So I flung my arms around his neck and I kissed him.
And he kissed me back.
And my lips exploded in pain.
“Ow!” I jerked back.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, it’s just this stupid...my lips are still swollen from this cheap lip gloss.”
He grimaced. “Sorry.”
No, I was the sorry one. This ugly Kissy Face lip gloss had ruined my first kiss with Trey.
Fortunately, he salvaged the moment, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close, my back against his chest so we were both facing the horizon. “See? It’s beautiful out here. Nothing but us and the waves.”
“Yeah. Now I understand what you meant when you said this is a spiritual experience.”
There was nothing to see but shades of blue, nothing to hear but the splash of the water and the faint whisper of Trey’s breath behind me. It felt like I’d slipped into an alternate universe, one without fear or doubt, where it was normal to spend a Friday floating in the ocean, wrapped in the arms of a handsome pro surfer.
It wasn’t an alternate universe, though. It was this universe, the same one I’d inhabited my entire life. Except now, the universe was listening to me, delivering my deepest desires. I had changed my thoughts, and the energy around me changed, as well.
Faking it was really starting to pay off.
Chapter 13
Trey and I swam around until early afternoon. It felt like an eternity and a split second all at the same time. I even worked up the courage to let go of him and float independently for a while. Though honestly, it felt much better when we were in contact, not so much for safety reasons as for the pure intimacy of his touch.
His strong hands supported me in a way that was both gentle and sturdy, and each time his fingers grazed my skin, I felt it all the way through to my bones. It had been so long since I’d been touched like that. Toward the end of our relationship, Rob was barely touching me at all. Our sex life was pathetic, and we never cuddled or held hands or exchanged any sort of intimate physical contact, either. We slept in the same bed, inches apart, facing opposite walls. It was awful. Thinking back on it now, I couldn’t believe we’d stayed together as long as we had.
Every time Rob invaded my thoughts, I shoved them away as quickly as possible, hearing Natasha’s voice in my head. Don’t look back, because that’s not where you’re going. Instead, I chose to focus fully on the here and now, on the sensation of the water surrounding my body and the presence of a guy who actually cheered on my victories, as opposed to laughing at my failures.
When our fingertips shriveled like raisins, we decided it was as good a time as any to swim to shore. Trey taught me how to catch a wave and ride it on my belly. I fumbled the first few, but quickly adjusted, and felt like Supergirl flying back to dry land.
As we toweled off, my stomach grumbled again. Wasn’t there some way to shut this thing off?
Trey smiled. “Should we hit up our spot for lunch?”
I loved that we already had a spot that was ours. “You bet.”
We walked over to Roberto’s and claimed the same bench we had the week before—I liked to think of it as our bench. While Trey went inside to order burritos, I sat down and pulled my phone from my bag, scrolling through my Instagram notifications to see what I’d missed. There’d only been a few new likes since this morning, so I scrolled back further to the notifications I’d already seen.
Sometimes (okay, a lot of the time) I liked to reread older comments that were particularly positive. Even though I didn’t know any of the people—or in some cases, brands—that left these notes of encouragement, I found them satisfying, nonetheless. Getting validation from complete strangers on the internet was like taking a hit of some wonderful drug.
The most recent positive comments were on my Kissy Face post. People wrote things like, “You are so gorgeous! xo ” and “Totally obsessed with this look on you, girl.” They were instant self-esteem boosters. I couldn’t get enough.
Trey returned with our burritos, individually wrapped in paper, along with two Cokes (the good kind from Mexico with real sugar) and a huge stack of napkins. I thanked him, then split mine open to reveal the meaty, cheesy, guacamole-covered goodness within. It looked so beautiful, so delectable, only one thought sprang to mind. This is totally Instagrammable.
Maybe if I posted a photo of it to my feed, I could score some free meals at Roberto’s. I was a local nano-influencer, after all.
