Trey’s eyes went dull and droopy, and his lips became a fine line. I felt bad for pushing him this far, so I backed off and muttered a feeble, “I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I just realized it’s not the life I want to live.”
“What kind of life do you want to live, then?”
He lifted the corner of his mouth in a sad little half smile. “One that’s real. One where people are honest and like you for who you are and not what you can do for them. One where surfing is about the love of the sport and not about corporate sponsorships or media coverage. That’s not why I do it.”
“So why do you do it?”
The sad smile turned happy. “When I’m out there, it’s nothing else but me, my board, and the ocean. It’s a spiritual experience. You learn to read the waves, you commune with the water. You develop a connection with the earth, the sky, the whole universe.”
This was venturing into dangerous Divine Mother Shakti territory, but I smiled back, because his love for surfing was obviously so pure.
“That’s why I decided to take a break from touring for a while,” he continued. “To get back to my roots, to surf for the sheer joy of it. And to teach other people to love it, too. There’s so much beauty in the ocean. It’s a shame you’ve had such bad experiences.”
Popping the last of the burrito into my mouth, I threw up a hand as if to say, Oh, well.
Then Trey’s eyes went from dull to twinkly and danced across my face. “Let me help you. I can take you out on the water and show you there’s no reason to be afraid.”
As tempting as it was to spend more time around Trey, wearing nothing but skimpy swimsuits, my fear outweighed my desire. “Thank you, but no.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but I loudly slurped back the rest of my horchata and shook my head.
“Okay. I guess it’s probably asking too much of you to say yes when you’ve still got stingray venom in your foot.”
I glanced down, taking in the swollen pink skin. “It feels a lot better. I wonder if I can walk on it now.” Standing up, I wobbled and quickly sat back down. “That would be a no.”
“No worries. I got you.” Trey kneeled at my feet and I hopped on his back. Without a word, he carried me home through the calm, cool San Diego evening. Laughter and music trickled from the open doors of restaurants and bars. The post–happy hour Friday night crowds were ramping up, but I was more than ready to hunker down in the quiet and comfort of my own bed.
Though snuggled up here against Trey’s back was a pretty pleasant place to be, too.
When we got to the triplex, he stopped. “Which unit is yours?”
“I actually live in the back,” I said. “On top of the garage.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize it was legal to rent those out.”
“It might not be, but I don’t ask too many questions.”
We walked through the passageway leading to the back of the building and passed through the courtyard. When Trey approached the rickety wooden steps, I panicked. There was no way I wanted him to see my apartment, not in its current state of chaos.
“You can leave me here!” The words came out too loud, too anxious. I cleared my throat and tried again. “This is good, thanks. I can make it upstairs by myself.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
He set me down at the base of the staircase, where I held on to the banister for support and gave him an awkward thumbs-up.
“Listen,” he said, “my offer to help you feel comfortable in the water is always on the table. Give it some thought, okay? You might feel differently after you’ve had a chance to recover.”
“Yeah, maybe I will.” No, I definitely won’t. “Thanks again for everything.”
“It was really my pleasure.”
Trey stared at me now, his eyes laser-focused directly on my lips, which started tingling under his gaze. There was nothing more I wanted than to kiss him good-night, burrito breath be damned.
But that wasn’t gonna happen, because he was already backing away across the courtyard. With a casual wave, he said, “See ya around.”
“See ya.”
As soon as he was gone, I clasped my hand over my mouth to muffle the squeals of delight. It had been so long since I’d felt this way in the company of a man—desired, interesting, dare I say special?—that I wanted to bottle up this moment and keep it forever.
And maybe even send it out into the universe.
I whipped out my phone and set the camera to selfie mode. The soft lighting in the backyard cast a warm amber glow around my face. I swear, you could actually see my lips tingle. I curved them into a smile, snapped a photo, and uploaded it to my vision board.
This time, I added a caption: a single kiss emoji.
Hopefully, the universe would know exactly what that meant.
Chapter 9
The next day I woke to the screeching of the garage door, but oddly, I didn’t mind. Because the pain in my foot was gone, my lips were still tingling, and I was consumed with the overwhelming feeling that good things were about to come my way.
A scroll through my phone confirmed that feeling. I’d received preliminary approval for a HandyMinion account. My virtual onboarding session was scheduled for Monday morning, and after that I could start taking on paid work for random odd jobs around the neighborhood.
Furthermore, my Instagram account had garnered over a hundred more likes overnight as well as a gaggle of new followers. They left encouraging comments like, “You’re a warrior, sweetie!” and “Get it, girl!” Someone named @dipalmatribe had even featured my profile in one of their stories, overlayed with an animated GIF of a little girl twerking in a pageant dress and the message: @breebythesea bringing the #aspirationalactionplan vibes and #manifesting her dreams!
This vision board was getting me noticed, and I had to admit, it felt kind of cool to have random strangers cheering me on. Maybe this is what Demi DiPalma meant by “energy follows thought.” I’d put my positive thoughts out there, and people sent their positive thoughts back, which energized me in a most welcome and unexpected way.
