Page 30

Sixteen

R oz throws up her hands. “You ditched us.”

“We detoured.”

Ozzy straddles the bench, his hands tapping out an upbeat rhythm on his thighs. He’s switched to a pair of loose khaki chinos. A white T-shirt hugs his chest the way I secretly want to.

Roz groans. “We had a schedule .”

“Uh-huh.”

“And so, you wandered off and took pictures of…giant cactuses?”

“Cacti,” I mutter. “Cardón.”

The drive to San Felipe lasted two eternities and a half, as our detour to visit oversize succulents took us thirty kilometers in the opposite direction.

In my journal, I’ll describe it as hot, bumpy, and nauseating and never mind that when the road turned curvy, Ozzy’s arm appeared around my shoulders, anchoring me.

Now, predictably, I’m slumped in exhaustion at a cantina table at the very tip of the Sea of Cortez.

Mountains pepper the horizon, and there’s a strip of creamy sand and mud because the tide is out.

Salt scents the air. And fish. Crustaceans.

Crabs. Decapods. There’s no mistaking the distinct aroma of seafood. My stomach twitches.

Roz discovers the reel of Ozzy strutting like the desert’s his runway. I may be yelling WORK IT, BABY because I’m the supportive kind of travel buddy. Roz closes her eyes briefly.

I blame Ozzy. He started it.

“We were supposed to ride ATVs,” she accuses. “And fish. I had everything booked.”

“Van life is about going off grid,” Ozzy counters. “Living in the moment. Exploring. Having fun.”

“And yet everyone on the internet thinks you’re off making the van rock,” she counters right back. “Banging. Hooking up. Sometimes they even think you’re doing it together.”

“Why is everyone so interested in my sex life?” Ozzy grumbles.

Objectively speaking, he is Beauty in this non-relationship, and I am Beast. He’s good-looking, takes regular showers, and pays attention in bed. Hooking up would be fun, but, as I don’t want to join his fan club, there will continue to be his and her sides in the van.

Thom considers it. “If they bang, it could be great for numbers.”

Roz answers too quickly to not have already thought about it.

“It could go either way. Maybe people love a travel romance, an everyday girl falling for a hot athlete—or maybe they’re jealous or judgy or decide that TripFriendz is really in the dating app business, and then all our launch plans will go out the window and we’ll have to find new partners and rebrand the website. ”

My inner engineer barely suppresses a full-body shudder. “We’re just driving around together.”

“In a van with a bed. You could pull over on the side of the road at any time and do it.” Thom decorates the map in front of him with a NSFW doodle.

Rosie returns from the bar with a bucket of ice-cold Coronas and limes. “Who’s having road sex?”

Everyone looks at me and Ozzy.

“That’s an HR violation.”

“Does TripFriendz prohibit workplace fraternization?”

“You could step in now,” I hiss at Ozzy.

He shrugs. “We didn’t have sex today.”

Strictly speaking: true.

“How about yesterday?” Roz looks suspicious.

“No.”

Rosie looks like keeping my secret is killing her. “Let’s move this along,” I suggest. Then with heroic maturity, I say, “Ozzy’s content turned out great.”

Phones are exchanged. Captions are suggested. Hashtags. Magic incantations. Lore edits a reel that will likely win an Oscar. There’s the barest niggle of an ache in my head, a gentle pounding.

I caption the picture where my thumb ended up over Ozzy’s face: Insert travel buddy here . I doodle a smiley face on my thumb.

Roz still looks skeptical. She’s also my sunburn twin. We both have bright red noses. I frame our faces between my fingers and snap an imaginary photo. Caption : Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer?

The evening drags on. We’re on hour two thousand when a waiter delivers a butter-drenched dinner of octopus and spicy aguachile and Rosie returns from yet another trip to the bar.

She has made an important discovery. “If you can eat all the peppers, you get a free T-shirt!”

This prompts the immediate delivery of an entire flight of spicy peppers to our table. The pièce de résistance is a mescal-soaked habanero. It’s a stupid challenge and Roz loves it.

“We’ll have Pandora and Ozzy go against each other!”

She’s decided to capitalize on our hatred for each other. We are two bucks, horns locked, vying for supremacy.

Ozzy groans. “Do we get a vomit bucket?”

“Does this look like a Roman banquet to you?” Roz shoves a plate of peppers in front of him. He looks unconvinced.

I stare at my own plate, trying to fast-forward the night. This is the second worst idea, ever. Only hooking up with Ozzy was worse.

He pokes at the peppers, investigating. Bile rises in my throat. I’m going to lose. The seagulls wheel hopefully overhead. The sun is a fiery ball of angry orange that refuses to go down.

A waiter by the name of Miguel ángel demonstrates how to eat the pepper. He urges us to dig in.

“Can’t do it, man.” Ozzy is politely regretful.

