The next morning I’m on the beach early, hours before my eleven o’clock lesson, partly to escape Butch and partly because I’m curious about how the surf lessons work.

I hide behind big sunglasses and a blue beach umbrella to watch Kai and the other instructors give the first lesson of the morning.

My insides do a funny jump when I first spot Kai, wearing his now familiar red board shorts and carrying surfboards, three at a time, out to the sand. He carries the long boards effortlessly, as each of the muscles in his back pop and every line and curve of his bicep and tricep muscles grow distinct.

Muscles, tan, and tattoos. Makes me nervous just looking at him.

As he drops boards into the sand, a bevy of high school girls walk by in bikinis that barely hold in their pert breasts, and they give Kai bold, giggling glances. He sees. The corner of his mouth lifts. Why shouldn’t he smile? He could have his pick of women.

Why would he want me?

He wouldn’t, I tell myself, circling my knees with my arms. This isn’t TV. You’re not going to get an island romance.

But as he goes through the dry land instruction (my God, am I going to have to lie facedown on my surfboard on the sand with my big white dimpled ass in the air and practice jumping to my feet?), I can’t quite give up on that excited little girl inside me, the one who’s hoping for something good, hoping for someone to still like me. Enjoy me.

Kai’s first morning lesson consists of two girls in their early twenties. They’re medium height and pretty, and like the high school girls moments ago, they too look great in bikinis. Finally I know who buys all the bikinis in the stores. Not women my age—and if we do, we buy those conservative Miracle slim-kinis with underwire, gel-padded push-up tops, and Lycra-and-spandex bottoms that pull up the droopy butt, press in the fuller stomach, and use fabric, patterns, gold chain, and mesh to draw the eye up, down, and all around—anywhere but at the faded, age-spotted body that doesn’t look quite so hot anymore.

Now, I don’t have any freckles or age spots yet. And my stomach isn’t as big as it was before the divorce and the annihilation of my appetite. But even unspeckled and less plump, my body is not what I would call bikini worthy. Which is why I haven’t worn a bikini since before William was born. Grandma was right. Some things are better left to the imagination.

Not that these two sassy coeds are interested in leaving anything to the imagination.