Page 34

Nineteen

W hen we pull off the road in San Juanico, I sneak into the first bathroom I spot for a bird bath.

The town is dry and dusty, but I fill the sink with water nevertheless and wash my pits, my stomach, take care of my southern regions.

Do multiple shots of mouthwash. Fish tacos and ceviche are awesome until it’s kissing time.

And my plans for tonight involve a whole lot of kissing Ozzy.

When I come out, he’s leaning against the van staring at the ocean.

He must have eyes in the back of his head because he holds out a hand for me, and I take it.

He does that thing I can never get enough of, where he pulls me into his side, and I feel wrapped up in him.

He’s tense, though, his fingers tapping out an anxious message where they rest on my shoulder.

My stomach tightens unpleasantly and not because of too much lunchtime ceviche, either.

There’s trouble brewing in paradise. Ozzy’s such a happy guy, but today he’s morose.

I want his smiles and the delight he radiates back, but he’s switched off.

We stand and watch the waves come in and go back out again, not saying anything.

I cannot leave him alone. “Everything okay?”

“Great!”

He shrugs, though. He’s barefoot, wearing a pair of vibrant blue board shorts and a battered T-shirt.

The ocean breeze molds the material to his torso, teasing me with his hard body.

The sun is out, the seabirds are dive-bombing someone’s picnic on the beach below us, I’m relatively clean, and yet I want more.

I have an Ozzy addiction. I’m the newest member of the surf bunny club.

I try again. “Have you surfed here?”

“Yeah.” This time, his smile is rueful. “It’s a dream spot, you know?

Big swells or gentle rollers if you’re new to the sport.

Water’s warm, and you can just ride forever if the swell’s good.

Once upon a time, not too many people knew about it, either.

It used to be harder to get here, the bridge would be out, the potholes in the road would just eat up your ride.

It made getting here even more special.”

I’m almost positive that he misses it. That he would rewind time if he could.

Not that any of us can. Not yet. That would be a hell of a software app, though.

But then I’d spend my time going backward instead of forward.

I’d focus on redoing those years when I made everyone around me miserable, and then I’d be missing out on now.

The way Ozzy shifts, leaning into the breeze, looking down at the water like a dog that’s shut up inside on the best day of summer, I think he might want to go back for some reasons of his own.

And of course, we sort of have gone back in time. My stupid algorithm has decided that his perfect trip is one that drives down memory lane in a camper van with a horde of people photographing his every blink. I puff out my cheeks and take stock. There’s the ocean. Ozzy.

Me.

“Was there a secret knock to get in? Some kind of map written in invisible ink that you had to be a member of the tribe to decode?”

He turns his head. I’m wearing a tank top and a pair of patchwork harem pants I bought at a consignment store in San Francisco.

The colors are eye-popping, bordering on garish.

If I were a bird, my plumage would score me a mate in minutes.

It’s miles away from the neutral T-shirts, blue jeans, and ballet flats I wear into the office; those clothes are designed to make me blend in and to look like one of the guys.

Being a female software engineer is a balancing act between fitting in and not calling attention to the fact that I’m a girl.

“I had a map,” he tells me. “You’d have loved it. Very reusable and sustainable. Some guy I met outside of Tijuana drew it on an empty fast-food bag.”

“And you just followed it.” That sounds like Ozzy. Here’s a freehand drawing that may or may not be topographically accurate, but follow it! I’m sure he didn’t know this Some Guy. He just trusted his instincts and then went on an adventure.

“Of course.” His gaze follows a surfer on a peacock-colored longboard on the bay.

When the board flips and the guy goes under, he flinches.

He’s concerned. “It was magical. I came down in a beat-to-hell Jeep with my boards strapped to the top. Slept in a tent, rolled out of bed, checked the surf conditions, and then went out. Lived on tacos and beer. And then I won a small local contest. It was the first time that I knew I could really do this.”

He doesn’t elaborate on what this is, but I think I know. When I built a rocket ship out of a text file editor and Java classes and flew it into space, I realized I’d stumbled onto something special. I could do this and not everyone could.

“How old were you?” I ask.

