Page 36

Twenty

G ood news: our internet fandom loves our road trip fake dates. They eat it up, come back for more. The TripFriendz server crashed twice last night because so many people signed up for memberships. There are almost a million rows of questionnaire data in the database.

But there’s bad news.

The TripFriendz mothership is a discontented bitch. It demands more. Specifically: surf dates.

San Juanico seems like an ideal spot for Ozzy to hop on a board, but I think I missed an important clue.

We all did. He didn’t bring a board with him.

No longboard, shortboard, fish board, funboard, or any kind of board, in fact.

And while he could rent gear or borrow what he needs from his legion of adoring fans, he doesn’t want to.

Ozzy Wylder has sworn off surfing.

He’s retired.

Beached.

We run around San Juanico eating tacos and shooting content that does not involve being in the water.

It’s not that he has a water phobia so much as he’s adamant that he’s not getting on a board.

Not paddling out. And definitely not riding any of the impressive waves that roll in to shore.

Honestly, I’m not sure it matters as much as our evil corporate overlords think.

Ozzy looks as fabulous as always, lounging on the sand in board shorts.

People eye him, covertly and overtly. His collection of phone numbers grows exponentially.

After I emerge from Berta in my swimsuit, Rosie stages an intervention.

She gives my blue one-piece the evil eye. “You need something Insta worthy.”

I scan my outfit. I’m covered. My suit is aerodynamic, should I decide to take up professional swimming. The straps stay put (which is a miracle, as any woman knows). Even better, it has yet to give me camel toe.

Rosie is unimpressed. As soon as I’ve tossed a dress over my boring swimsuit, she hauls me off to a “cute little beach boutique” that she apparently spotted yesterday from the back of Roz’s motorcycle.

She tows me around the store. I’m the inner tube tied to her motorboat.

It’s easier to just give in and hold my arms out to take the swimsuits she pulls off the racks.

She is disturbingly fond of Brazilian thongs and colors that are cherry red and could put a fire engine to shame.

I don’t try to stop her, but those are never, ever going on my body.

I wonder what Ozzy’s doing. He had a phone call to take, some kind of meeting with Roz’s boss and other TripFriendz people.

I wasn’t invited. He says it’s because they want to yell at him about the lack of surf action.

When I suggested that it might be easier to give them what they want and that he was handing me the competition, he shut down, so I let the topic die.

When the mountain of teeny-tiny apparel in my arms achieves the same size as the monster waves in the bay outside, I decide it’s time to protest.

“I don’t need a new swimsuit! I have one.”

Facts do not sway Rosie. She scans the nearest rack one last time in case she’s missed something. “Work with me. Do you trust me?”

I hold my fingers millimeters apart. “This much.”

It’s a definite maybe.

Rosie points me toward the dressing room. “I can work with that. Get in there and make sure you send Ozzy pictures.”

On my way to the dressing room, I spot a two-piece swimsuit.

Rosie may have rejected it, but I love it.

High-waisted and navy blue, it’s covered with a sea of shooting stars and white moons.

There’s a constellation on the butt and a swirling galaxy on the cups, which are shaped like crescent moons.

I am ready to marry it and have its babies.

Rosie trails along behind me. She’s less impressed with the space suit, and instead waves some butt floss at me. For added fun, the coordinating top is made of white cotton and has red cherries on the nipples.

I’m not sure it’s legal to wear that in public, but I go for the obvious question instead. “Is it lined?”

“Imagine this.” Rosie makes jazz hands, undeterred by simple logic. “You strut out of the water and Ozzy can see your nipples. Your cooter. They’re gift wrapped in this.”

She waves the swimsuit scrap at me like a matador waving his cape at a bull.

I frown. “I feel like this is not a work-appropriate conversation.”

Rosie rolls her eyes. “What’s up with Ozzy, anyhow? Roz was muttering about a ‘Come to Jesus’ meeting today.”

I know the answer to this. “Roz wants him to shoot some surfing content, but he doesn’t want to.”

Rosie is baffled by Ozzy’s reluctance. “He’s in Mexico, doing a victory lap of places where he won competitions.

He looks like a swimsuit model. Sticking him on a board is a win-win for TripFriendz.

He looks good and people will tune in to our channels to see him surf. Why wouldn’t he film that content?”

“He says he’s done with all that.” I dump most of the suits on a chair in front of the dressing room. I’m not wasting my time with those.

