Page 25

Thirteen

M y spine is a waterfall of sweat. It trickles down my back and soaks the waistband of my panties.

They are my brand-new, just-in-case panties: pink, frilly, made of a synthetic nylon that is darling but ludicrously unbreathable in the Mexican sunshine.

No one (aka Ozzy) will see them, but just in case… I’m covered.

Rosie is concerned. “Have you been stood up?”

“He’ll show.” Ozzy is already on vacation time.

He didn’t spend Day One of the Great Mexican Road Trip with us in our Tijuana Beach hotel, and now he’s thirty minutes late for Day Two.

I’m terrified to turn cellular data on on my phone to track him as I’ll have to sell a kidney to pay the bill.

The rest of the social media team (Roz, Thom, and Lore, whose jobs are unclear to me, but require constant attention to various electronic devices) seem unconcerned by his absence.

They lounge around the parking lot, debating names for the camper van.

Berta is winning, although Van Gogh is unfortunately also a contender.

After eleven hours of hotel air-conditioning, the heat of the parking lot is stunning. I want to retreat inside and never come out.

“Should you call him? Text? Was he flying in directly?” She is applying blueberry-colored lip gloss in the side mirror of the second van, the far less cute but much more practical one that the social media team will be traveling in.

She’s here because she begged. And also, because I feel like I owe her.

If she wants to spend her internship in Mexico that’s on her, and I could use a friendly face.

We were warned that crossing the border from San Diego into Tijuana can be slow, so everyone except for Ozzy flew in yesterday.

As we’ll be trapped together in a camper van soon enough, I didn’t insist that he travel with me.

Was that a mistake? What if he went to the airport intending to fly to Tijuana but instead ended up in Hong Kong or Bali?

I opt to text. Where r u?

His response is almost immediate: MEXICO! He attaches a photo in which he’s wearing a sombrero.

Not helpful. U R LATE.

He leaves me on read.

The shorthand grates, but Rosie assures me it makes me seem like less of a fossilized dinosaur come to life and roaming the colorful if gritty streets of Tijuana.

I pace restlessly to the street, phone in hand, debating whether I should attempt hacking into a satellite to determine Ozzy’s precise location.

Palm trees line the road, alongside buildings that seem to be mostly cantinas, taco stands, bars, and dance clubs.

The smell of grilled fish and corn fills the air.

I fan my face with my white straw hat (beach chic!) and flap the hem of my TripFriendz T-shirt. The itinerary that the algorithm provided is doable if I don’t melt first:

Day 1. Arrive in Tijuana.

Days 2 and 3. Drive down the coast past Rosarito (photo op!) and picturesque places with names like El Descanso and then hang a right to Valle de Guadalupe for wine-tasting and vineyards.

Day 4. Motor past Ensenada.

Days 5 and 6. Cross the peninsula and push on to San Felipe and the Sea of Cortez, where we will engage in various highly photogenic marine activities.

Day 7. Visit a string of tiny, idyllic beach towns with names like Cielito Lindo and Puertecitos.

Days 8 and 9. Playa El Pescador

Day 10. San Juanico. Swimming in the Pacific Ocean.

Day 11. La Paz. Whale sharks. The ocean.

Day 12. Finish line! Los Cabos.

In addition to the summary sheet, I have an hourly breakdown of our schedule.

Lists of scenic spots for photos. Restroom breaks.

I am not peeing behind a cactus or in a bucket camper van toilet.

If we drove nonstop, it would take only twenty-two hours, but we’ll be breaking the drive up with nightly stops. Because fun .

Despite our proximity, there have been limited opportunities over the past week to talk.

He’s sent me a Pinterest board of possible road trip pit stops, but my work hours have made it difficult to chat in person.

Once or twice, I’ve spotted him at the TripFriendz offices.

He and Bob are BFFs now. There have been introductions.

Everyone is very excited about the possibilities of our match.

I’m relieved when he finally puts in an appearance.

Given his love of dramatic entrances, I half expect him to parachute in from a helicopter or rush the beach on a Jet Ski.

The taxi makes an impression, though. It’s a vintage white Cadillac with an enormous orange sombrero stuck to the roof.

Two equally outsize rooster cutouts decorate the front wheel wells, and someone has tied a skull to the grill.

The social media team lunges into action.

Ozzy hops out with a small duffel bag and a much larger camera bag. Despite his presumably brief acquaintance with the driver, he exchanges phone numbers as well as cash. They’ve really hit it off and make plans to meet up the next time Ozzy is in Tijuana.