“Seventeen.” He shrugs. Out in the bay, the fallen surfer has popped up and is paddling back out to the break. Ozzy breathes a sigh…of relief?

“And your family just let you road-trip on your own in Baja California?” Mine gave me the Stranger Danger talk before I so much as went to the grocery store on my own. Of course, they also reminded me to slow down, check myself, and vent my frustrations on the weight set in the garage.

“They’re all athletes. In their minds, you go all in on your chosen sport and do whatever it takes to make it to the top. Point is, I said I wanted to surf, so they expected me to surf.”

“You were seventeen ,” I say. “Since when do we let unaccompanied minors run around outside the country? Usually, we limit that shit to shopping malls.”

“They saw it differently. And I liked being on my own, going after what I wanted. They weren’t forcing me into the water.

” Okay, so he obviously survived a felonious lack of supervision, but I’m starting to pick up on an uncomfortable suspicion.

I want to poke at this, ask a billion and one invasive questions, diagram him on my whiteboard—but I also understand that’s a level of interest most people would prefer me to keep to myself.

“And they just thought you’d keep doing that for…

what? Forever?” I tuck my hair behind my ears.

I need a hair tie. Braids. A pair of scissors.

I’m a lurker staring out at the world through a mane of unconditioned hair.

Ozzy’s eyes follow my fingers, as if I’m more interesting than checking out the surf conditions.

There’s something about his interest, even if it must be transitory, that makes me feel like I’m the center of the universe, like I’m the sun to his planet and we could keep this up for at least a billion years before one of us goes supernova.

“So you do your thing, you win, and then when you’ve been hit one too many times or are too badly torn up, you pick out a sports-adjacent career and go do that.

That’s the next level in your game.” The corners of his mouth twitch.

“There are big bonus points if that next level comes with trophy opportunities.”

“So no charitable work? You’re not going to start a nonprofit and toil away in emotionally rewarding but invisible obscurity?”

He gives me a look.

Oh.

“Right,” I sigh. “You can give back, but you need to be Mother Teresa 2.0 so you, too, can be canonized by a pope and win a Nobel Prize.”

He nods. “Sort of, yeah.”

“Wow. Thanksgiving dinner must be fun at your house.”

“You can’t imagine.” He squeezes me a little closer. “You should come this year. You can be my wingwoman.”

I scowl at the beach. Unless the world comes to an end and we’re trapped in the Sonoran Desert by a ravening horde of zombies, we’ll both be back to real life.

November is months away. I’ll be a blip in his memory by then, that girl I banged in a camper van in Mexico . Or Pandora’s brush with celebrity sex .

“Or not,” he says lightly. He turns away from the ocean, tugging lightly on my wrist. “Come on. It’s Taco Tuesday.”

It’s Wednesday, but I don’t correct him. Tacos are the best, and I’m in over my head emotionally here. I’ll take the fishy lifeline.

We wander up the beach until we come to a taco stand that’s part shack, part palapa, and more than part collapsed.

I decide it’s structurally sound enough for an in-and-out foray and follow Ozzy inside.

I’m hoping it’s the kind of place with picture-based menus.

Should have paid more attention in Spanish class, huh, Pandora?

As soon as we set foot inside, however, a middle-aged lady in a blue apron and a ball cap explodes out of the kitchen.

She’s hollering, crying, waving her hands.

Ozzy hollers and waves right back, sweeping her off her feet and swinging her around in a bear hug.

Apparently, he’s taken me to his long-lost BFF’s taco pop-up.

He introduces me to Daniela, and I smile awkwardly and trot out my baby Spanish. “ Cómo estás? Mi nombre es Pandora .”

How are you? I’m Pandora. I should have planned for this.

It’s good enough, though. Daniela doesn’t care that I sound like I’m reading Spanish off my phone (badly).

She just wants to hug Ozzy and listen to his stories about our van life while she cooks up hot, fried fish and piles it all into plastic baskets along with crema, slices of creamy avocado, and shredded cabbage.

Ozzy sneaks behind the counter to pull icy cold Jarritos out of the cooler.

They come in flavors I’ve never seen before: mango, watermelon, a pink one that turns out to be guava. An earthy brown one that is tamarind.