be dumped, best to be dumped on my way to France! I thought, inching out of my depression.
Around every bend, glorious green countryside unfolded like a postcard. I soaked it all in, thinking, praying, hoping that this was a sign—some kind of turning point. My head bobbed out the window like a slobbering sheepdog as wind-tears beaded across my temple. I was surprised—I actually was enjoying myself.
“It’s friggin’ cold, man. Where’s that draft coming from?” Shy Boobs reached for her sweater and emphatically wrapped it around herself.
“Sorry,” I said. “After all that recycled plane air, you know—”
Plop. I fell back into my seat, disappointed, and reached for my book, Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway, cursing myself for not having brought cooler reading material like The Shack or Purple Jesus—might has well have been lugging around my vision board.
Self-help books signaled the end of the rope for me: I was officially desperate, or desperately single, or desperately poor, or desperately desperate, or all of the above. Toni would have skinned my hide! I hid the book cover with my thighs as I pressed my knees against Shy Boobs’ seat, wondering why, in two short days, I’d gone from deliriously happy for landing the coolest reality gig since Amazing Race, garnering bragging rights for the next five decades with an “I toured Europe with Dagmar and Dominic,” to. . . just me, my cheesy books, and some crazy reality show with pretentious, shallow LA types who think Canadians speak German.
Rather than torture myself, I decided it was time to pee. I made my way past rows of crew members and quietly plopped down in a seat to wait for the lavatory user to vacate. The thought of peeing into a hole on the floor of a moving vehicle frightened me. Didn’t the French invent the word “toilet”? I tried not to think about it and watched the backs of people’s heads instead.
Behind my sunglasses, I noticed, past a seatback, an arm that looked delectable. I could always tell if a man was hot just from the sight of a single body part. Yes, even a toe. In this case, it was the way his t-shirt wrapped around his bicep, the shape of the bicep, the rib of the sleeve, the breadth of the forearm— not too big, not too small—and the hands. A man’s hands were everything. I tried to listen to his conversation to see if his mind was anywhere near as beautiful as his hands.
“Surfing is a cerebral sport. It’s not a testosterone fest, that’s for sure.”
“Dude, do you get laid all the time?” his friend interrupted.
“That’s not what it’s about. Sounds corny, but it’s about being one with nature. The wave sweeps you into a swirling blue universe, like sliding across the ocean’s fingers, just a board and your body.”
“Heavy,” his friend snickered. “Chicks dig surfers. You gotta take me with you next time.”
Surfer Boy continued his ethereal ride, oblivious to the doofus beside him. “Early mornings, I just sit there on my board, dolphins swimming beside me, sometimes pelicans plunging for nearby fish, and I wait for the sun to rise out of the horizon. Truth be told, there’s nothing I’d rather do.”
“Even sex?”
“Even sex.”
“Whoa,” I said, half out loud. What are the odds? Handsome and deep!
And by deep, I meant compared to Craig and the other LA wannabes. Thanks to Toni’s own revolving door of dates and male acquaintances, I’d developed some good insight into this topic. Good-looking men were tough enough to handle during the best of times, but put that same guy in LA, and all of a sudden he’s getting manicures, testing cover-up makeup for an emergency pimple, wearing glamour shades, and snubbing man staples like chicken wings and pizza.
Ka-crunch! The bus hit a pothole and sent me barreling face-first into the seat behind Surfer Boy.
“You okay?” he said, turning to see what calamity had befallen him, his athletic man hand reaching out to grab me as I avoided a death drop to the floor.
“Beautiful,” I said out loud while staring into his startlingly clear blue eyes, my brain having seeped out my ear canal.
“Huh?” he said with a half smile, eyebrows twisted into a question mark.
Crap! “No, I meant beautiful, like I feel beautiful. You know, fine. I feel fine. I’m all good. Life is good. And here we are in beautiful France and uh. . . look at that. It’s open. Thanks for the nice hand. I mean, the hand.