Page 24

He scrawls a new bullet point. “See above—no more surfing. Plus, there’s more to my life than surfing.”

He can’t mean it.

But for one moment, I’m finishing his sentence. There’s you. I’m in his head, we’re sharing the same thought. It’s just the two of us and it’s perfect.

“Days and days of unlimited opportunities to torment me.” I don’t like this, but it’s true. “Pranks. Jokes. Complicated revenge plots. You’d have time for all those things.”

He points the marker at me. “Do you know what I think?”

“Nope!” I tell him, hoping I sound unconcerned.

He smells my concern. “You’re desperate. You have to get me on board.”

“Well…only because my boss is a moron, and my algorithm has a bug in it. I’ll fix my code, and you’ll be booted off the trip.

You should agree now!” Enzo claims that it’s important to instill a sense of urgency when you’re pitching.

Make your audience think that their opportunity will dry up faster than an uncapped bottle of nail polish remover.

“Very compelling,” he says dryly. He tosses the whiteboard marker to one side and collapses dramatically on my sofa. “I am overwhelmed by your arguments.”

“Really?”

“No.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

“It’s not just about you helping me out in exchange for a free vacation, though. I know you’re between careers.”

“I am a very busy man, and it’s not as if helping you with your career will get my new business off the ground any faster. I need start-up funds, Panda bear, and I can’t pick those up on the beach like a seashell.”

“I’m hearing that you want to be paid.” I write this down in my phone app. It comes out as wants ppayign but note-taking makes me look serious rather than desperate.

“Sure.” He shrugs. Grins. “But I could just pander my good looks and popularity on Instagram. Pick up some brand endorsements. Take my dad up on his offer of gainful employment.”

His grin is now more grimace.

Okay. He also has daddy issues.

I frown. “But you’re retired? And possibly want to stick it to your old man? I’m picking up on some conflicting messaging here.”

“Let’s just say that I’m out of the sports business, which is very disappointing for him. And as I enjoy thwarting his expectations for me, I plan to stay out.” Ozzy closes his eyes. Apparently, it’s nap time.

“So…no surfing.”

Ozzy nods.

I draw on my extensive experience with post-unemployment job interviews.

“And you want to go in a new direction.”

Another nod.

“And your father disapproves, but that’s…a feature and not a bug?”

And…another nod. Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

“What is it that you do want to do?”

“Wildlife photography.”

Huh. That explains the nene picture on his wall and all the birds on his Instagram.

“But breaking into wildlife photography takes time,” Ozzy says without opening his eyes. “Cash, too, although that’s not the most significant issue.”

I refrain from pointing out that he just said money was a factor. I’m supposed to be wooing him.

“What I really need are the right opportunities,” he continues.

“A solid chance to break into the field. And I would prefer to do it now, rather than in ten years. Wildlife photography is highly competitive and there are limited jobs. I’m building my portfolio, but I need a high-profile job. Gallery shows. Magazine covers.”

His confidence is mesmerizing. He’s not content to just shoot photos—he plans to conquer the entire industry.

I want to say I don’t understand his thirst to do something new and to do it well, but I get it.

Possibly because that’s why I’m begging him to come with me to Mexico; his agreement is a gating factor for whether or not I land my dream job.

So, yes, I understand dreaming—and working to make those dreams a reality.

I add pya oof National Geographic to my list.

“Can you get me a photography gig with national exposure that will let me shoot unique photos of wildlife that showcase my style?” he asks.

“If I do, will you go with me on a Mexican road trip?”

“Sure.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. He hums a bar from the Mission Impossible soundtrack.

Watch me, Ozzy Wylder.

I whip off a quick email to Bob:

Ozzy’s in but he has conditions. We need to hire him as our photographer for industry-standard rates.

He can do destination landscapes for the site, chronicle the road trip, maybe activity photos.

It’ll be the prototype for other TripFriendz users uploading images of their trips, and we can use his pictures for the big product launch.

Bob responds almost immediately, proving that no one in software engineering has a life outside of work. Okay.

I hold up my phone for Ozzy to read. “You’re hired.”

He sits up and stares at me, and I stare back despite my plan to be professional. Persuasive. His face is so beautiful. None of the teasing remains. He just looks me over carefully, nodding his head.

“Is this what you want?”

“It is.”

“I feel like I should make it clear that this will not be a giant sexathon. I am not a booty call.”

“I’ll resist.” It turns out that you cannot, in fact, die of embarrassment. Or spontaneously combust.

He’s beautiful. Popular. People—guys, girls, everyone—want to be around him. In him. On him. He has a waiting list longer than a Birkin bag. We had our night of fun, but it’s over. Exactly as I told him it would be. I have no business feeling disappointed.

“Okay,” he says. He winks at me. “See you in Mexico, Panda.”