I roll my eyes and take my bowl to the sink.
“He is totally in love with you.”
“When are you going to see him next?”
“You have to bring him to the formal.”
I try not to eavesdrop as Riley and the girls talk about Loren, but I can’t seem to tune them out. I slam my bowl into the dishwasher, drop my spoon noisily into the silverware basket, and nothing drowns out their voices.
“You know my rule,” Riley says.
I cringe because I know what’s coming.
“Pre-law or pre-med are the prerequisites to get in my bed.” She sounds so proud of her stupidity.
I’d love to open my mouth and expose her for plagiarism because that rule is not uniquely hers. It’s the Thunderbird women’s motto and has been for generations. Although, the original phrasing is “prerequisites for the marriage bed”, but women’s liberation and all that. My great-grandfather was a lawyer in Virginia, my grandfather a doctor in New York, my own father a lawyer in Los Angeles, and Riley’s dad is a doctor in Bel Air. Her oldest sister is living with her boyfriend while he gets his law degree from Princeton and my older sister graduated last year and is engaged to Dennis, who is, surprise, a medical student.
“I suppose I could make this one, little exception for a football player. His body!” She bites her lip while, I assume, texting him back. “Momma’s got needs too.”
They erupt in giggles and I can’t get out of the kitchen fast enough.
“Don’t forget the surfboards, Bex!”
“I won’t!” I yell back to her with all the fury of a woman who has no idea what she’s so mad about.
After class I do a quick Google search for surf shops in the area. I figure I’ll start at the closest one and move my way out until I find one that will rent us ten cute surfboards for the weekend of the Eta Pi formal.
The closest shop that rents equipment is halfway between campus and Venice Beach, Carvers Surf Shop. The small beach community has a natural, LA-hippie feel, and I’m not surprised how crowded the area is on a sunny day like today. The boutiques and cafes are milling with people as they walk the sidewalks and enjoy the early February sun.
I have to walk a block to get to the surf shop so by the time I get there I’m pulling off my sweatshirt to tie it around my waist. Punk rock music comes from the open door and the smell of surf wax tells me I’m in the right place. The walls are lined with casual beach attire, men’s on the left, women’s on the right, but I don’t waste my time shopping, these places only cater to the size fours of the world. I search for someone in charge, an employee, but they’re all dressed in the same casual clothes as the customers and I can’t tell them apart.
I spot a petite girl behind the glass counter, her long sun-bleached hair in two braids, and her tan skin on full display with only the teeny tiniest sundress to cover enough to make her not naked. She smiles at me and I feel a little less uncomfortable as I approach, however still over-dressed. “Is there something I can help you find, honey?”
All my warm feelings deflate. Honey? She’s my age!
“Yes, uh, I’m actually looking to rent some surf boards.” I try hard to ignore the flash of surprise in her green eyes—damn, she’s pretty. I clear my throat and trudge on. “You do that here, right?”
“Yes, are you looking for lessons?” She does a quick up down with her eyes, probably sizing me up to gauge my surfing success rate. Her frown tells me she doesn’t think I’d fare well.
“No, not lessons. Just the boards.”
“Can I try these on?” A woman behind me snags the girls attention.
“Of course.” She focuses back on me. “I’ll send out our manager to help you with the rentals.”
“Great.” As soon as she’s gone I wipe the fake smile off my face and look at the variety of stickers in the glass case in front of me. Waves, sunsets, pineapples, a pug wearing sunglasses…I lean down and squint at a sticker of a snake sunbathing in a g-string and the sticker reads Pythong. I chuckle. “That’s a good one,” I say to myself before realizing the presence of someone standing in front of me at the glass counter.
I look up, my smile falls, and my face ignites.
“Bex? What are you doing here?” Loren’s eyes dart around the space, a small, uneasy smile tilting his lips all under the shadow of a Ripcurl ball cap. “Is Riley with you?”
The sound of my cousin’s name is like a cattle prod zapping me back to myself and to my reason for being here. “You work here?”
He squints playfully, the corner of his mouth ticking up. “You didn’t know I worked here?”
“No! God no, I wouldn’t have come—”
He lifts his brows.
“—I didn’t know you worked here. I’ve never even been in here.” I snort-laugh. “There is nothing here I want. Trust me.”
He crosses his arms over his massive chest—God, he’s tan and huge—while I continue to babble incoherently.
“This is not the kind of place I shop, so…nope.” I feel my worst and most embarrassing nervous tick bubble up from my throat and blurt in a British accent. “Nothing here for me, gov’na’!” I slam my lips closed and sweat dampens my armpits.
“You’re adorable,” he says with humor in his voice.
Not disgusting. Not a compliment either. Babies are adorable, puppies too. And so are chubby girls.
“Actually,” I clear my throat, my thoughts sobering and calming. I’m getting all squirmy around the guy who is in love with my cousin! Dumb. Snap out of it, Bex. He’s a jock! And just another pretty face…and body. And smile—whatever! Stop it. “I am here to see if I can rent ten surfboards from you for the purpose of décor for the Eta Pi Valentine’s Day formal.”
His light eyes dance in the few seconds of silence before he says, “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Ha. Yeah. So…?”
He reaches for a binder and I pretend not to notice the way his bicep contracts and swells. “Valentine’s Day.” He flips through the pages of hand scribbled dates and names and I'm disappointed his hat blocks his face. “Huh…”
“If it’s not possible it’s fine—”
“It’s not that. I manage this store in the off season.” He looks around me as if searching someone out. “Brit!” He lifts his chin at whoever Brit is.
“Yeah?” The gorgeous girl with the braids comes around the counter and presses in close to Loren to look at the book.
Maybe she’s near-sighted.
Loren and her go back and forth in surf shop lingo I don’t understand, or maybe I’m too focused on the parts of their touching bodies to pay attention.
“Have you talked to Riley lately?” Cheap shot, I know, but seriously, I felt like he needed the reminder that he’s kind of sort of seeing my cousin while this little model-looking woman is pressed against him.
“We texted this morning, but other than that…” He shakes his head. “Thanks,” he says to Brit and then turns away from her to snag a pen.
“I can vouch for the fact that the selfie she sent was absolutely spontaneous. She wakes up like that.”