thank you for filling out the survey.”

“Sure. I like helping you.”

That shuts me up. What am I supposed to say? Thank you? Give him my to-do list? We barely know each other, and yet he seems to have my back. Ozzy Wylder might be a surf star, but he’s surprisingly down-to-earth. He’s a decent man.

A decent man who I kissed.

“I’m done. So are they.”

“Who?”

“Friends of mine,” he says. “People I’ve surfed with. I sent them your link and they filled it out.”

He’s actually done it. He’s helped me out. Replaced my missing data by—I check my laptop—soliciting what appears to be the entire surfing community and their surf bunny friends. His social media reach is impressive, too.

“It’s okay to ask for help.” He stands up with a groan, stretching.

He says this easily, as if it’s just a matter of words.

As if it’s no big deal. As if we’re possibly, truly friends.

Or at least not enemies. But I’m remembering our kiss, remembering how good it was and then how bad, when he waltzed away from me.

I got lost in the crowd then. I couldn’t keep up, didn’t (if I’m forced to be fair) know how to.

He makes it look so easy, this reaching out.

This connecting . It’s not fair to be mad at him for how easily relationships come to him or how quickly he’s fixed my blunder, especially since I am grateful.

He has helped. It’s just that I really wanted—or maybe needed—to do it myself. I need everyone to see me .