by Max Monroe
“Mum, Dad, Ev, and Riley just don’t understand you like I do. That’s all.”
“According to Rile, they’re not big fans of you either.”
“What? What did I do?”
“Moved to America, I reckon.”
“Such a small thing,” she harrumphed, and I laughed.
“All right. I’ll do my best.”
With an insult and an audible kiss, Allie signed off and let me off the hook. Out from the airport now, I observed how the lush growth of Bali shrouded the road in green and reflected brightly in the sun.
I smiled to myself at the thought of seeing one of my favorite surfing spots, but it faded quickly to a sigh as my freshly abandoned phone beeped with an alert about an email.
Grumbling, and pulling a little bit of Forman’s attention from the road briefly, I scrolled to the least-used portion of my phone and opened the last three emails—all from Zoe.
Have you landed yet? I need to speak with you.
And the second email…
God, how long is this bloody flight? Is it too much to ask that you get in-flight Wi-Fi?
Not to be outdone, of course, she felt the need to send yet another. The contents of which were arguably the same as the first two fucking emails.
Answer me as soon as you land, for God’s sake. Your absolute refusal to be a part of modern technology is mind-boggling.
With a roll of my eyes, I exited the email app and scrolled down to her name in recent calls. She was there with more frequency than anyone else, and trust me, I had a bevy of random women calling to nag me at any given time. I just didn’t answer any of them.
Of that, I can assure you, little fire. I might have been getting the attention, but at the time, I wasn’t giving it back.
Not until you.
Zoe answered after a truncated version of two rings, and I laughed at her lack of greeting.
“Did your wheels just touch down?”
“I’m in the car.”
“God,” she groaned. “Why am I not surprised? Why can’t you ever follow directions?”
“Probably has something to do with you sending them via email?”
“Whatever. You have an interview at YVBali, the radio station I was telling you about, at two, and the setup crew asked that you head to the beach immediately.”
“If I’ve said this once, I’ve said it a million times. This is a surf competition. One we’ve held for more than one year running. There shouldn’t be setup questions.”
“Ollie!”
I sighed. “I’m headed there now anyway. No doubt you contacted my driver’s dispatch directly.”
“A woman’s got to do what a woman’s got to do.”
When I finally hung up the phone, I already had another email waiting for me from the obsessive shrew that I didn’t dare open. Twenty minutes on the bloody ground and I was already fucking running.
What, I wondered…what in God’s name was it like for someone like you? Did you have a busy day of lying by the pool ahead of you, surrounded by a group of doting men?
Did you have time to relax, time to take in the beauty of Bali and all that came with it?
And, likely the most important question of all—what did your bikini look like?
[laughs]
Funny, huh, love? Just because I was finally rounding the bases didn’t mean I wasn’t headed in the completely wrong direction.
I didn’t know you yet. And you didn’t know me either.
The difference was…I was starting to realize I wanted to change that. And you weren’t in that same headspace at all.
* * *
Episode 6: The Jealousy
Day Six of Falling
June 9th started out like every other competition I’d ever been a part of.
Big waves. Gnarly rides. And the occasional guy getting all-out worked.
The vendors were busy and the morale was up, and the weather, thankfully, had really come through in the end.
Several surfers drifted in and out of the competition tent, moving closer toward the water to get a better view of the action or spend their free time mingling with fans. For a lot of guys, concentration was paramount. But for the ones like me, the ones who viewed each wave as more of a hobby than a sport—the ones who lived for the ride and worried about the score later—socializing with the fans was half the fun.
It was wild out there, but unquestionably, when it came to what was normal for me, it was about to get far wilder in my personal life.
You, my love, made sure of that.
There was actually a commotion—an honest to God tire-screech moment—when you’d arrived to the competition the day before wearing a dress and high heels, of all things.
I was starting to get used to your outfits, but fuck, the fact that you’d come to a surf competition—to a place filled with sand—wearing spike heels was shocking, even for me.
Throw in fifty horny guys used to sheilas running around in thongs—flip-flops, as you insist on calling them—and it was just about pandemonium.
A second day of another tight dress, another pair of heels, and even sexier smoke in the coloring on your eyelids, and the air was filled with a buzz.
I, just like about every other bloke on the beach, couldn’t take my eyes off you.
Do work, watch Lucky.
Talk to a surfer, watch Lucky.
Eat a quick burrito, wonder why the fuck I couldn’t stop watching Lucky.
Don’t get me wrong, your physical appeal is undeniable. You have a soft, innocent face and—I know this will embarrass you, but it has to be said—a very naughty body, and the tight business clothes you insisted on wearing had to play into at least half a dozen standard male fantasies.
You can’t even imagine how many men have a thing for the sexy secretary, the uninhibited librarian, the wildcat journalist—myself included—and doll, you were playing right into all of our hands.
There wasn’t even a bloody moment between one interview and the next. They practically lined up around the block to see you.