As I arranged the burrito artfully on a napkin, Trey bit into his and said, “You did so great today. You were a natural out there.”
“Thanks,” I said, my eyes on the burrito, trying to figure out the best way to angle it for the photo. I could shoot it head-on or stack the two halves crosswise. Maybe I could hold it with one hand and take a picture with the other.
“Next time we’ll need to get you on a board.”
“I doubt I’ll be able to stand, but I’ll definitely give it a shot.” I held up the burrito, trying to frame it so the Roberto’s storefront appeared in the background. This was good. Original, A+ content.
As soon as I picked up my phone and aimed the camera at my hand, Trey squinted. “Please don’t tell me you’re taking a photo of your burrito to post on Instagram.”
My cheeks burned. Part of me was embarrassed for being called out. Another part of me was furious, also for being called out. What did it matter to him if I was posting my burrito on Instagram? This was my personal social media narrative.
“Yes, I was planning on it,” I said, almost defiantly. I’d spent enough time with a man who mocked me in subtle yet cutting ways. I wasn’t about to deal with that again.
He wiped his lips with a napkin and cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be left out of it.”
“Okay. I wasn’t planning on tagging you in it or anything. So, you know...” The second half of that sentence remained unspoken, but clearly would’ve been something along the lines of, it’s none of your business.
“You couldn’t tag me in it, anyway. I deleted all my social once I left the tour.”
Giant red warning flags fluttered inside my head. There was really only one reason a quasi-famous person would delete all their social media accounts: a scandal. No wonder he looked panic-stricken when he thought I’d googled him.
I was totally going to google him when I got home.
“Why?” I asked, expecting some rehearsed, self-important answer about the inauthenticity of Instagram and the dearth of meaningful, in-person connection.
“There were a bunch of reasons,” he said. “But the biggest one was because my ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend kept popping up in my feed, and every time I saw them together it was like ripping open a wound, over and over again.”
“Oh.” That was not the answer I was expecting. “Bad breakup?”
“You could say that. Her new boyfriend is the guy she cheated on me with for the last six months of our relationship.”
Yikes. “I’m sorry.”
“It was for the best. We were wrong for each other.” He chewed thoughtfully with a sad droop to his eyes, then swallowed. “Anyway, I unfollowed them both, but we have a bunch of mutual friends, so it was impossible to escape them. It seemed like they were in the background of every picture. Of course, I’m sure it wasn’t a coincidence, Shayla knows how to make sure she’s seen. Her entire life revolves around how many Instagram followers she has.”
There was a bitter edge to his voice. At least now I understood where his Instagram issues stemmed from.
“You said she was a model, right?”
“Model, influencer, shill, whatever you wanna call it. Anyway, I needed a clean break from her—from that whole group of people, honestly—so I deleted my accounts. Instagram, Twitter, Facebook—it’s all gone. It’s be
en nice, actually. I haven’t thought much about her...or him...until now.”
He stared off into the distance, his lower lip jutting out ever so slightly. I recognized the hurt in his eyes, the pain of betrayal and the grief of getting over someone who may have never really loved you in the first place. It was all so familiar to me.
“But that has nothing to do with you,” he said. “You do you. Instagram your burrito, if that’s what makes you happy.”
“It’s not some private matter. It’s just a burrito,” I said, and to make him feel more at ease, I added, “I’m not some famous influencer or anything.”
He nodded. “Right. Like I said, I just want to keep my name and my face off social media. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind. And honestly, this doesn’t need to happen now.” I darkened my phone screen and tossed it into my purse, then finally dug into my lunch, taking delicate bites to avoid irritating the sensitive skin around my mouth. “So, you really think I’m ready for a surf lesson?”
“I think you’re ready, but the question is, do you think you’re ready? As far as I saw today, you were confident and—”
“Yo, are you Trey Cantu?”
