but I also want to be rational because I know we can’t
pull this off. Even with his money and connections, there’s no way
to accomplish this list in a week. We didn’t even expect to
complete it in LA. It just gave us a map.
“There’s no way,” I tell him. “There are
things on that list that are impossible, especially here. In LA,
maybe, but Crescent Nowhere Cove? Not happening.”
Noah places the list on the bed and turns
toward me. He isn’t buying it. It’s written all over his face that
he doesn’t believe a word that’s coming out of my mouth.
“The hardest thing on that list to pull off
in Crescent ‘Nowhere’ Cove is meeting a celebrity, and I’m pretty
sure you’ve met a few of them,” he says.
He crosses his arms over his chest, and I
swear, for a split second, he reminds me of Nat with the prissy
attitude. I instantly burst out laughing.
“Well, I’m glad that was funny to you,” he
says, completely oblivious to why I’m even laughing. “Are we doing
this list or not?”
If nothing else, I’ll do this list just so I
can take photos of myself doing the items with him instead of my
friends. And then I’ll post them all over my social media accounts
so they’ll be forced to look at them. Immature? Maybe. Do I care?
No. I just hate having to withhold photos until after this week is
over. I can’t be the one who unleashes the big Saturn vacation
secret.
“Let’s do this,” I say.
This bucket list adventure with Noah would be
a lot more fun if we didn’t have Big Tony tagging along three steps
behind us everywhere we go. I understand why he’s here, but the
lack of privacy is annoying, and more so, I’m not so keen on having
a bodyguard around for some of these items. I feel like we’re
breaking the law with a cop. Not cool.
The Strip isn’t any more exciting than it was
when I bought a bracelet and scarf while Erin whined on the
sidelines. Still, Noah insists that we use what’s available to us,
and The Strip is more than available. He skims most of the vendors
before deciding to stop at Strickland’s Boating.
The store itself is entirely out of place.
It’s massive with its own back parking lot and storage unit. The
surf shop next door doesn’t blend any better. I feel sorry for all
the mom-and-pop stands along the sidewalk now. I don’t know how
these people even make a living with corporate units like this
exploding out of The Strip.
Floor-to-ceiling windows decorate the front
of the building. They’re strategically decorated with flyers
advertising rental prices for jet skis, sailboats, and other water
equipment. Noah pushes through the entrance door, and we’re
welcomed by any and everything a boater could possibly want or
need. Maybe these Strickland people were on to something. It’s
pretty much the perfect location for this sort of place.
A guy meets us halfway across the room,
knocking his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes. Does everyone
around here have surfer hair?
“Can I help you guys with anything?” he
asks.
I start to tell him no, but Noah dives in
head first asking about what there is to do around here. The guy –
Reed, according to his name tag – rattles off what is probably a
typical sales pitch about what they can offer and what deals they
have going on.
My eyes focus on the huge black and white
photo of a Great White shark behind the sales counter. What a
buzzkill! Why anyone would get in the ocean after seeing that is
beyond me. Is he not aware that it’s bad for business? I walk
closer to get a better look at it. A silver logo on the bottom
corner reads Jake McAllister Photography . Well, Jake
McAllister, you are one brave freaking soul.
I hurry back over to Noah, hook my arm around
his, and nonchalantly try to hint that we need to get out of here.
I don’t care how famous he is – I’m not getting in the ocean. Reed
hands him a brochure and tells us that if we change our minds to
swing back by because he’ll hook us up. Oh,
pull this off. Even with his money and connections, there’s no way
to accomplish this list in a week. We didn’t even expect to
complete it in LA. It just gave us a map.
“There’s no way,” I tell him. “There are
things on that list that are impossible, especially here. In LA,
maybe, but Crescent Nowhere Cove? Not happening.”
Noah places the list on the bed and turns
toward me. He isn’t buying it. It’s written all over his face that
he doesn’t believe a word that’s coming out of my mouth.
“The hardest thing on that list to pull off
in Crescent ‘Nowhere’ Cove is meeting a celebrity, and I’m pretty
sure you’ve met a few of them,” he says.
He crosses his arms over his chest, and I
swear, for a split second, he reminds me of Nat with the prissy
attitude. I instantly burst out laughing.
“Well, I’m glad that was funny to you,” he
says, completely oblivious to why I’m even laughing. “Are we doing
this list or not?”
If nothing else, I’ll do this list just so I
can take photos of myself doing the items with him instead of my
friends. And then I’ll post them all over my social media accounts
so they’ll be forced to look at them. Immature? Maybe. Do I care?
No. I just hate having to withhold photos until after this week is
over. I can’t be the one who unleashes the big Saturn vacation
secret.
“Let’s do this,” I say.
This bucket list adventure with Noah would be
a lot more fun if we didn’t have Big Tony tagging along three steps
behind us everywhere we go. I understand why he’s here, but the
lack of privacy is annoying, and more so, I’m not so keen on having
a bodyguard around for some of these items. I feel like we’re
breaking the law with a cop. Not cool.
The Strip isn’t any more exciting than it was
when I bought a bracelet and scarf while Erin whined on the
sidelines. Still, Noah insists that we use what’s available to us,
and The Strip is more than available. He skims most of the vendors
before deciding to stop at Strickland’s Boating.
The store itself is entirely out of place.
It’s massive with its own back parking lot and storage unit. The
surf shop next door doesn’t blend any better. I feel sorry for all
the mom-and-pop stands along the sidewalk now. I don’t know how
these people even make a living with corporate units like this
exploding out of The Strip.
Floor-to-ceiling windows decorate the front
of the building. They’re strategically decorated with flyers
advertising rental prices for jet skis, sailboats, and other water
equipment. Noah pushes through the entrance door, and we’re
welcomed by any and everything a boater could possibly want or
need. Maybe these Strickland people were on to something. It’s
pretty much the perfect location for this sort of place.
A guy meets us halfway across the room,
knocking his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes. Does everyone
around here have surfer hair?
“Can I help you guys with anything?” he
asks.
I start to tell him no, but Noah dives in
head first asking about what there is to do around here. The guy –
Reed, according to his name tag – rattles off what is probably a
typical sales pitch about what they can offer and what deals they
have going on.
My eyes focus on the huge black and white
photo of a Great White shark behind the sales counter. What a
buzzkill! Why anyone would get in the ocean after seeing that is
beyond me. Is he not aware that it’s bad for business? I walk
closer to get a better look at it. A silver logo on the bottom
corner reads Jake McAllister Photography . Well, Jake
McAllister, you are one brave freaking soul.
I hurry back over to Noah, hook my arm around
his, and nonchalantly try to hint that we need to get out of here.
I don’t care how famous he is – I’m not getting in the ocean. Reed
hands him a brochure and tells us that if we change our minds to
swing back by because he’ll hook us up. Oh,
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