If that was the case, The Aspirational Action Plan was doing its job. So it was probably time to get started on step three: clearing away negative energy.
A quick glance around my apartment revealed no shortage of bad vibes. Reminders of my debt and my failures, and of course, reminders of Rob. Even seemingly innocuous things were tied to memories of our doomed, pointless relationship. Like those coasters we’d bought after we toured the Stone brewery together. Or that hideous faux-fur papasan chair, the first and only item of furniture we’d ever picked out and purchased together.
There was also the yoga mat, the one I hadn’t taken out of its original packaging. Rob had given it to me for my last birthday, even though I’d never expressed an interest in taking up yoga. After I unwrapped it, he must’ve seen the perplexed look on my face, because he’d said, “You’re always saying how you wish you had a hobby.”
“Yeah, but I meant something crafty, like scrapbooking or origami.” I’d turned the box over and saw a Target clearance sticker on the back. He hadn’t even bothered to scrape it off.
“This is better,” he’d said. “Yoga’ll help you get in shape.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t realized I needed to get in shape, but apparently Rob thought otherwise.
Suddenly, I wanted everything he’d ever touched out of this apartment, immediately and forever. It was time for him to GTFO of my life.
For the next hour, I scoured my home for remnants of Rob, checking every crevice and cranny for stuff he’d left behind. In the closet, I found that old gorilla suit, the one from the #sloppybanana photo. In the folds of the futon, I found some old rolling papers. All of it went in a pile in the center of the room, and when I was done, I stood back a
nd admired my work, feeling like I’d just performed a ritual cleansing without the sage or the healing crystals.
I texted Mari.
What time do you get off of work today?
In a half hour, why?
Any interest in driving me down to Rob’s storage unit?
HELL YES.
I asked her to swing by as soon as she was done. If we hurried, I could unload Rob’s crap at the StoreSmart in Mission Valley and get back here before lunch.
After throwing on some clothes, I crammed everything into a garbage bag—the coasters, the gorilla suit, the yoga mat, everything—and when it was filled to the brim, I tied it shut. Then I grabbed the six-foot bong, the one I’d unsuccessfully tried to sell on Craigslist, and put it and the bag on top of the papasan chair, before dragging the whole mess out to the curb.
Now all I had to do was find the key to the storage unit. I knew it was in here somewhere; Rob had left it behind, though I wasn’t sure he realized that. The night before he left for Peru, we had an abbreviated session of disappointing goodbye sex. When I woke the next morning, he was already gone, but a bright orange key tag labeled #252 was poking out from beneath a pile of my dirty clothes.
There had been no sense in texting him about it. Earlier that week, he’d made a big point of disconnecting his cell phone because the Divine Mother Shakti says technology is a trap. Anyway, I’d figured he would be back soon, begging for forgiveness, and in the meantime, I’d keep the key safe. Which meant chucking it in my junk drawer and never looking at it again.
Built-in storage was at a minimum in this apartment, but I did have a single sliding drawer in my kitchenette. Rather than use it to store cutlery (as Natasha had suggested that one time before she stormed out in tears), it became a catchall for little items that didn’t have an assigned home. And considering the disorganized state of my apartment, there were a lot of things that didn’t have an assigned home.
Needless to say, the drawer was overstuffed, so when I tried to open it, it got stuck. Something way in the back had wedged itself between the slide and the cabinet. Every time I yanked on the door, I heard it grinding against the particleboard. I grabbed a wooden spoon from the cabinet above my head and jammed the handle inside, trying to dislodge whatever was caught up, but then the spoon got stuck, too. Cursing myself for being such a slob, I pulled on the handle with both hands, hard. There was a sharp crack before the drawer flew out of the cabinet and onto the floor, the contents flying everywhere.
The orange key tag stood out among the detritus. I picked it up and put it in my pocket, then surveyed the disaster at my feet. Crumpled papers, dried-out glue sticks, a roll of electrical tape, chargers for devices I’d long since discarded, a beer koozie from Belmont Park, a stress ball stamped with the GrubGetter logo.
So. Much. Junk.
And in the middle of it all was my face staring back at me.
It was a younger version of myself: hair a little shorter, eyes a little brighter, skin radiating hope. Beneath my smiling photo, in black block letters, was the word STUDENT. I picked up the old ID card, now covered in dirt and crumbs, and saw it had expired two years ago.
This ID wasn’t the only obsolete vestige of my college years hanging around the apartment. Behind the futon, I had a Bankers Box crammed full of papers, notebooks, transcripts, and even some textbooks that were so old and used I couldn’t sell them back. I knew I’d never need Fundamentals of Philosophy again, yet I’d clung to it, allowing it to take up precious limited space in my home.
Why was I keeping this stuff? I’d long since accepted the fact that, for me, college was a failed experiment. I had no illusions of ever going back to UCSD. And if I did—though at this point, it was highly unlikely—it’s not like I could reuse this expired ID card or this outdated, ratty textbook.
To throw it all away, though, seemed so permanent. So final. Like I was closing the door forever on a rare and privileged opportunity. An opportunity my sister would’ve killed for.