Out of nowhere, a gaggle of teenage boys descended on Trey. Under his breath, he murmured, “Ah, fuck,” then plastered on a painfully insincere smile and said, “Hey, guys.”
“So cool that you’re here, man,” one kid said, clapping him on the shoulder as if they were old friends. “I saw the posters at SurfRack and was hoping to run into you.”
“Yep. Here I am.” He looked like he wanted to crawl under the table and hide until these kids were gone. I silently ate my burrito while they prattled on.
“Dude, what happened with Zander in Sydney was bullshit.”
“Yeah, man, you were robbed.”
“You think you’ll be back in for Pipe Masters?”
Trey turned bright pink as his eyes darted from the kids to the ground to me and back. “Uh...not sure.”
An awkward silence ensued, then the guys looked at each other and said, “Well, it was awesome meeting you.”
“And we’re pulling for you, man.”
One guy whipped out his phone and switched on the camera. “Do you think we could get a pic?”
The table trembled as Trey’s knee bounced up and down. He didn’t respond at first, and I could tell he was thinking about which social media outlet this selfie would end up on. Finally, he said, “You know what, guys? I really appreciate your support, but I’m not comfortable taking a photo right now.”
All three of their mouths fell open in unison, totally shocked that anyone would turn down a photo op. It would’ve been hilarious if the vibe wasn’t so tense.
“Cool, yeah.” The guy put his phone back in his pocket. “Well, good luck with everything.”
They took off down Mission Boulevard with their heads huddled together, most likely whispering about what the hell Trey Cantu’s problem was. For his part, Trey regarded the remainder of his burrito with disgust before carelessly tossing it onto a napkin.
The whole thing was so uncomfortable, I didn’t know what to say. So I said nothing and tucked into my food with renewed zeal, while a thousand questions ran through my head: What happened in Sydney? Who was Zander? And why was Trey robbed?
“That was awkward,” Trey said, scrubbing a hand through his salty hair. “Sorry.”
I waved away his apology. “You have nothing to be sorry for. They were just excited to see you. I told you, you’re famous.”
He grunted. “I can’t believe SurfRack made those stupid posters. I mean, I get it, the advertising brings in business. But I told them I wanted to be low-key about it.”
“You can’t really blame them for using your celebrity status to attract customers, though.”
“No, I guess not.” He took a long swig from his Coke. “I think I’m just still feeling burned by Shayla. She always used her relationship with me to score brand partnerships and stuff. Now that she’s with Zander, though, I’m sure she’s getting twice as much work out of it.”
Oh, boy. We were deep in the ex-files. If Trey was still pining over Shayla, perhaps it was a bad idea to keep spending time with him. I wasn’t interested in being his rebound. “When did you guys break up?”
“Five months ago.” He shook his head. “I’m over her completely, I’m just mad at myself for staying with her for so long. We were wrong for each other from the start.”
“I know what you mean. I wasted three years of my life with a part-time dispensary clerk who spent most of his waking hours baked out of his mind. Then, seven months ago, he dumped me out of the blue to go trip his face off with some psychedelic healer in the Amazon rainforest.”
Trey gave a great chuckle of disbelief but abruptly stopped himself. “I’m sorry to laugh, it’s just...who does that?”
“It’s okay to laugh. I’m finally at the point where I can laugh about it, too.” As soon as I said that, I felt it was true. Rob was no longer a negative force in my life. He was completely irrelevant, and I was completely over him. Now he was nothing more than an extended anecdote from my past. A joke.
We bused our table and walked back home, talking about things other than our exes. Positive, happy things, like our mutual love of Jordan Peele movies and the upcoming Pacific Beach Street Fair. As we turned onto Beryl Street, I shifted my purse from one arm to the other and felt my phone buzzing inside. When I pulled it out, Natasha’s name flashed on the screen, so I sent it to voice mail, as usual.
While debating who served the best fish taco in town—I said PB Shore Club, Trey said PB Fish Shop—Natasha called again. Assuming this was another one of her nonemergencies, I declined it, and almost immediately, she sent me a text.