But when it came to me and you, I’d been sure I wanted to keep you in the off-limits category. Fun to look at but entirely too close to my sister and entirely too uptight ever to be compatible with someone like me.
So, why, I ask you, couldn’t I stop fucking watching you?
The way you struggled to walk but somehow still looked good—a dichotomy I’m certain I’ll never uncover the hows of, ever—the way you smiled and laughed as you talked to other people, and—this one was a big one—the way you talked to Jordy Fuller.
By and large, he took the majority of your attention, and as much as I didn’t understand why, I really didn’t like it.
In fact, I remember pretty clearly that I felt like a psycho, watching your every move while I talked to Dale Dunder, one of the vendors who’d been with the tour for an age. He was packing up his booth, asking me questions about products and sales and all sorts of shit. You know, really trying to be productive with networking and the exchange of information.
No doubt it would have been helpful to both of us since we see a lot of crossover customers, but I didn’t hear any of what he told me that day any more than I fucking spent the morning checking the latest news on the Kardashians.
Jordy was sitting with you in the sand, leaning close, I believe…maybe even going so far, every once in a while, as to touch you inconspicuously. You were laughing, big and bold and beautiful. It was the first time I’d seen your face like that. The first time I’d seen it could be like that.
And fuck, Lucky…when you forget to get in your own way…You. Are. Beautiful.
[distinct pause]
Anyway, I remember making an excuse with poor Dale and stealing away like a sleuth on a mission to get closer to you. I didn’t army-crawl through the sand like an actual stalker, but with the way my pulse was pounding in my ears, I might as well have.
Plain and simple, I had every intention of getting close enough to your c
onversation to eavesdrop a little before going on my way. I don’t even think I considered the shame that might come along with that kind of action. It was instinct.
I just knew I needed to be closer to you. And, if at all possible, Jordy needed to be a hell of a lot farther away.
You’ll recall, though, it didn’t go that smoothly.
See, when I got close enough to hear you and Jordy—to hear the flirting and the banter and the undeniable way he was into you—every single plan I’d had went straight to hell.
Recon turned to recovery, and no matter what else happened, I had to get him the fuck away from you.
So, like a regular knight in shining armor, I did what any man would do, and I commandeered the conversation.
I insulted you. I insinuated you had no experience—no business, really—being assigned to cover a competition like this, and I did it in a way that made you feel just bad enough about yourself that you lost all your vibrancy.
[sighs]
God, I fucking hate that I did that. No woman should ever feel like she has to prove herself to anyone, and you certainly shouldn’t ever feel that way.
I’m sorry I was such an arse, baby.
If nothing else gets through to you from this podcast, I hope this simple truth does.
You are enough. You are worthy. And no fucking bloke on any goddamn continent has any business telling you otherwise.
But regardless of my stupidity, and regardless of the effect on your confidence, you didn’t lose any vinegar.
[laughs]
God, you gave me hell. We fought so hard, you hit me with your shoe.
Took the damn thing right off your foot and bloody spiked me with it.
I almost wish I’d gotten a scar.
Would have served me right.
As it was, I didn’t learn any real valuable lessons, and at the end of it all, I actually still considered it a win.
You weren’t flirting with Jordy anymore. Case closed.
It didn’t matter that I’d messed with your head, and it really didn’t matter that I’d fucked over a relatively good guy like Jordy.
In fact, it was about to get a lot worse.
You don’t know this part, and quite frankly, it’d probably make me look a lot better if I let it stay that way. If I kept this part to myself and let you believe I somehow backed off at that point, let you have that moment to yourself—let the rest of your day go on without me meddling in it.
But the point of this whole thing is to give you the truth, and the truth of it is, I took my unexpected jealousy a hell of a lot further.
You’d made it a good way down the beach, me watching you as had become habit for the day, when Jordy came looking for you.
I’d paraphrase the details, but I don’t think that’s fair to you either. I think, if I stand a chance at making you understand the whole sordid story, I’m going to have to tell you in agonizing detail.
So, in the spirit of that…it went something like this…
“Hey, Ollie! Have you seen Lucky?” Jordy asked, a cheerful smile on his face and a pep in his step as he jogged over to me in the sand.
He’d showered and changed, it was clear as day, and he’d put effort into his outfit. Way more than I suspected he would have if he weren’t trying to impress a specific girl.
With a quick glance to the water, I steeled my instincts against looking in your direction and turned back to him.
“Nah, man,” I denied. “I haven’t seen her.”
Showing disappointment and concern all at once, Jordy’s face morphed and blurred as he warred with himself about what to do. Obviously, he was supposed to be on the bus—the only public transportation back to the hotel—but like the good guy that he was, he didn’t like the idea of leaving you behind to an unknown fate.
“We were supposed to ride back together,” he explained further, surveying the surrounding area for you with genuine disquiet in his eyes. “Finish the rest of the interview she started before.”