Rosie nods. “Because of the wipeout?”

“That’s what he said. Was it that bad?”

“Don’t you google-stalk people?” She’s aghast.

Am I human? Am I an engineer ? “Of course I do. Did I miss something?”

Rosie rolls her eyes. They’re pointed firmly at her parietal lobe. “Yeah. My Star Trek porn fetish. What’s wrong with you? The first thing you do is check the internet for all the details. Look at this.”

She flips the phone around to show me her results. I learn:

Ozzy is the face of a pineapple-flavored lip balm, an energy bar, a board shorts brand, and an eco car.

There is an entire Tumblr devoted to shirtless Ozzy pics.

The last time he lost a surf competition was his last competition.

It’s a miracle Ozzy isn’t dead.

The video of his wipeout at some international, big-deal, don’t-care-what-the-name-of-it-is surf competition is epic.

One minute, he’s balanced on his board inside the barrel of a monster wave, and the next, he’s popping off, somersaulting, a wall of white crashing down over him.

The sportscaster is initially gleeful ( Ozzy Wylder just got DRILLED, folks!

) and then progressively more concerned as Ozzy fails to pop up.

Even surf gods have to breathe, and despite having super lungs, there is a time limit before oxygen deprivation kills you.

Rescue craft buzz around the scene. There are platitudes.

Ostentatious concern for his friends and family watching back home in Hawaii.

Even knowing that he’s walking and talking and breathing air, I’m still terrified.

I wouldn’t so much as get in a bathtub again if I were Ozzy.

He’s under for almost a minute.

His board pops up. It’s been chopped in half. The sportscaster correctly interprets this as a bad sign for Ozzy’s chances.

Thirty seconds pass. Forty.

Ozzy’s head breaks the surface. He sucks in a breath.

The crowd roars—and then another monster wave pounds him under.

It takes two rescue craft to pull him out and back to shore.

I’m not sure he’s conscious from the loose-limbed, awkward way he’s draped across the rescue sled.

It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him not in control of his body.

I chew on it while I go into the dressing room to try on the suit I liked.

Fortunately, I did some preventative laser maintenance before the trip, so at least I don’t have to worry about an emergency wax or battling the bush with a plastic razor in a roadside bathroom.

Do van life ladies just go hairy? Are they Nair women? Spring for laser treatments?

There’s definitely not a whole lot of coverage happening here.

If you add up the square footage of these swimsuits, you might have enough fabric for a very small quilt.

Most of them are auto-rejects, but I set one aside for Rosie.

It’s covered with tiny purple daisies and reminds me of her nail polish art.

I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have the cash to buy it, so I’ll just put it in my heap and get it for her.

After ten minutes spent trying to work out which way the bikini top goes, it’s still unclear to me which part goes on top and which on the bottom. The triangles are interchangeable.

When Rosie bangs on the door to ask if I need help, I react like I’m peeing and someone just banged on the door. My stress dreams tonight will be epic.

“Just a moment!” The view in the mirror isn’t promising.

My right boob’s hanging out the bottom, and I’ve got major side boob happening, too.

Despite the vampiric white of my stomach, I’m rocking a farmer’s tan from the van time.

My legs are brown, but my feet are white, and my star-print underpants squeeze out from underneath the swimsuit. There’s a lot to take in.

Eventually, I give up, take everything off (including my underpants—don’t judge me), put the bottoms back on, and yelp for Rosie to come and tie me up.

She awards me a wolf whistle. “Pandora Fyffe, you look good in a swimsuit!”

I’ll take it. “Can you help me with the top?”

I cup my boobs in their new home while Rosie fusses around with the ties.

She cinches, pinches, loosens a strap here, tightens one there.

NASA rocket launches take less time. I’m starting to get bored, so I take a photo.

It looks like we’re either doing some weird version of shibari or she’s feeling me up.

I send it to Ozzy anyhow with the comment: Could use a hand here.

Rosie finishes tying me up before Ozzy manages to respond. He’s definitely trying though because I can see his texting bubbles.

“Wow.” Rosie takes a step back. “Ta-da!”

I confront myself in the mirror. “It could be worse.”

Rosie isn’t having it. “You look awesome. Say it back to me.”

“I look awesome,” I dutifully parrot. Rosie won’t give up until I do it, so it’s better to give in so we can move on.