Still, it was my past, and I didn’t need it here cluttering up my present. Even if I couldn’t bring myself to trash it all, I could at least get it out of my sight.
I hefted the box of college memories out from behind the futon and tossed my ID card inside. Just to be thorough, I grabbed the stack of past-due student loan bills off my coffee table and added them, too. Let’s get real: they weren’t getting paid anytime soon. Plus, if I didn’t see them, maybe I could convince myself they didn’t exist, and then the universe would send some positive energy to scrub away my debt.
When I returned to the curb, Mari was already there, her royal blue hatchback idling in the driveway. She spotted me approaching and popped the rear door.
“What’ve you got there?” she called, watching me in the rearview mirror.
“Some stuff I need to get out of the house.” I set the box down and examined the cargo area. “Do you think we could fold down the back seats?”
“Why?”
“We need to fit this in there,” I said, gesturing toward the papasan chair and the trash bag and the...wait, what happened to the bong? Apparently, in the ten minutes I’d left it unattended on the sidewalk, some marijuana enthusiast had sniffed it out and swiped it. Whatever. Rob could always buy another one.
Mari got out of the car, frowning. “I thought we were going to this storage unit to raid it for shit you can sell.”
“No. I told you, I’m not gonna steal from him.”
“You’re too nice.”
After lowering the seat backs, we crammed everything in and took off down the highway. StoreSmart was about fifteen minutes south of PB, which meant a picturesque drive past Mission Bay. On a sunny Saturday morning like this, the bay was packed with people taking advantage of the great San Diego outdoors. Bicyclists sprinted down winding paths, friends played volleyball in the sand, and kayaks bobbed on top of the calm, shimmery water.
I always wished I could be the kind of person who enjoyed outdoor activity like that. A fitness junkie or adventure seeker or whatever you called it. There was a sense of fearlessness about them, that no matter what pain or strain or challenge they faced, they could overcome it through sheer endurance and a burning desire to be better.
Instead, I’d allowed one bad experience to scare me away from the ocean forever. Okay, two bad experiences, but still. Maybe it was time to stop letting my past weigh me down. Maybe I’d take Trey up on his offer, after all.
“What inspired you to declutter?” Mari asked. “Did Natasha have another heart-to-heart with you about the state of your apartment?”
“No. I finally realized that I need to put my relationship with Rob behind me, and it’s hard to do that when I keep finding remnants of him all over the place.”
She nodded. “Makes sense. I’m glad you’re coming to terms with the whole situation.”
“What other choice do I have? It’s been seven months. He’s obviously not coming back. I was so stupid for believing he would.”
“Go easy on yourself. He pulled that shit out of nowhere.”
“I’m mad at myself for wasting so much time with him, though.”
Mari heaved a great sigh. “Yeah, but we’ve all been there.”
She was obviously referring to the two years she’d spent with her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Zach. They’d met during some comedy festival, where he was a headliner and she was volunteering in the hospitality room, fetching drinks for the comics. He never took her screenwriting aspirations seriously, always cutting her down with cruel, almost microscopic insults, then gaslighting her into believing she was talentless.
On one of their many “breaks,” she started her YouTube channel. That’s when she discovered she wasn’t talentless, because people actually found her funny—lots of people. After that, she decided to tell Zach to fuck off once and for all. Via YouTube, of course. “Fuck Off, Zach�
� was an instant classic, and one of Mari’s most viewed videos.
“We stay with people who aren’t good for us,” she continued, “because it’s a convenient excuse to stagnate.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. No one wants an excuse to stagnate.”
“No one wants to admit it, but they do. It’s easier than the alternative, which is to face your fears and forge ahead. Look, Zach was a manipulative douche, right? He always told me I’d never make it in comedy, that I wasn’t funny and that I didn’t have what it takes. I chose to believe him, because if I convinced myself I had no talent, then it gave me an excuse not to try. And if I didn’t try, I couldn’t fail. It’s the same reason you stayed with Rob.”
“It’s not the same. Rob never said I was talentless.” Just out of shape. And cowardly.
“No, but he treated you that way.”
Mari was starting to annoy me with this unsolicited psychoanalysis. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that you’re brilliant, capable, and multifaceted. You could’ve been doing a thousand different interesting things, yet you spent your entire relationship delivering food and then coming home and sitting on the couch to watch him get stoned. He didn’t challenge you to be better or encourage you to aim high. He didn’t appreciate how extraordinary you are.”
“Oh.” My voice wavered and my eyes burned. It was overwhelming to hear my life laid out like that so plainly. While I didn’t feel particularly brilliant or capable or multifaceted, Mari mostly had the right of it. I purposely kept my expectations low so I’d never be disappointed. I didn’t believe I could succeed, so nothing ever happened. I never tried so I’d never have to fail.
In other words, I put negative thoughts out into the world, and negative energy had followed closely behind.
“I’m sorry.” Mari reached over the center console and squeezed my knee, her eyes still on the road. “I shouldn’t have said that, I got carried away. I’m just mad at him for being such a shithead to you.”
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