I roll my eyes but can’t help the corners of my mouth curling up. I had forgotten that Finn loves old-timey TV shows. “We’re not going toLucythis—we’re just going to go back there and see if we can spot Sybil. She’s probably getting a wax or something and didn’t want to put her own name down.”
“You’re going to walk in on your best friend gettingwaxed?” Finn raises an eyebrow.
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” I shrug. Obviously Finn has never had to come to the rescue after an at-home waxing kit goes wrong. When you’re girls, best friends,androommates, there are no secrets.
I’m about to walk through the doors, when my stomach lets out the most audible growl. Like a cross between a rumble of thunder and my East Village radiator in December. I flinch, half expecting slicked-back-hair lady to come out and shush me like a librarian.
“Let’s grab you some lunch first.” Finn reaches for myelbow, and I let myself lean on him just for a moment as we follow the signs pointing toward the poolside bar.
On the Sun Deck, we find an unoccupied couch near a firepit and look over the menu. I want everything. I look up, hoping to flag a waiter, when my eye is caught by a petite blonde in a distinctive blue-and-white swim shirt.
“Sybil!” I shout.
“Where?” Finn asks, immediately standing.
“Over there. ” I point several feet away, where the woman in the swim shirt is now stepping off the final stair that leads down to the beach, her back to us.
“Are you sure that’s her?” Finn frowns, unconvinced.
“Don’t you recognize her hair?” I ask.
“We’re in Southern California, where ninety percent of the women are some shade of blond.”
Men.
“Wellthatshade is hers. It has to be.” Sybil bought that exact designer swim shirt last month. I remember her telling me encouragingly that rash guards were back in. She was seeing them all over her Instagram! My freckled shoulders should rejoice!
Finn dials Sybil’s cell, but once again, it rings and rings, then goes to voicemail.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s just go down there. Looks like she’s heading toward that shed thing.”
“That’s the kayak rental hut,” Finn says, pulling from his pocket a creased resort map he must have grabbed from the valet.
Whydo I find his dorkiest qualities so frickin’ cute?
We head down to the beach, and sure enough, I can seethe blond woman in the blue-and-white swim shirt paddling a bright green kayak.
“I still don’t think that’s her,” Finn says, shielding his eyes with his hand and squinting into the sun.
“Well Iknowit is. Let’s just paddle out there and find out. It won’t take long.”
Finn sighs and goes to pay the vendor.
“You’re not really dressed for this,” I say as we tip a two-person kayak off the rack at the rental shed and tuck two paddles into the seats. I’m still wearing the flip-flops, exercise shorts, and tank top that I had on for our spa day, but Finn is in tennis shoes and slacks.
“These are performance-wear pants,” he says as he rolls up his cuffs to just below his knees. “They can handle anything.” He says it like he’s reading off a podcast ad.
“Oh, can they?” I grab the front end of the kayak. Finn takes up the back and then promptly drops it. Turning around to grumble at him, I see that he has two life jackets. He hands me the smaller one and says, “Safety first,” as we maneuver the boat into the surf.
“You were an Eagle Scout, weren’t you?” I say dryly.
“Two badges short,” he says. “I’m a rebel like that.”
The kayak sways precariously as we climb inside, and Finn makes a noise that is higher pitched than any sound I’ve ever heard him—or, you know, any full-grown adult—make.
“Did you justsqueak?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “Absolutely not.” He takes a moment to settle onto the kayak. “Just not a big water fan. If this boat tips over, you’re walking back to Malibu.”