I’m not sure what to do, so I wait for him to notice me. To give him credit, he does look past the other team members to find me.

“Hey.” He saunters my way. He’s in cargo shorts today, the kind with a million pockets, and a white linen shirt that’s open over yet another T-shirt. This one is the pale green of a ripe avocado. There’s a cactus printed in the center of his chest, above the words Can’t Touch This.

Roz—whose name is far too similar to Rosie’s—stops snapping pictures of Ozzy and says to us, “Meet our van, Berta. I’ll let you two go inside to check it out.”

Ozzy and I both stop, registering the fact that we can’t fit three people inside this tiny, miniscule, far-too-small, mustard-colored van.

Perhaps natural law doesn’t apply. Maybe it’s like that Quidditch World Cup tent that actually is a four-bedroom en suite with a full kitchen and bath. I can manifest it, right?

Nope. When I take a step forward and stick my head inside the wide-open sliding door (there will be zero privacy), I’m practically touching the far wall. But as I check out my new home away from home, I realize I have a bigger problem. Or rather, a smaller one.

There’s only one bed. It’s a mattress on a platform built into the back of the van directly behind the driver’s seat. There are two pillows and far too little real estate.

I have to share that bed with Ozzy, and the last time we did that, we had sex.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.

Or rather, no fucks.

I will give no fucks, receive no fucks, and this will all turn out to be a really vivid stress dream. Clearly, pursuing a promotion at work is not good for me. I should raise llamas. Start an Etsy business. Anything else, really.

I back out of the camper van so fast that I collide with Ozzy. And by collide , I mean my butt grinds against his front. His hands settle on my hips, steadying me.

I cannot road trip with this man. I simply cannot.

Someone from the social media team yells, “Queso!” Everyone around me—including Ozzy—strikes a pose. I am surrounded by grade A influencers and am the odd woman out.

To be fair, this is part of the job. I am going on an all-expenses-paid Mexican vacation for work, and part of that work is making nice for TripFriendz’s social media.

To be even fairer, however, I am not and never have been a photogenic person.

I freeze. Grimace-smile. Wonder if my hair is really stuck to my nose or if it just feels that way.

There’s a momentary pause while the social media team adjusts its expectations downward. I can hear them wondering if they can just shoot me from behind (yes, please) or photoshop Ozzy over me in all of their shots.

Ozzy, of course, is in his element. He jumps up into the van—no hands, he’s such a show-off—and takes “y’all” (apparently, he’s now an honorary Southerner) on a “tour of our sweet ride!”

Ugh. These are going to be the longest ten days of my life.

The cameras on sticks, the GoPro-looking thing, and the ten tons of electronic devices peel off and follow him. He’s magnetic north to their compass needle, black shirt to their cat fur.

Rosie elbows me. “Get in there.”

She’s far too optimistic. The van will explode if we add one more person. Lore has squeezed inside with Ozzy, who is enthusiastically testing out the bed (firm) and then opening and shutting the hatch in the roof (we can stargaze!). They don’t need me.

Rather than add to the traffic jam, I make myself useful and run through our predeparture checklist. I review the itinerary. Make sure we have the printouts of the Google maps because I am not reenacting Exodus and wandering in the Mexican desert for forty years.

Ozzy pops up through the hatch. He balances on the van’s roof. The social media team spills backward, snapping furiously. “I can surf up here while we drive!”

His hair billows as if he’s in a shampoo commercial. His skin is golden, tanned, beautiful. I, on the other hand, am sweaty, dusty, and my pits smell. Against my will, I take a picture of him with my phone. He’s worth remembering.

Eventually, he climbs down and people yell for a group shot. We obediently cluster together and drape ourselves over Berta. Someone lounges on her hood while Ozzy and I crouch-stand inside and pretend to wave. The executive team joins by Zoom because they cannot stand to be left out of the fun.

“Best chief play officer evah!” Lore slaps Ozzy on the back. Ozzy grins and thumbs-ups him.

I tell myself I misheard.

It was a slip of the tongue.

A mistake.

But the executives are beaming and winking from the screen of Lore’s tablet. Everyone is smiling at Ozzy.

Rosie’s head swivels. She’s enraged on my behalf. “Say what? That’s Pandora’s gig.”

“Who’s Pandora?” Lore asks.

“ Pandora . This cranky, prickly person standing next to me.” Ozzy frowns. “The one with the lists and the sticky notes. Pretty sure you’ve met.”