1. Sam

As the early morning ocean breeze wafts through the small storefront, I'm leaning over the long bar, one leg tucked behind the other as I review the order sheet for the week. Math was never my strong suit, and I have my phone calculator out to help figure out how many more bottles of vodka we need to last the busy weekend.

There's a ding, and my head briefly looks up. Tilly, my best friend for almost a decade, walks toward me, a bright smile on her heart-shaped face, as her long, dark hair, whips around.

I look back down. "Hey."

"Hello, my love," Tilly says, tossing her large canvas bag on the bar. "Two shots please."

I cast a disapproving glare her way. "It's ten."

She winces but keeps her smile. "Sam, I need to start my day relaxed and clear headed. Nothing does that like tequila."

Shaking my head, I ignore Tilly's request. It's probably a joke, but even after knowing her for eight years, it's sometimes hard to tell. Instead, I narrow my eyes and stare her down. With a roll of her head, Tilly relents. "Alright, Coke it is." She hurries around inside the boundaries of the wooden bar, flicks some of her long black hair over her shoulder, and peeks at the order form.

Tilly taps on the paper in front of me. "You missed a whole case." I shove my friend away but add the case of bottled Corona she pointed out.

After totalling everything at the bottom, I place the order form under the register to hand over to the delivery guy when he comes later. Then, I turn to Tilly, who is sipping a Coke while scrolling through her phone.

"So?" I ask, crossing my arms. A coy grin spreads over Tilly's face, and if I'm not mistaken, a little bit of a blush. My friend can be wild at times, especially during her many dates, but I love hearing the stories, even if I suspect Tilly embellishes them for my benefit.

I watch as Tilly excitedly sets down her soda, ready to spill the beans on her date last night. "Well, he took me to Alfredo's, ordered the most expensive steak, and a ‘76 clone chardonnay," she beams with a hint of mischief in her eyes though I have no idea what the man's wine selection means.

Leaning against the weathered bar, I raise an eyebrow. "Come on, Til, gimme the juicy details! You never came home last night. I know you've got something."

Tilly just smiles and shakes her head, teasing, "What's in it for me?"

Before I can answer, our banter gets cut short as a tourist ambles through the open front door. My attention shifts instantly from Tilly to the newcomer, clearly out of his element. His head is shaved, and he's drenched in sweat, making him look more like a melting ice cream cone than a tourist—a typical sight in Costa Rica's heat, though I've long gotten used to it.

The bar's closed for another half hour, but the attached surf rental shop is open for business. I make my way from behind the bar on the one side to the counter on the other, sizing him up as he does the same to me, his gaze a tad too fixated on my chest for comfort. It's a look I've become all too familiar with, given our proximity to the beach. My attire today—cutoff jeans, no shoes, and a bright purple sports bra under a thin blue tank top—fits the tropical setting but not the corporate world. If I had to guess, that's where this man is from, based on his scowl and general look of displeasure.

"I'm here for a lesson? You the teacher?" His eagerness is written all over his face as he licks his lips, and instantly, I decide he's not my kind of student. My past has left me with little tolerance for being touched, especially by men I don't know. And this guy? He"s got "ass-grabber" flashing in bright neon above his head. Tilly, aware of my discomfort, steps in front of me.

"Hi, I'm Tilly. I'll be your instructor for today," Tilly says. She's already in her swimsuit, and the man's interest visibly shifts down her body. I'm tempted to call the whole thing off, but Tilly's confidence with these types is unmatched.

In that moment, I'm grateful for her, for the way we can silently communicate and cover for each other. It's not just the tropical heat that makes life here intense; it's the constant dance of navigating the tourists, some more forward and dangerous than others. But it's more that we have an unspoken agreement to protect each other.

Tilly's smile stretches wide as she holds out her hand to the tourist. "Nice to meet you. You ready?" He swallows and nods, eyes still glued to her. She ignores his gaze and heads to the wall lined with tourist-friendly foam boards, picking Big Blue. I nearly let out a laugh. Big Blue is our true ‘Employee of the Month' every month—it's got a crack along the bottom that makes it nearly impossible to control. That makes the lesson turn into an impromptu swimming test. Every. Single. Time. Tilly knows to lean a bit to the left to compensate, but the tourists? They end up wiping out and usually, pissed off. Especially the macho men. We only keep it around to humble those kind of guys who seem more interested in ogling than actually learning to surf.

