“Forget the bong,” she said. “You should go swipe some shit from his storage unit.”
Rob did have some good stuff in there. Video game systems, barely used surfboards, collectible sports memorabilia, a camera drone. All courtesy of his parents, who gave their son a monthly “stipend” to subsidize the income he made from his part-time job as a marijuana dispensary clerk.
Now, that was a guy who’d been coddled. What a waste of three years of my life.
Still, it would be wrong to steal from him. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not? He owes you!” Mari’s brown eyes got wide and fiery, the tiny stud in her nose shimmering as her nostrils flared. “If he hadn’t ditched out and stuck you with all the bills, you wouldn’t even be in this situation.”
She had a valid point. But getting revenge didn’t seem cathartic. On the contrary, it felt like I’d be tethering myself to Rob through spite and resentment, when at this point, I should be cutting myself free.
A thought popped into my head, unbidden and kind of annoying. Don’t look back, because that’s not where you’re going.
“The past is in the past,” I said, channeling Natasha and her aphorisms. “I need to focus on moving forward. Right now, that means coming up with rent money. But my eventual goal is to figure out some other career path. Something I can pursue in the long term.”
“That’s great.” Mari’s voice was stilted, like she was trying not to sound surprised, though it was obvious in the way her eyebrows shot up. She never pushed the issue like Natasha did, but every so often she’d ask if I’d ever given thought to pursuing a more meaningful line of work, something I had a passion for. Usually, I’d respond with a shrug, and that would be the end of the conversation. “Have you come up with any ideas?”
“Not yet, no.” I sipped my coffee and thought back to last night’s Google search. “I heard you can make a lot of money by writing an ebook.”
She blinked. “An ebook about what?”
“I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet.”
“Okay.” The word came out slowly, and I knew what she was thinking, because I was thinking it, too. You’ve lost your mind, Bree Bozeman.
“Yo, Marisol!”
A guy was standing on the threshold to the patio, decked out in typical surfer bro attire: board shorts, tank top, bare feet. He waved to Mari and held up a stack of flyers. “Can I put one of these in the window?”
“Sure, Cam. You can hang it with the others, right next to the front door.” She turned to me and said, “He’s the new sign spinner for SurfRack.”
SurfRack was another PB institution, the oldest family-run surf shop in all of San Diego. It was located right on the boardwalk, just a few feet from the ocean. They mostly catered to tourists, offering surf lessons and rentals out of their unpretentious wooden shack, but they also held surf camps and birthday parties for kids. I’d attended one of those birthday parties when I was in fifth grade, and nearly drowned while trying to paddle out. It was my first—and last—encounter with a surfboard, and I hadn’t dipped more than a toe in the Pacific since then. While I loved living by the beach, I much preferred the stillness of the sand to the tumult of the sea.
Cam nodded thanks and retreated into the store, leaving Mari to pick up where she’d left off. “So, where exactly did you hear about this ebook idea?”
“Some website,” I said, wishing I’d never mentioned it in the first place. “I know it’s not realistic. I was just brainstorming.”
“Well, maybe start by finding what you’re passionate about.”
Everyone always talked about finding your passion as if it was this evasive creature you had to smoke out of a burrow. They also seemed to operate under the assumption that everyone had a passion to find. But I had long since accepted the sad reality that I was born passionless.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Come on, that’s bullshit. First of all, I know how much you love to read. That most definitely counts as a passion.”
I shrugged and sipped, not wanting to admit out loud how long it had been since I’d finished reading a book.
“And you’re a really hard worker,” she said. “In high school, you were a rock star. You used to get As in every subject.”
“Yeah, well, that changed when I got to college, didn’t it? I couldn’t get an A to save my life.”
“That’s because college is a scam.” She tapped her chin. “Let’s try something else. Complete the following sentence. ‘My life is thriving when...’”
“When I have money to pay the rent.”
“That’s not thriving. That’s surviving.”
“Isn’t surviving enough?”
Mari took a deep breath. “I don’t think it is. Not for me, at least. I survive by pouring coffee, but it doesn’t feed my soul. That’s what comedy is for. It’s what makes me thrive.”
A loud voice emerged from inside the shop. “I said, six pumps of syrup! Not five!”
We glanced through the window and spotted an angry woman standing at the pickup counter, yelling at a terrified Logan.
“Goddammit,” Mari muttered. “I’ll be happy when I don’t need this job anymore.”
“At least it gives you good material for your videos,” I said.
“Yeah, but a decade behind the espresso machine is a long time. And the clientele just seems to get ruder and more entitled with every passing year.” She stood up and straightened her apron. “I’ve gotta go squash this situation. Text and let me know what happens with your car, okay?”
I nodded and gave her a quick hug before she ran off to save Logan from the lady with the undersweetened latte.
Despite my enduring cynicism, the idea of thriving really did appeal to me. It sounded lovely to be able to craft a life that was purposeful and fulfilling, to leave an imprint on the world. To strive for something greater than the ability to barely coast by.
Unfortunately, I had no idea what that something was.
I polished off my coffee and stepped down off the patio, taking the long way around through the rose garden to the exit. As I passed by the front window, I caught a glimpse of the SurfRack flyer Cam had just posted. White text on a blue background advertised a new instructor giving lessons by appointment only. Apparently, he was a big-name surfer who’d just come off a pro championship tour.
There was a photo of him on the bottom, standing onshore in his wet suit, which he’d stripped to the waist. His board was tucked under one arm, his dark hair glistened with seawater. According to the poster, his name was Trey Cantu. The same Trey who lived in the blue bungalow next door.