It turns out that Ozzy, Mr. Perfect, cannot handle spice. His eyes will run, his face turn red. He demonstrates this for us with remarkable goodwill by licking a pepper. Somehow, he makes this look sexy rather than stupid. Neighboring diners look over. Catcall.

Roz face-palms. “We cannot use this,” she mutters. Ozzy unleashed is rated R.

She comes up with a new plan. “Engineers against socials. Ozzy can be on your team, Pandora.”

Naturally, I’m doomed to lose. Or to achieve Pyrrhic victory. I’ve got Rosie, Ozzy, and the tech guy. Ozzy mumbles, “Dear God, send help, pleasethankyouamen,” and hums a bar of “Amazing Grace” before voting himself in as our pit crew.

The first man into the breach lasts one bite. Rosie makes it three. Thom is chewing with pained deliberation, Roz urging him on.

I am a desiccated corpse. Something once human but left out in the desert. Sweat beads my brow. Not a few dewy drops but the steady drip of a faucet. My sunglasses have left a white mask around my eyes. I am a rabid racoon.

Rosie shoves the plate toward me. “Win it for us, Pandora!”

She is counting on me.

Ozzy drops down behind me. His thighs bracket mine as I sag against him, gathering my thoughts. It’s harder than it should be because parts of Ozzy—specifically, his dick—are rooting for me.

“You’ve got this, Panda.” He breathes the words into my ear.

Across the table, Roz grabs her pepper. I fist mine. We’re two Wild West gunwomen going mano a mano. We nod to each other. Thom smacks the table with his palm. “Go!”

Roz is quick, but I’m faster still. The first bite is bitter and grassy. I try to swallow without tasting but there’s a wildfire rampaging across my taste buds. The smoky flavor of the mescal is not enough to put out the flames.

Ozzy’s arms are around me, supporting me. “You’ve got this,” Rosie screams. She believes in me, too.

I’m a porn star, moaning. I work the pepper in my mouth. I swallow.

Roz taps out. She’s done. Out for the count.

Rosie raises my hand in victory. Our plate is empty.

“Are you okay, Panda?” Ozzy shields me from the others. His hand cups the back of my neck, petting the skin there.

“I’m great.” The words sound like the croaking of a frog.

“This is a stupid game,” Ozzy snaps to our audience. “What are we, twelve? She’s really sick.”

Roz mutters fiercely. Thom is googling on his phone. Someone—Ozzy—argues with whatever the group has decided. I have stopped processing language—I speak only Misery now.

I force myself upright. Dig an elbow into his rib cage because I shouldn’t be the sole sufferer. Smile around the table. Look at me! I’m so much fun!

The world whirls, mocking me. It’s a Tilt-A-Whirl of fiery red sky, ocean, sand, shrimp. I’m never eating again. I stagger away and huddle beneath a palm tree. I’m a cat hiding beneath the bed in pain. A hedgehog bristling its spines.

Ozzy won’t leave me alone. “You look awful,” he tells me, handing me my winning T-shirt.

“We can’t all be pretty boys.”

“Are you sick?”

“Doesn’t matter.” I focus on the most important thing. “We won.”

His voice sounds like sunshine when he says, “You won, Panda.”

“Woo-hoo.” I fist pump feebly. Attempt to sing “We Are the Champions,” but the words get stuck in my throat. They’re all mixed up with pepper and mescal. Maybe I’m allergic to them, too. Ozzy’s forehead is crinkled into an adorable little pucker.

“You’re so cute.” I have no filter. “So beautiful. Should we bang?”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“What would you do to get our job?” I really want to know, but the world tilts again. He tucks me against his side. I pinch him. “You need to tell me. I need intel.”

“The job’s not what matters here.”

We both pretend he doesn’t help me stagger to the van. He slides the door open for me like a gentleman. He pulls the covers back on the bed, and I throw myself onto the mattress. In the window’s reflection, I’m undone, my hair wild, my face flushed a sickly red.

Ozzy hands me a bottle of cold water, and I pass out.

“Hey. Panda. Panda? Panda?”

“Whassup?” I slur. It must be midnight. Eternity o’clock. I should be… I should… Shudders rack my body.

“We went viral!” He sounds excited. Must be nice. I am nice and horizontal. “We broke the internet with our Surfer, Shark, Wave video!”

Footsteps come closer. He’s let a herd of elephants into the van. “Panda?”

He places a cool, rough hand on my hot forehead. It feels so good. I porn-moan.

“Hey, Panda.” His voice is softer, concerned. He removes his hand, and I want to cry. “I’ve gotcha.”

It’s so black that I must be in space. It’s also hot. So very, very hot. Maybe my rocket ship has broken up on entry? I’m burning up. Send help.

Mission control is hailing me: Panda. Panda. PANDORA.

“Whassup?” My mouth is more dried out than the space food NASA serves its astronauts. All the water has evaporated from my body, sucked into the atmosphere.

Someone strokes my forehead. “Open your eyes for me.”

I mumble, turning into those delicious fingers.