The water was scalding, so hot I thought for sure blisters must be forming on my skin. But the deep, throbbing pain disappeared instantaneously. In that moment, I’d have gladly suffered third-degree burns for this blissful sensation of relief.
Steam billowed from the bucket. I leaned back into the chair, closing my eyes and sighing out all the tension in my body. When I opened them again, Trey was crouched down in front of me, silently studying my face. So I took the opportunity to study his.
The first thing I noticed were his eyes, deep set and angular. They were far lighter than I’d originally thought, more hazel than brown. His skin was smooth, almost buttery, like he’d never had a blemish in his entire life. And his lips were positively pillowy. I bet they felt so soft.
“Bree, are you okay?” His brow furrowed with concern.
“I think so.”
“Oh, good.” He relaxed his features and breathed out. “You looked a little spacey for a second, I was worried you might be going into shock.”
No, just fantasizing about the texture of your lips.
“Stingray injuries can sometimes cause larger systemic issues, especially if you’re panicked.”
“I’m not panicked.”
“You were screaming pretty loudly. I heard you from clear across the beach.”
“I was in pain.” And also, a little panicked. “It feels a lot better now, though. What’s in this bucket besides boiling water?”
“Nothing. Hot water’s the usual treatment in this situation. The heat neutralizes the toxin in the venom. You’ll need to soak it for another half hour or so.”
He disappeared back into the lifeguard tower and returned a few seconds later with a bottle of water and two red pills. “Advil helps, too,” he said, and handed them over before plopping down in the chair beside me.
“Thanks.” I swallowed the pills and took a long swig of cold water. “I’ve heard of stingray attacks happening around here, but I didn’t realize how painful they were.”
“Yeah, they can be pretty rough, but the pain passes quickly once you start soaking it. You’ll be fine.” Trey smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “You need to learn the Stingray Shuffle.”
“What’s that?”
“When you’re walking in the shallows, never take big, heavy steps. Instead of lifting your feet up, just shuffle them along.” He demonstrated by sliding his feet back and forth along the ground. “The movement sends vibrations through the water that scare the stingrays away.”
“Good to know, but I won’t be going back in the ocean anytime soon.” Or ever.
“You’re just saying that because you’re in pain right now. You’ll be ready to dive back in tomorrow.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m afraid that’s not gonna happen.”
“Come on, don’t let one bad experience in the water scare you off.”
“This was actually my second bad experience, and I’m not interested in seeing what the Pacific has planned for my third.”
“What was the first one?”
I briefly considered concocting a dramatic lie, like a shark attack or an encounter with pirates. Something that made me sound like less of a wuss than “a scary surf lesson about a half-mile south of here.” As a pro surfer, Trey had undoubtedly experienced far more life-threatening situations in far more dangerous waters. Did I really want to embarrass myself by telling the truth?
Fortunately, I didn’t have to, because the lifeguard came back with a kettle full of hot water. She poured it in the bucket and a fresh wave of intense heat washed over my throbbing foot, dissolving the pain even further.
“Thanks,” I said, and when she left, I swiftly executed a change of subject. “So, this morning I went to The Bean House and saw the SurfRack poster.”
“What SurfRack poster?”
“The one advertising lessons with pro surfer Trey Cantu.”
He audibly gulped. “They made posters?”
“Apparently so.” Weird that he didn’t know about it. “Anyway, I didn’t realize my next-door neighbor was famous.”
“I’m not famous.”
“You’re telling me that if I googled your name right now, there wouldn’t be millions of search results?”
“Did you google me?” He looked horrified, as if I’d admitted to hacking his email or rifling through his underwear drawer.
“No.” Though his response made me think that I should. “Not yet, anyway.”
“But you would?”
“Of course I would.” As his eyes widened with disbelief, I said, “Don’t act like I’m some sort of stalker. Everyone googles people.”
“I don’t google people.”
“Well, you should. It’s a totally normal part of twenty-first century human interaction.” I pulled my phone out from the wrinkled dress and thrust it toward him. “Here, google me.”
He breathed out a nervous laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” I shook the phone. “We’ve all gotta start somewhere.”
One of his dark eyebrows shot skyward and the hint of a smile touched his lips. “Okay, fine.” As he took my phone, he said, “I don’t know your last name, though.”
“It’s Bozeman. B-o-z-e-m-a-n.” I looked over his shoulder as his thumbs tapped out the words. “My first name is e-e, not i-e.”
As suspected, there were only six pages of results, most of which confused me with the three other Bree Bozemans in the United States. I leaned back and let him scroll and tap, knowing he’d find nothing of any interest. That was one of the perks of living an acutely mediocre life: no internet scandals to worry about.
Then he asked, “Who’s Rob McCrory?”
My heart tumbled into my stomach. Hearing Rob’s name spoken out loud—by Trey Cantu, of all people—was jarring in itself. But that the internet had linked Rob and I together was perhaps more troublesome.
“What?” I snatched the phone from his hand. “Let me see.”
It was a photo of the two of us during last year’s neighborhood Halloween Pub Crawl, posted on an Instagram account for Bob’s Bar & Grill. Rob was wasted out of his mind, but you couldn’t tell because he was wearing a gorilla suit. I was stone-cold sober and staring daggers at the camera, my banana costume covered in freshly spilled beer. The caption read: PB locals Rob McCrory and Bree Bozeman having a little too much fun. #sloppybanana.