He meant, of course, the one I’d interrupted. The one you both deserved to get, but I couldn’t stomach the idea of.
Still, I felt at least a little bad for the bloke, especially as he started to seem like he might just stay behind in an effort to find you. I knew without a doubt that if I didn’t change my tactic, my lie would be for nothing.
“Actually,” I said, easing into my words like it pained me to say it. “I did see her. Sorry I lied to you, mate, but I just thought I’d spare you the heartache.”
Jordy’s eyebrows drew together as he fell right into the trap of my making. “Heartache?”
“Yeah,” I confirmed. “I can see you’ve got it on for her a little. But the truth is, I saw her catch a ride with someone else. Another bloke.”
The disappointment on Jordy’s face… Fuck, Lucky. It was so satisfying.
I know that’s not what you want to hear, and goddamn, it’s not the way I want you to hear it—it sure as hell doesn’t paint me in an altogether flattering light—but in that moment, I felt nothing but good.
Thrilled with the lie, thrilled with the result.
Jordy’s little spirit was crushed, but as far as I was concerned, I’d given him the reasoning to stay away from you.
It was a victory, through and through.
Hell, I felt damn near celebratory.
I stripped down, did a quick change, grabbed a board from our inventory that hadn’t left the Surf Arsen booth yet, and headed out into the ocean.
It was me and the waves and the adrenaline I had from crushing some poor guy’s soul.
I might have been acting like the devil, but I felt like a bloody god.
The first wave was a real baddy—thick pipe, dirty curl, and just the challenge I needed—and, thankfully, took a little bit of the edge off.
The last thing I needed was another confrontation with you, feeling as cocky as I did—surely, you know as well as I do that it wouldn’t have gone well—and I’d just orchestrated perfectly that I was the only option for you in the way of transportation.
We would be interacting. And the calmer I was when it started, the better off we’d be.
Two, three, four waves in, I finally settled enough that I was ready, and with a slow ease, I made my way back in to the shore and dragged myself out of the sea.
You were on your way back from your rage-filled trip along the beach, but you were still what I figured had to be almost a mile away.
So I sat in the sand, and I watched.
I watched you walk and pick up shells and kick your finally bare feet in the shallow water.
I watched you contemplate and argue with yourself and no doubt curse me into the next week.
With each step, I fell a little deeper. Into my lies to you and into my lies to myself and into like with you.
I reasoned that my sister had asked me to look out for you, and that I was simply doing my part to complete the assignment.
But it was so much more than that. So much more than you or I or Jordy Fuller would ever fucking understand.
It was the real beginning. The moment my mind committed to something a little more than interest—avid attention.
It’s the reason I cut short the call from my friend Leo as you finally found me waiting for you in the parking lot.
It’s the reason I nearly lost my mind as you pressed your body to mine on the back of that bike.
It’s the reason I invited you to dinner, no matter the fact that you declined.
But most of all, it’s the reason I’m telling this story.
It’s the reason we have any story at all.
I hope…
[pauses]
I hope you’ll find it in you to listen again.
This jerk is in love with you, Lucky. And it’s time you were given the information to understand why.
* * *
Episode 7: The Hook
Day Eight of Falling
June 11th was the day before we left for South Africa to h
ead to the next tour stop, and I was busy as fuck.
I’d spent my morning dealing with another distribution problem, my lunch in a meeting with a new prospective vendor, and my afternoon in interviews with various surf publications.
I know I might easily fool you into thinking you were the only journalist with the tour, but in the grand scheme of things, you were just a tiny drop in the bucket of press.
A beautiful, flawless, crystal-blue-eyed, and fiery drop of water, but no more than a drop even at that.
Long story short, despite the groundwork I’d used my evil powers to lay two days prior, I’d had exactly zero time to do any sort of follow-up, and the space, I thought, had done me some good.
I’d gotten my bearings, I was far more aware of how conniving I’d been, and I even felt a modicum of regret.
[laughs]
I mean, if I’m honest, it was truly minuscule, but in comparison to the time in which I was perpetrating my offenses, I was damn near contrite, baby.
So when my phone went off that evening with a text from my sister, a document written by you attached, I briefly considered ignoring it.
Her demand was simple and brief: Read this. I told you so.
She’s a snotty brat sometimes, but it’s safe to say, when it came to this—when it came to you—she was convinced she was the superior sibling.
Your first article covering the tour, as I discovered it to be via the title. I feared it would only bring my hormone-driven mind swirling back into the chaos of impulsive decisions and unexplained obsession.
I knew it would feature details of your interviews with all of those other blokes, including Jordy, and as I knew then, jealousy was one of my triggers.
It’s a horrible comparison, doll, and I feel like an absolute wanker saying it aloud, but at this stage in our relationship, I likened you to a toy I didn’t want all the other kiddies playing with.
I’ll take the easy way out and blame my baser instincts for at least the root of this, but I know, really, it was yet another thing that made me a jerk.