Page 32

Seventeen

“D octor Wylder,” I say.

“Yes, Ms. Fyffe?”

“I really think it’s time you let me out of bed.”

“My bill will be astronomical.” He sounds thoughtful. “You may have to sacrifice that kidney after all.”

I glower at the ocean. It’s been the longest two days ever.

Which makes no sense because I only remember about thirty-six hours, which leaves twelve unaccounted for.

I’m sure pictures will surface, or blackmail will ensue.

And it’s not like I don’t enjoy alone time—it’s just that the van is small, the world is big, and Ozzy hovers like a mother hen.

I have no idea why I decided that we should come back here and torture ourselves with poor ventilation and no leg room. But I did. Here we are.

Somehow, he’s convinced the others to mostly stay away.

They came once, muttering about schedules and lost opportunities, and he shooed them away.

The only living creature I’ve seen since was a weird racoon-like critter that appears to be nocturnal.

Last night he brought his missus, and I fed them bananas.

Then there are the birds, waves, and the plethora of fishing boats carrying loads of blue shrimp that I will never, ever eat again.

It’s downright pastoral, the kind of thing someone takes a picture of and then you see it blown up to nightmarish proportions at a travel convention with the words Visit Authentic México!

and then a horde of North American tourists will descend like locusts, and nothing will ever be the same.

A small eternity passes while I consider the dangers of mass tourism.

“Hey, Oz,” I say.

“What?” He huffs. I’m under his skin now. He can’t get me out. Still, he pretends intense interest in the unfamiliar surfboard he’s fixing.

“I’ve never spent two days in bed before. I don’t think it’s necessary.”

He sets the board down and looks up. He’s got all his stuff spread out on the floor beside the bed.

Partly because the van is small, but mostly it’s so he can annoy me and prevent me from sneaking out of bed.

Apparently heatstroke is debilitating and I am supposed to rest up.

The built-in table has camouflaged itself like a cuttlefish to match the small mountain of masking tape, fiberglass cloths, wax, knives, acetone, paint brushes and who knows what else. He’s moonlighting as a surf shop.

“I should have taken you to the hospital.”

Because I’m sure my nonexistent health insurance works in Mexico.

I put that thought in time-out with other unpleasant thoughts. Thoughts like: the Valley of the Giants tried to kill me, and I may be terrified of giant cacti for the rest of my mortal life. Or: Ozzy saved me. I probably owe him for that.

Instead, I say, “I’m bored. This is unproductive. I’m so behind.”

“Live in the moment, please.”

I make a face. “Also, I stink. I need a shower. My laptop. The Wi-Fi password.”

“You’re beautiful.” He says this like it’s a fact: Australia is wider than the moon, bananas are radioactive, Pandora Fyffe is beautiful.

“You have a thing for dirty women?”

That came out wrong.

He benevolently refrains from making a sex pun and instead leans against the bed, tipping his head back. Upside-down Ozzy is my favorite. “I thought we’d established that I like you.”

I have follow-up questions. What kind of like ? To what degree? Is this the pleasant like you have for the friendly barista who makes your coffee when you’re barely civilized and squinty-eyed with fatigue? A thumbs-up on a social media post? Or something else.

I say none of this. Instead, I go with, “You’re holding me hostage.”

“I’m insisting you recuperate.”

“You’re hovering.” When upside-down Ozzy frowns, it looks like a smile. “Go for a walk. Out. Go surf.”

He arches a brow. It’s a teeny-tiny smile. “San Felipe has no waves.”

I point to the surfboard. It’s evidence. “What’s that?”

“Optimism.” He shifts upright and folds his arms on the side of the bed. He rests his chin on my leg. “It belongs to the waiter’s kid.”

“I need my laptop back.” I hold my hands out.

“You shouldn’t work. You’re still recovering. I think we should—”

I cut him off. “I’m going to play a game. There will be zero productivity.”

He groans but pulls my laptop out. I make a note of where he stashed it.

He watches suspiciously while I boot it up and launch Crystal Cluster Cosmos.

The opening screens flash by: the space port, my ship, the hundreds of galaxies to explore.

I’ve logged thousands of hours. In no time at all, I’m maneuvering my spaceship out of the docking bay and into space.

Free. Free, free, free, free.

I investigate an asteroid belt. Find some purple stones. Ozzy finishes his repairs and pads outside to lean the refurbished surfboard against the van. Miguel ángel Junior will collect it later.

When Ozzy returns, the van seems three sizes smaller, a minefield of accidental touches, leg brushes, hip checks. His things are scattered everywhere. A hair tie. One of his leather bracelets. A flip-flop that has run away from home. He makes himself comfortable, curling up beside me on the bed.

“What are you playing?”

“A game.”

I find a diamond. Corundum. A green stone that sparkles in the starlight. I’ve forgotten its name, but it’s lovely.

“Tell me more.”

We look at each other. I find the courage to look at him. “You don’t think it’s childish?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize for doing what you love.”

I share another secret with him. “I was playing this game the night we met.”

“We met in outer space?” He’s delighted.

“We did. Should I have asked you out for a romantic date? A plate of spaghetti, red wine, an Italian trattoria with wailing violins?”

He’s behind me on the bed. We melt together. Our hips touch, our legs brush. His shoulders are an Ozzy-shaped armchair built just for me. I can see his smile out of the corner of my eye.

“Tell me about the game.”

I haven’t explained it to anyone in years. It lives online, a ghost ship that only a few people know about. I maintain its code, keep it on life support.

“You get a spaceship.” I don’t know where to start.

“You fly it around outer space, exploring for space gems. The easy ones are on the surface, but some of them are hidden. You have to look in the crevasses, dig deep. Each one’s unique.

I programmed millions into this universe, but sometimes I put them back after I find them so someone else can find them, too.

I wrote it when I was a teenager. There’s no winner or loser.

” I have undressed completely in front of Ozzy.

I’m naked. I’m not sure I like it. “No points. Probably no point.”

He squeezes me gently. “You love it.”

“I do.”

I might love you, too. The thought drifts through my head. A solar burst. A molecular cloud, gasses and dust, that has the potential to become a new star.

His eyes are the color of topaz. “Can we play together? Can I be in charge of mapmaking?”

“Maybe.” I’d like to try this.

I angle the laptop so he can see the screen. The sound of the waves is filling the van, and cuddly Ozzy is here again.

He rests his chin on my shoulder. If my space trips usually take only minutes, tonight I want to drag it out.

Slow down time. When we discover a sparkling blue gem in the crevasse of an unfamiliar asteroid, he crows.

He high-fives me when we add an emerald to our cache.

Smacks a kiss on my cheek because the universe is just so beautiful.

It seems so easy to turn my face into that kiss. Take it deeper.

I can see his mouth forming the words. They whisper against my skin. “Ask me, Pandora. Ask me for what you want.”

I am such a chicken.

I maneuver the spaceship through an asteroid belt. “You really think I’m beautiful?”

His yes is slurred, barely a whisper. He’s asleep when I look down.

I don’t want to hate him.

I don’t hate him at all.