Please call me, Bree. Super urgent.
If Natasha was sending texts, there was definitely something wrong. I interrupted Trey in the middle of his comparative taco analysis to say, “I’m really sorry, but I think my sister has some sort of emergency. I need to call her.”
“Of course. I hope everything’s okay.”
I shrugged and hit the call button, silently hoping everything was okay, too.
Natasha answered before the first ring completed its chime, sounding breathless. “Thank God you called. Are you free tonight?”
“Yes, why, what’s wrong?”
“Tonight’s the San Diego Orthodontists Gala in La Jolla, but our replacement sitter just canceled at the last minute.”
“Oh, I can watch Izzy, no problem.”
She sighed with intense relief. “Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver. I’ll send a Lyft for you in a couple of hours. Say, three o’clock? That should give you plenty of time to get up here with Friday traffic. And feel free to stay overnight. Stay the whole weekend, if you want.”
“Thanks, I think I will.” A weekend at Natasha’s was like a luxury getaway. Her queen-size guest bed had the fluffiest pillow-top mattress, and the guest bathroom had one of those rainfall showerheads. She subscribed to an expanded cable package with all the premium channels, plus there was a hot tub in the backyard. And, of course, it was always fun to hang out with Izzy.
When I hung up, Trey asked, “All good?”
“Yeah. She just needs me to babysit tonight.” I tossed my phone in my purse and when I looked up, we were already standing in front of the adorable blue bungalow. “I should go get ready, wash this salt out of my hair. I had a great time today.”
“So did I.” He smiled. “Can’t wait to do it again. When can we get you out on a board?”
“I’m spending the weekend at my sister’s, and I’m not sure of my work schedule next week. Text me and we’ll figure something out, okay?”
“Sounds good.” His mouth opened like he was going to say something else, but he quickly closed it. He cleared his throat, rubbed t
he back of his neck, and tried again. “I want to kiss you right now, but—” he pointed to my lips “—I know you’re in pain, so...” He took my left hand in both of his and raised it to his mouth. Before he made contact, he looked at me, and said, “Is this okay?”
I nodded, and he kissed the back of my hand. His lips were soft and slightly wet, and they lingered for an extra beat before he turned my hand over and kissed my palm in the same slow, sensuous way. It sent sparks shooting up my arm, straight to my heart, and when he ran the pad of his thumb slowly over the soft spot on my inner wrist, I swore my vision got blurry. This simple gesture was arguably more erotic than any sexual experience I’d ever had in the three years I’d been with Rob.
When at last he spoke, his voice was husky. “See you soon, Bree.”
“See you soon, Trey.”
We held hands a moment longer, and then I turned and walked away, my arm tingling the whole way home.
Chapter 14
At 2:45 p.m. on the dot, Natasha called to let me know the Lyft was on its way. “His name is Zoltan and he’s driving a white Hyundai. He’ll be there in eight minutes.”
“You could’ve texted me that information.”
“Just go wait downstairs before you mess up my rating.”
I grabbed my overnight bag, double-checking that I’d remembered to pack a bikini for that hot tub goodness, and hustled out the door. As soon as I got to the curb, Zoltan pulled up, then whisked me out of PB and up the I-5 toward Encinitas.
Friday traffic being what it was, we didn’t get very far on the highway before slowing to a bumper-to-bumper crawl. A glance at Zoltan’s GPS said the trip was going to take almost an hour, so I whipped out my phone to pass the time.
Instagram came through with its usual eye candy: a latte with a feather pattern etched into the foam; a book in a blanket-lined basket; a bikini model holding a surfboard on a white-sand beach, turquoise waves gently lapping the shore. That particular photo had over four thousand comments, and there were ten different sponsors tagged—everything from the hat on her head to the polish on her toes. I wondered if that was the kind of quality content Shayla served up.
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