Before she takes the guy out, Tilly swings back to my side to snatch some surf wax. "Come out with me tonight, and I'll spill every juicy detail," she whispers conspiratorially. I nod, pushing her towards her student. It's been ages since Tilly and I have hit the town together, and honestly, a night out sounds like just the escape I need before the chaos of the long weekend hits.

As Tilly waves goodbye and takes off with her student, I turn back to the day's work. There's stock to organize and customers drifting in and out of the surf shop to attend to. Running the store and bar wasn't something I ever imagined for myself. When I landed in Costa Rica, all of 19 years old, I was a mess—bruised, scared, and desperate for work. My résumé boasted nothing more illustrious than a cashier gig back home, a world away from managing a whole business.

But Ron, our boss, was patient. He taught me everything I needed to know, not just about running the shack but about piecing myself back together.

The shack's starting to pick up now, which is no surprise, with an American holiday weekend upon us and a cruise ship expected at noon. Tips are good here, especially during busy times like this. Between the surf lessons by day and serving drinks at night, I'm stashing away every penny in a shoebox for "a rainy day," or more accurately, in case I need to make a quick exit. It might sound paranoid to anyone else, but given my past, it's just being prepared.

I'm mid-fold with a stack of t-shirts when suddenly, hands grab me from behind. I jump, heart racing, not realizing anyone was still in the store. Whirling around, ready for anything, I'm met with Tommy's boyish grin. My hand flies out, slapping his shoulder. "Damn it, Tommy!" I smack him again and again but he's in stitches, finding my shock hilarious. Pointing my finger at him, I narrow my eyes. "You're the reason my life expectancy is 35!"

His shoulders shrug up, feigning innocence. "What? You should lock the back if you don't want sneaky visitors," he teases.

"That was Tilly's job. What are you doing here? I thought you were in Brazil?" Tommy, the professional surfer, is more like a ghost employee at Ron's Surf Shack and Bar. He has a habit of drifting in and out of the store like the tides.

He heads to the cash register and yanks his lanyard over his head, further messing up that bleach-blonde mop of his. I"ve long ago gotten used to having him around. He"s a good-looking man, with broad muscular, shoulders and an easy smile. But there"s no real attraction, he"s more like a cousin or brother. "I got knocked out of the tournament early and decided not to watch Jack win another trophy. Where's Tilly?" he asks. I almost roll my eyes. Classic Tommy, his ‘Tilly Radar' goes off the charts anytime she's within a five-mile radius. The guy follows her around like a lovesick puppy, though Tilly seems totally in the dark about his crush.

"Surf lesson with a total creep. She took Big Blue," I say, barely hiding my smirk. Tommy's grin widens at the mention of Big Blue. He's in on the joke. But just as quickly as the amusement comes, it's gone.

"Creep?" His eyebrows knitting together in concern. I know he can't stand any guy giving Tilly a hard time.

"Don't worry. If he bugs her too much, she'll probably kick him in the nuts then swim away with a pod of dolphins." His smile attempts to reassure, but there's a shadow in his eyes.

"Still, I'm going to go watch, just in case." He rummages under the register, fishing out the store's Canon camera we use for snapping pics for online promos. "Can't hurt to get some pics for the website." I nod, though part of me suspects he's just looking for an excuse to capture Tilly on film as he dashes out the door.

Watching him leave, I can't help but smile. The ocean breeze has picked up, making the strands of copper-colored hair escape the messy bun on top of my head, tickling my cheeks. It always drifts straight through the shop, laden with the scent of salt and sand. The feeling of fresh air on my sweating skin is one of the countless little things I love about this place, despite the toll it takes on the shop. Salt invades every nook, corroding any exposed metal, and the sun bleaches the wood of the bar to a ghost of its former self. Yet, somehow, I find beauty in the rust and the fade. Costa Rica, this surf shack, has become more of a home than I've ever had before. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the salty air fill my lungs, before turning back to restock the sunscreen.

Running away from home, from the life I had, wasn't an easy decision. When I first arrived, most days, I would find myself missing my family or the friends I thought I could trust. But being in the surf shop, goofing around with Tommy or Tilly, and running the business side makes me remember this is my life now. Whatever I left behind, it's getting closer to a forgotten memory. The kind of nightmare that should be replaced eventually with new experiences. With Tommy and Tilly by my side, it gets easier every day.